The Parafaith War
L.E. Modesitt JR.
1997
Version 1.0, 6-23-01




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, lingers 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 is small as a trooper, not one 
in camouflage brown, and < he 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 was no 
discernible motion on any screen-either revs or local 
wildlife. Then, the last of the local hyenas had 
disappeared when the scumpers had. Trystin hadn't 
ever seen a scumper, but the system files showed them 
as oblong rough rocks with big extrudable feet, just the 
sort of thing to fascinate Salya. His ecoscientist sister 
had voiced more than a few doubts about the ethics of 
planoforming a planet with advanced life-forms, and 
for her a scumper was advanced.
Trystin half frowned and shifted his weight in the 
command seat, then scanned his power screen. The 
shrouded turbine fans were swiveled into the wind and 
holding at thirty percent of load, the balance coming from 
the fuel-cell banks in the plastcrete bunker beneath the 
station. After checking the fuel status, he triggered a request 
for resupply. The organonutrient glop was low, and tankers 
didn't run the perimeter lines when the revs were out.
The winds had been low lately, and that meant the station 
was drawing more from the fuel cells. He shook his   head 
as he realized that he hadn't deployed the fan shields. There 
was too damned many to think about and too little time 
when the revs appeared without any warning. At least, he'd 
had the power, but that wouldn't have counted for much if 
one of the revs had punched holes through the blades or 
jammed the bearings with shrapnel. Neither Ryla nor 
PerCon would have been too happy.
Hhhstttt. . . cmccckkkkU! The storm that had begun 
to form above the badlands discharged into the dry 
wash five kays east of the tower.
He almost screamed with the intensity of the static 
before the overload breakers cut in. His hands 
trembled, and his eyes watered. "Shit...shit...shit..." 
"Ser? You all right?"
"Friggin' stormlash. . . that's all." Trystin shook his 
head, angry that he'd actually broadcast. His implant 
cutoffs should have dropped him off-line more 
quickly. Idiot, he thought.
"Times, ser. I'm real glad I'm just a noncom." 
"Thanks, Ryla." "Anytime, ser."
Hhhstttt. .. craccckkkkk! "The second static flash wasn't 
as bad as the first, but his system still twitched. He kept his 
mouth shut, idly wishing that the station could tap the 
storm's power, as he watched Ryla guide the pickup wagon 
along the line beyond the perimeter, checking the area 
beyond the bomblet line. As the big-tired wagon passed, 
designed to keep from sinking into the too-fine soil, Ryla 
placed a replacement bomblet in each of the holders, and 
triggered their retraction into the artificial cacti. In one way, 
the revs were lucky. The antisuit bomblets were only 
installed around the stations. If they'd attacked the towers, it 
would have been gattlings or rockets, neither of which left 
much-except a crude form of fertilizer.
The wagon scooped the inert figures into the numbered 
bins.
"Pickup and replacement complete, ser. Looks like about 
five live, and seven for organics." "Stet."
Trystin continued to scan the perimeter at high intensity 
until the telltales showed the wagon inside the station and 
the five captives in their cells in Block B. "They're in, ser. 
Five are breathing." "Stet. Mangrin will be pleased." "So 
will Yressa. She likes making those revvie boys work."
Trystin pursed his lips, then steeled himself as his visuals 
picked up the lightning stroke. Hsssttt!
After the shiver passed, he listened. "She says they'll make 
that island bloom yet," Ryla continued.
"Maybe. She'll have to convince them that it's the will of 
the Prophet. You ready to go back on the board?"
"Yes, ser. Just a minute. Got to get the wagon in the 
stall."
Trystin waited, still scanning the screens, but there were 
no signs of the other revvie squads, although he and Ryla 
knew the paragliders carried more than a single squad, 
usually a lot more. Where those squads might be in the 
twisted hills of the badlands was another question, although 
Trystin would have liked to have known. Then, so would 
PerCon. "Set, ser."
"Stet. Going down to see our visitors. Let me know about 
the suit stuff after I get back." "Luck, ser. Don't be too 
nice."
As the storm rose, Trystin checked the fans-carrying 
half the load. Maybe that would slow down organonutrient 
use in the fuel cells. With a deep breath, he slipped out of 
the command seat and walked down the narrow steps to the 
lower level, to the right and through the permaplast door 
into Block B.
After ensuring the block door was closed behind him, he 
triggered the combat reflex biofeedback, unarmed module, 
and slipped through the sliding grate into the cell of the first 
rev-blond-haired and blue-eyed, like most of them, and 
probably in his early twenties, T-time.
The young military missionary launched himself right at 
Trystin, seemingly in slow motion, as Trystin stepped aside 
and his hands moved through two short arcs. The rev lay 
gasping on the stone floor for a minute, then lurched toward 
the Coalition officer. Trystin's knee snapped across the 
revvie soldier's shoulder, and threw the man against the 
stone wall. "Oooffff..."
"Are you finished?" Trystin asked conversationally. 
"Golem! Infidel!"
"That's not the question. I'd prefer not to hurt you." 
Trystin watched, saw the tensing muscles and stepped 
inside the rush, using his elbow and stiffened fingers to 
drop the rev back onto the stone. "Oooo..."
"We could keep this up all day, but sooner or later. I'm 
going to miscalculate and really hurt you. Not that it 
matters to you. You're perfectly willing to die for the 
Prophet." Trystin paused, watching the rev and his eyes. 
"Have you considered that, since you're alive. He might 
have some use for you besides fertilizer?" "Fert-" The 
soldier snapped his mouth shut. "All the stories are true. We 
can't afford to waste anything here. Who knows? If you 
keep this up until I have to kill you, you just might end up 
as fertilizer or as nutrients for the pork industry. We keep 
the pigs in tunnels," Trystin lied.
"Golem! Infidel? Why should I believe anything you 
say?"
"Because I could have killed you and didn't. Because 
what happens to you depends on me." Trystin's eyes fixed 
on the other, triggering the superacute hearing. "How many 
squads came in on that glider?"
"Four" came through the subvocalization even as the rev 
snapped, "None but ours."
"Four," mused Trystin, direct-feeding the information to 
Ryla's console.
"Four? Shit, Lieutenant," responded Ryla through the 
link. "We got nothing on the screens." "Did you get all your 
equipment out of the glider?" "Yes. . ." "I don't know."
"Did the other squads have back-strapped heavy 
weapons?" "I don't know."
"How long are the others supposed to stay under cover?"
"Days .. ." came the subvocalization, followed by the 
spoken words, "I don't know.'
"How many glider wings were there on the mother 
troid?"
"Twenty . . ." subvocalized, followed by the spoken, "I 
don't know."
"How many gliders came off the mother troid?" "I don't 
know." Subvocalization revealed nothing. A line soldier 
who wasn't much more than the Prophet's gattling feed 
wouldn't know, but Trystin had hoped.
"Was your troid one of the new ones with twenty 
insystem scouts?"
"Thirty . . . golem. . ." followed by, "I don't know." Hsssttt! 
Despite the static burst from the storm and the headache, 
Trystin forced himself to remain calm. "Was your Sword a 
Cherubim?" "Seraphim. " "I don't know."
"A Seraphim? My goodness. And did your troid bring in 
an EMP-Slam?"
". . . 'course . . ." covered by the inevitable question, 
"What's that?" "Is it hot in those new suits?" " Yes." "don't 
know."
"How many of the other squads were angels?" "One. " "I 
don't know what you're talking about, golem." "Any of you 
have fun with the angels?" The rev lurched at Trystin, Who 
blurred aside and let him crash into the wall.
"It's nice to know that you do have some remotely human 
drives," Trystin found himself saying conversationally. 
Careful . . . you're not supposed to bait them. Careful-the 
warning seared through him from somewhere. He took a 
deep breath.
"You going to kill me now? Turn me into fertilizer?" The 
blue eyes were bleak, and Trystin almost felt sorry for him. 
Almost.
"No." Not yet, thought Trystin. Not that I care. After 
triggering the door, he slipped outside and let the door seal 
the rev inside.
Outside, Trystin dropped a physiological overlay in place 
to call up some reserves for a few minutes, then took a 
series of deep breaths, letting the strength flow back into 
him. He'd pay for it later.
Even after months of sporadic interrogations, he still 
wasn't used to the mindless hatred the revs had been 
indoctrinated with or the fact that they saw Coalition 
officers as golems, more machines than human. Trystin 
didn't appear different from any other human, and looked, 
unfortunately, more like a rev than an Eco-Tech. He wasn't 
wired with metal-his implant: was totally organic and 
invisible.
After a last deep breath, he triggered the second door and 
stepped around the moving grate and into the next cell, 
link-closing it behind him.
"You creatures really are part of the machinery." Another 
blond-haired blue-eyed rev, older than the first, studied 
him. "Indoc or interrogation?"
"Interrogation. " Trystin noted the muscular tightening. "I 
wouldn't."
"Golems, aren't you? All machine, no soul." The muscles 
relaxed, but not totally. "Worse than the Immortals. You 
even look like a son of the Prophet. Did they re-create you 
in that image?"
"Hardly. I was born this way." Trystin continued to 
monitor the rev's muscular tension. "Did you really expect 
that a glider with only four squads could do much?"
"Hoped" was the subvocalization. "That wasn't my duty, 
ser."
Trystin tried not to frown. The "ser" bothered him. "Did 
you really want to throw away a squad of angels?"
"No. " There was no conflict between the answer and the 
subvocal message.
The man was clearly an officer who'd been thoroughly 
briefed on Coalition officers' capabilities. Trystin pushed. 
"Why are you hiding that you re an officer?" "I'm not 
hiding anything. You never asked." "Why were you in the 
first attack?" "Why not?"
Trystin wanted to shake his head. All the subvocalization 
detection wouldn't help in the slightest if he couldn't keep 
the other man off balance. "What's your rank?" "Assistant 
Force Leader." "What squad was the Force Leader with?" 
"Second" was followed by the verbal, "He stayed with the 
other squads."
"What do you really hope to get from these attacks?" 
Trystin let his voice become more conversational. 
"Officially, that would be for others to say, ser." "What do 
you want?"
"To wipe that mechanically superior grin off your young 
face." "Do you want to live?"
The subvocalized "Yes' was followed by, "I'm not that 
certain survival is an option. You people don't seem to 
believe in the sacredness of life." "Do you?" snapped 
Trystin. "Yes."
"Then why are you out here trying to kill us?" Trystin 
wished he had bitten back the words. The man was getting 
to him. How could anyone who belonged to a faith, a 
system, that sent thousands of young troopers out to die, 
just to wear the Eco-Tech systems down for conquest-
how could he claim that life was sacred?
". . . abominations. . . not real life. . . ""You surrendered 
your souls."
"Is that why the troid ship was carrying an EMP-Slam?" 
"Yes." "I wasn't aware of that." "How many more troid 
ships followed yours?" "Three . . . think" "That's certainly 
none of my business."
"How many wings cleared the troid before you?" "None. " 
"I don't know." "How many come after you?" ". . . three. . . 
more. . ." "I'm not a pilot, ser." "How many troids are 
scheduled to attack Mara in the next year?"
"I don't know. Until the land belongs to the Lord." "Are all 
your troops-"
"They aren't troops. They're missionaries." "Excuse me. Are 
all your armed missionaries wearing the new suits?"
"Of course."              -"When will you start bringing in 
heavier weapons?" "Soon. " "When the Lord wills. "
Now the smell of explosives, smoke, and charred meat 
joined the fainter odor of ammonia. Trystin swallowed 
hard. "Ser?"
"We've got a new wrinkle, Ryla. Put this on-line, for all 
perimeter stations-no . . .I'll do it.  "Trystin took another 
deep breath and walked slowly back up toward the control 
center. After the heavy door to Block B closed behind him, 
he off-lined the unarmed combat step-up and the acute 
hearing and slogged toward the console seat, where he 
slumped as he coded the transmission. He took a long 
swallow of Sustain and walked to the galley to mix more as 
he direct-fed the message through his implant. 
"PerCon, from East Red Three. New rev tactic. Bio-
electric detonation of organic explosives. . ." After checking 
the data picked up by the scanners, he went on to 
summarize the use of biologically generated electric fields 
to detonate pseudomuscle or bone mass that was actually a 
form of plasex. ". . . thus, scanners pick up no electronic 
components. The electric generation is apparently triggered 
by a crude form of biofeedback. Could be dangerous for 
interrogators or others in direct rev contact."
He poured the Sustain powder into the glass and stirred, 
taking the glass back to the console seat with him.
Almost as the report went direct-feed, Ulteena clicked in.
"Sounds nasty. How are you, machman?" "Sore. Few cuts. 
Angry, why don't they leave us alone?" " 'Cause the Prophet 
says we're the ungodly and golems. Or worse-descendants 
of the cursed immortals."
"Shit, we both fought the immortals. That's why old 
Earth and Newton are charred cinders."
"They've got a selective memory for history. You know 
that. So get some rest, and snap clean."
"I will. I will. After I download the interrogations and the 
info."
"Always the one to do it proper. "Her voice-direct-fed 
or not-gentled. "I try."
"I know." The last transmission was even softer before 
she off-lined.
He wondered what Ulteena looked like, since they'd 
never synced off duty. He shrugged. Probably not at all 
cuddly, but with shoulders broader than his and a nose 
sharper than a skimmer prow.
With another deep breath, he clicked into the log and 
began to itemize the results of the interrogation, including 
the facts that there might be as many as another sixty 
paragliders swirling into Mara's atmosphere, if they weren't 
already, not to mention that the troid ships were now 
carrying thirty in-system scouts, and that three more squads 
from the downed glider had yet to show up. He added the 
business about the insulation and the continued 
determination of the revs that Mara would fall to the 
Prophet. "Ser?" "Yes, Ryla?"
"You were right about the fabric on the revvie suits. 
Something new, and it's not only heat-shielding, but wave-
transparent. I direct-lined the results to HQ, and they asked 
me to send a sample on the shuttle. It'll be ready for the 
afternoon pickup." "Stet."
When the log-out report was in-lined and out on the 
DistribNet, Trystin sat back in the command seat. Then he 
sat up and refocused on the scanners in the two cells 
holding the revs he hadn't interrogated. They scanned clean, 
right down to muscle density. "Trystin?" He looked up.
Gerfel stood beside him, stocky, dark-skinned, and dark-
haired. "You ought to be careful. Could have been a rev."
"Shit. . . good luck. Revs up to some new stuff. In-feed 
the log before you scan." "Before?"
"I mean it. They got new suit shields and new tricks." 
"Praise their friggin' prophet."
"I wouldn't." He paused. "We pulled in five-in Block B. 
I only got through three of them. One of them exploded-
suicide-type. There are two left. Can you handle them?"
"Can I handle them? I've been doing this longer than you 
have."
"I know. But B three is a mess. Rev was a live bomb. 
Bioorganic explosives. I did scans on the last two. They 
look clean, but be careful. Bastards really explode in your 
face."
"So that's why you look like that." "Yeah. Be careful."
"I will. Especially now." Gerfel paused and offered a 
slight smile. "One thing I like about you, Trystin. You're 
lucky, and that counts for a lot."
"Can't always afford to count on it. "Trystin climbed out 
of the command seat. "No. But it helps." "You ready?" "I've 
got it."
Trystin logged out and off-lined, sensing Gerfel's aura on 
the net as she slipped in. He cleared his throat. "The incense 
helps. Thanks."
"Not enough, pretty boy, but I'm glad it takes some of the 
edge off."
He forced a smile before turning. His legs felt watery as 
he walked toward his cubicle.
"Off-line, Ryla. Gerfel's on. Call her if another batch of 
revs pops up before you're relieved." It wasn't likely, not 
with the noncom relief a half a stan after the duty officer, 
but Trystin didn't know what else to say. "Stet, ser."
He trudged onward, thinking that he really should be 
going to the exercise room. He really should, but his feet 
carried him toward his cubicle, and his bunk.
He managed to lie down and close his eyes before the 
wave of blackness washed over him. Eight and a half hours 
on-line with an hour of step- up-too much, far too much.
 "And He will love thee and bless thee and multiply  
thee; He will also bless the fruit of thy womb, and the fruit 
of thy land, thy corn, thy wine, and thine oil and all the 
works of thy forges and the works of the tools of thy tools, 
and the increase of all that He hath given thee in the worlds 
to which His Prophet hath brought thee, as He swore unto 
thy fathers and their fathers.
"Ye shall be blessed above all people, in all the worlds 
and mansions of thy Father, so long as ye shall follow the 
words of His Prophet.
"Ye shall consume all the people which the Lord thy God 
shall deliver unto thee; thine eyes shall have no pity upon 
them; neither shall ye serve their gods, nor the gods of the 
land, nor the gods of the forge nor the gods of the coin, for 
those will be a snare unto ye.
"Do not say in thine hearts, those worlds are more than I; 
how are we to dispossess them?
"Be not afraid of the heathen, nor those that follow the 
false gods, nor those that would counsel unto thee, let us 
reason together; for well-crafted words are but a snare, and 
cannot stand before faith in thy Father the Lord.
"Listen to thy Father, and the words of the Prophet, and 
ye shall remember what the Lord God did unto Pharaoh, 
and unto those who surrendered their souls to the god of 
gold and precious metals, and unto those who saw not the 
many mansions in thy Father's house, and despaired in the 
dust of ancient Sodom, or those who despaired and perished 
upon the ashes of ancient Earth.
"The graven images of other gods ye shall burn with the 
fires of the heavens and the depths; ye shalt not take those 
technologies and those beliefs that are on them, nor take 
them into thee lest ye be snared therein, for such are an 
abomination to the Lord thy God, as spoken by His 
Prophet.
"Ye shall not be afrightened by them, for the Lord thy 
God is among thee, a mighty god and terrible. And He shall 
deliver their kings unto thine hand, and thou shalt destroy 
their names from under heaven. There shall be no man or 
woman to stand against thee, not even those who once 
would have lived forever, and ye shall render them unto 
dust and raise on that dust new mansions in thy Father's 
house, as it is His will...."
Book of Toren Original Edition

3
                         
At 0650 Trystin, a mug of Sustain in hand, crossed the 
space between the small galley and the control center, 
conscious that Voren had been watching from the command 
chair The incense odor had died down, but the ammonia 
remained, as did the citrus-bitter smell of Sustain. Sustain 
with him.
"You're looking cheerful." Voren straightened. "Glad that 
incense smell is gone." "Don't feel that cheerful."
Voren's eyes glazed as he kicked out of the system. Then 
he stood up. "Hate the swing watch. That extra half hour is 
murder," "Anything happen?"
"No. Been watching for something more from the stupid 
paraglider-but nothing. Damned revs'll show up before 
long, though. Bet on that. But it's your baby. I'm going to 
get some sleep." Voren stood and yawned, then turned and 
trudged down toward the bunking cubicles, running his 
hand through his dark brown hair.
After settling into the command seat, Trystin scanned the 
messages waiting for him. Most were routine, except for 
three.
"Trystin Desoll, LT, SecWatch, East Red Three, from 
Perimeter Control. Re yours of 1651 13/10/788 concerning 
new rev tactic. Appreciate datadump and parameters. Will 
advise you further."
Advise him further? About what? What else wasn't Per-
Con telling him?                            ' The second one, from 
Quentar, was shorter. "Trystin, Weslyn didn't get your 
warning in time. Terrible mess. The second squad from the 
last paraglider dump hit East Red Six about the same time 
they hit you. Damned revs."
He hadn't really known Weslyn-just vaguely 
remembered him as short and squarish, darker even than the 
Eco-Tech norm, and one of the newest Service officers on 
Mara.
The third message was puzzling. "Trystin Desoll, LT, 
SecWatch, East Red Three. Report MedCen, Klyseen, 
Mara, 0900, 10/21/788, for screening as per Farhkan f/up 
study. Considered duty day."
Farhkan follow-up study? What the frig was that? He on-
lined his own file for a key-word search, while he went 
four-screen. The screens showed all defense equipment 
functioning and ready; no movement along the hundred 
kays of his perimeter; and no storms building over the 
badlands, although those didn't usually appear until midday 
or later.
Cling. The mental chime alerted him that the system had 
located the Farhkan references. Trystin scanned through 
them, nodding as he remembered. When he had just been 
finishing his Service officer training, he, and all the other 
trainees about to be commissioned, had received an 
invitation to take part in a study sponsored by the Farhkan 
cultural mission. The study involved periodic in-depth 
physicals and occasional interviews. Participation also 
provided an annual bonus of nearly three percent of his 
base pay. He'd signed up, taken the physical, and forgotten 
about the requirement for follow-ups.
Trystin shrugged. If the physical made it a duty day off 
the perimeter line, that was an added bonus. He could 
probably even count on spending part of the day with 
Ezildya.
Dropping his attention back to full four-screen, he 
squared himself in the command chair.
"Anything new, ser?" Ryla's voice snapped through the 
link.
"Nothing yet. Could be we'll have a quiet day. They 
happen sometimes."
"Sometimes, ser." Ryla sounded less than certain. "Did 
the shuttle get our prisoners? And . . . raw materials?" 
Trystin could have checked himself, but he was making 
conversation.
"Yes, ser. Packed away on the 0440, rear section. 
Authenticated by Brysan. Mangrin flicked receipt already." 
"Hope Yressa makes the survivors sweat." "Me, too." Ryla 
paused. 'The crackers are down to eighty-five percent. We'll 
need an overhaul on the ones in towers four and fourteen in 
the next month. Could be sooner. I'll copy you on the 
report." "Stet."
As the noncom began his daily business of checking, 
scheduling, and troubleshooting the forward reclamation 
equipment, Trystin flicked the satellite plot into high 
resolution and tried to study the hills, but all he really got 
were blurs and an incipient headache.
In some ways, the perimeter setup didn't make the best 
military sense, because the installations were too close to 
the perimeter, but the reclamation equipment was there 
because its job was to change headland and badland into 
something more receptive to the cross-gene engineered 
plantings that were laid down in patterns following the 
initial soil cracking.
So . . . the perimeter defense installations were set, and 
periodically moved forward, to protect the most expensive 
and critical equipment from the revvie attacks. And the 
greenery followed, kays and: kays behind.
Trystin's principal duty was to protect the equipment, and 
the installation, just like every other Service officer's job on 
the Maran perimeter was. Or in the Helconyan satellite 
stations. Or in the Sasktoon perimeter lines, or the Safryan 
Belt installations, row that Safrya was basically habitable.
With the thought of Helconya, he wondered how Salya's 
biologicals were going. She'd always had that kind of bent, 
enjoying their father's gardens from the time she could 
reach out to the flowers. Trystin smiled. His older sister had 
talent, talent beyond screen-watching and neutralizing revs.
At 09:06.51, his senses seared alert-red, and Trystin 
overlayd the four-split with the command options.
What looked to be another squad of revs had poured 
from over the steepest hill, sliding through the local 
equivalent of a cross between a cactus and scrub brush. 
They carried long objects larger than the standard assault 
rifles. Trystin could count nearly two full squads of the 
lightning-streaked suits, their new heat-shielding clearly 
effective against the sensors.
"Revs at zero eight nine-" Ryla's observation came late. 
Ping! Ping! Crumpt!
The three-screen identified the heavy penetrating shells 
and the boosted rocket pyres as they impacted the 
composite armor of the sector building. Trystin belatedly 
shielded the fans, then dumped the attack report on-line.
Both the weapons and the revs were aimed, not at the 
rear, and main, reclamation towers, but toward the sector 
building housing Trystin, the sector maintenance-
equipment center, and the sector perimeter-defense center. 
Ping! Crumpt! Crumpt!
The explosions sent vibrations through the building. 
"Heavy shells, ser!" The revs surged forward. Crumpt! 
Crumpt! The sector building shook with the impact of the 
shells and pyres, and Trystin could feel the damage-
assessment reports building in the backfile. He triggered the 
antipersonnel gattlings. After the day before, he had no 
desire to risk more revvie booby traps, and this was the 
most heavily armed group of revs he'd personally seen. 
Osberyl-tipped, depleted uranium shells fragmented 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, finding minor 
damage, jammed internal portals, but a ninety-two-plus 
status. While atmospheric integrity remained, his hand 
touched the emergency respirator pak in his belt for 
reassurance, long after his mind had returned to four-screen 
to survey the area to the east of the sector building.
He shook his head and went on-line to send a follow-up 
report to PerCon.
"Perimeter Control, from East Red Three, station under 
attack by single squad. Have neutralized revs. Will follow 
up with analysis."
The reddish sands showed only fragments of synthfab 
and a spray of brownish lumps-that and a superficial 
fusing of the soil's silicon, a fusing that pointed like an 
antique arrow toward the command center. "What was that, 
ser?" "Something new, Ryla. Still analyzing." "They just 
exploded, ser."
Trystin had already called up the visuals and frozen 
them. The explosion had taken place faster than the scanner 
speed, but from what Trystin could tell, the gattlings' 
antipersonnel shrapnel had triggered something.
He froze the attack visuals and went back to four-scan 
for another sweep of East Red Three, but the visuals and 
the heat sensors showed a three-kay clearance, not that the 
sensors were all that accurate if the revs came in with 
insulation-like the last two waves had.
He flicked back to the visuals and full sensor screens of 
the attack, trying not to shake his head as he did. At least 
two of the revs had literally turned into the human 
equivalent of shaped charges with the impact of the heavy 
gattling shrapnel. He studied the suit shapes again and 
frowned. "Ryla?" "Yes, ser?"
"You filed that report on the new revvie suit fabric, didn't 
you?"                   . "Yesterday."
"Take a look at the attack visuals and the energy flows. 
They'll be in your screens in a moment. It looks like the 
fabric has something like one-way energy reflection that 
works with explosives." From what Trystin could tell from 
the screen recordings, the fabric-at least the part in front 
of the back-carried respirator paks-had turned the 
biolectric explosion forward and toward the sector building. 
If the revs had been much closer . . . He did shake his head.
Better heat-sensor insulation, more scout coverage, more 
glider wings, bioelectric suicide traps, hand-carried heavy 
weapons, and now this.
"Bastards . . . you mean they're turning their troops into 
shaped charges?"
"I don't know that it's quite that bad-just the ones who 
are captured or killed by high-impact charges."
"That's most of them, isn't it?" asked the noncom. "What 
about the ones you sent to Yressa?" "Shit . . . talk to you 
later."
He remembered to unshield the fans-he worried about 
the power drain, since the promised organonutrient tanker 
hadn't shown yet. A fusactor would have been more 
practical in some ways, but the Eco-Tech compact kept 
nuclear power in orbit and deep-space ships. He kept 
checking the sensors and the satellite plot, even as he 
direct-fed his third urgent report to PerCon in as many 
days-and then copied both reports to the South Ocean 
reclamation station where Yressa directed the rev captives. 
He wiped his forehead. What did the revs want? For every 
one of their troops to be killed?  Was Quentar right in 
claiming the only safe rev was a dead rev? he took another 
scan of the maintenance status of the station before linking 
to Ryla's console.
"Yes, ser?" "Most of it can wait, but that side door on the 
lower
level is leaking, and it's getting worse." "I'd already flagged 
that, ser, and I'll try to get it sealed." "How about the other 
doors?" "I might be able to handle it later, and maybe 
tonight... " "Thanks."
Trystin went back to a full-concentration scan of the four 
screens before leaning back in the command seat and 
letting the systems work for him.
If the information he'd gotten from the captured revs had 
been correct, there couldn't be too many more squads from 
the downed paraglider. On the other hand, there could be 
as many as sixty gliders on their way down to Mara, 
although Trystin doubted that the DefNet had been that 
lax.
HHssttt. . . ssss. . . The long, low crackle hiss-burned 
through the implant, and Trystin checked the metplot, 
noting that wind shift had apparently resulted in a storm 
buildup earlier than usual.
He shook his head, not really wanting to damp the 
system's sensitivity. Instead he continued to study the four 
screens, wincing at each burst of static. Still, the rising 
winds were good for the power system.
The mental cling! alerted Trystin to the incoming, and he 
called it up on his internal screen.
"Trystin Desoll, LT, SecWatch, East Red Three, from 
Perimeter Control. Re yours of 0926 14/10/788, Send full 
datadump to PerCon and to RESCOM."
With a deep breath Trystin began compiling the data-
dump requested by PerCon, although it took little enough 
time, objectively. It just seemed like forever. He tagged the 
dump with a cover transmittal and pulsed it out. "Perimeter 
Control/RESCOM [Klyseen], from Trystin waiting for 
Gerfel. Tonight, no matter how he felt, no matter how bad 
the exercise room smelled, he was going through his 
workout. Tonight. He studied the screens and sipped 
Sustain. 
4
Two days passed, and no more revs attacked East Red 
Three. That didn't lessen the problems, Trystin reflected, 
including the ones that hadn't arrived, like the fuzzy EDI 
tracks beyond the Belt that probably meant another troid 
attack. Or the general alert for more paraglider descents. 
Was that based on Trystin's interrogations? Or on 
something more?
Trystin wished he knew, but junior first lieutenants didn't 
rate need-to-know on the basis of alerts. At least, the 
quieter days had left him with enough energy to use the 
workout room.
He scanned the four screens with greater attention, then 
concentrated on the satellite plot. Nothing-nothing, as was 
usually the case. He checked the power screen. The 
organonutrient supply was down to twenty percent, but the 
fans were carrying nearly sixty percent of the ambient load.
He coughed, once, then again. Finally taking a deep 
breath, which just triggered more coughs. Despite Ryla's 
efforts, the atmospheric leakage was worse than before the 
repairs, according to the on-line telltales. There was 
definitely more than the normal faint acridness of ammonia.
Had the repairs even been done? He went on-line and 
scanned the entries. No repairs. No deliveries of 
replacements or spares. "Ryla?" "Yes, ser?"
"The syslog shows maintenance hasn't fixed our leaks 
yet. I'm still smelling outside glunk." "It's worse down here, 
ser."
Trystin supposed it was. Ryla was closer to the bent 
frames.
"I'll buy that. What's with maintenance?" "East Red Six. 
Most of the lower section wiped out. Then, the big attack 
on the western line." "A lot of damage there?"
"Noncom scuttle is that the revs got three stations." That 
would certainly explain it. "Thanks. See what I can run 
down." "I'd appreciate it, ser."
Trystin went into the deep-net, only to find a block 
across the maintenance levels. He grinned. More than one 
way to find out. The sector feed lines weren't blocked, and 
he just sent pulses through the DistribNet.
Of the twenty west-perimeter stations, five came up null. 
He nodded, but before he could link to Ryla's console, a 
mental cling! alerted him to a direct-feed from HQ. "Desoll, 
East Red Three."
"Lieutenant, Major Sperto, HQ Ops. We have enough 
trouble on the west perimeter at the moment without, 
having to worry about line-pulse tracers from the curious. 
Since you were the first hit with the new revvie weapon, it's 
understandable. Once we sort it out, you'll know. Now keep 
off the net unless it's official. And keep your speculations to 
yourself." "Yes, ser." "We'll post it when it's time." "Yes, 
ser."
Trystin swallowed, then linked to Ryla's console. "Yes, 
ser."
"They were hit hard, but HQ zapped me for prying. I'll 
let you know when the details come in. Could be as many 
as five stations' but that could also be system overload. 
Keep it to yourself until it's official." "Five . . . bastards! . . . 
Thanks, ser." "I didn't tell you. Understand?"
"Yes, ser."
"I'll let you know when I've got something official. Do 
we have anything that we could use to caulk around that 
bent mainframe?" "I've been trying, ser, but . . ."
"I know." The trace gases in the Maran atmosphere, 
some the said-to-be-temporary results from the re-
atmosphering efforts, had a tendency to be corrosive. From 
Trystin's point of view, they scarcely seemed temporary.
Another hour of scanning, in between routine checks of 
equipment status, left Trystin with nothing new on the revs.
Thhrrrrummmmm . . . Trystin stiffened at the distant 
rumbling, even before the searing wave of white noise 
flashed through his implant, and the stars flickered across 
his internal four-screen display.
His eyes watered, and his head ached, although the 
atmospheric transit of the water comet headed for the new 
south sea hadn't been close enough to actually vibrate the 
station's walls. After Trystin straightened and rubbed his 
forehead, he wondered what the revs would think as the 
water slowly rose around their island prison. Would they 
think? Were they really human? And had Yressa found out 
anything about the revs? Maybe all those he'd transhipped 
had been fine. "Lieutenant?" "Yes, Ryla?"
"One of the turners is dropping off, down from ninety to 
a shade over eighty-five. Diagnostics don't show anything. 
I'm taking the scooter out." "Stet. I'll keep a track." 
"Thanks, ser."
Trystin watched the scooter go out, scanned the 
perimeter and the satellite plot, checked the maintenance 
board that Ryla couldn't while he was on the scooter, and 
waited. And waited. Then he had more Sustain, and wished 
he hadn't as it hit his guts with a jolt.
Cling! The fainter "sound" of the message signal 
indicated it wasn't urgent, but he called it up and mentally 
scrolled through it.
"Trystin Desoll, LT, SecWatch, East Red Three, from 
SOUSEAREC. Re yours of 1452 14/10/788 concerning new 
rev biologicals. Status check confirmed your data on 
bioelectric and organic explosion potentials. Three revs 
neutralized and transferred to RESCOM FFS."
He nodded. At least he'd gotten the word to Yressa in 
time. He stood and walked back to the galley for synthetic 
cheese and less synthetic algae crackers. Any more Sustain, 
and he'd be floating in the command seat.
In the small cooler was something wrapped in foil. 
Trystin edged it open, and then closed it. Real cheese. His 
mouth watered, but he left the package there. It was 
probably Gerfel's, and represented who knew how many 
creds of translation costs alone. Mara wasn't ready for any 
form of milk animals-not yet anyway, or not out of the 
tunnels and domes.
Finally, he took a few algae crackers and chewed them 
slowly.
The scooter blip in the three-screen had turned and was 
heading back to the station. Trystin held his breath as fine 
dust churned, but Ryla managed to right the scooter without 
digging it into the soil. Once the second-stage creepers 
were established, the soil got Firmer as the biosphere got 
more complex. But the second-stage work hadn't gotten 
more than a hundred kays from Klyseen so far, and that 
meant that handling vehicles along the perimeter remained 
tricky. It was all too easy to bury a scooter in the fine soil.
As the scooter neared the station, Trystin called the tech. 
"Ryla? Find anything?"
"No, ser. I think the turner's whole mainboard is cooking, 
but I can't tell for sure. Going to have to put in a requisition 
for a replacement, but nothing will happen until it blows. 
Don't believe us techs until the electronics roast into silicon 
junk."
"All right. Let me know when the scooter's in and 
everything's secure." The telltales would show that Ryla 
was back and that the doors were closed, but not his 
condition. Trystin waited.
"Lieutenant. Back on maintenance board." "You 
got it."
"Anything new on the revs, ser?" "RESCOM Says they're 
working on it." "They'll work till endday at the end of 
time." The non-corn snorted.
Trystin shifted his weight, then stood and paced around 
the command area, his eyes straying to the armaglass 
window that offered a far less accurate view than the two-
screen inside his mind.
Another ding!-not so faint, this time. Trystin moistened 
his lips with his tongue and scrolled up the message.
"All PerCon Stations, from RESCOM and PerCon. Be alert 
to possibility that rev captives may contain biological-based 
organic explosives not detectable by current first-level scan 
systems. Until further notice, take no captives. Take no 
captives. See DistribNet data RSC-1410-2."
While Trystin wasn't that fond of the revs, the "take no 
captives" directive bothered him. Yet what could PerCon 
do? Any rev could be booby-trapped to take out a station or 
worse. Why did the revs do it? He shook his head as he sat 
back down in the command seat.
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. DefCon 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." "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. DefCon 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 DefCon said they would. By the time the DefCon 
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. DefCon 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 high-arc 
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 had 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 non-corn'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 half-buried lower level.
As he moved, he scanned the net wide-band to see if he 
could intercept any revvie communications. The net didn't 
seem able to take the command, and he came up with 
nothing. With a gauntleted hand, he flipped up the lever on 
the shaft door and swung inside, setting his feet on the rung 
just below floor level and reaching back to close the door 
behind him. Whhummmp!
The electronic scream of the net crashing ran through 
Trystin like a knife down his spine, and his Fingers opened, 
half-deadened from the neural impact. Even with the 
implant cutouts dropping him off-line, Trystin stiffened and 
half slid down the three meters to the floor of the shaft, his 
hands barely breaking his fall with half-grasps of the metal 
rungs. He twisted off the ladder at the bottom, and his hip 
smashed into a side brace. Stars flashed across his eyes, and 
stabbing lines of pain lashed him:
Finally, he levered himself upright, feeling almost blind 
with all outside inputs to his implant cut off and the system 
down. He eased open the lower door a crack and looked 
into the maintenance room behind the vehicle garage-no 
revs in sight. The door to the garage was closed, as was the 
one to the lower-level main corridor. The station was dim, 
almost dark, with the power system off-line.
Slowly, he moved toward the corridor, his rifle ready. 
Underfoot he could feel vibrations, but couldn't sense their 
source. Again, he cracked the next door and looked down 
the corridor, using his internal controls to step up his night 
vision.
Two more of the barely discernible ghost-suited Figures 
crouched with their backs to him, as if looking around the 
corner and up the stairwell.
Three quick shots were enough, and Trystin hurried 
toward the bodies, even harder to see when the revs were 
not moving. He still hugged the wall, not trusting that they 
were indeed dead.
Ping! Ping! Ping! More shots came from the end of the 
corridor ahead.
Trystin skidded down behind the half-visible bodies and 
tried to scan the section of the hall that led to the lock to the 
garage and the vehicle door where the armor shield had 
jammed. Ping! Ping!
Shells spanged and pinged off the inside of the outer 
station wall behind and to the left of Trystin. His own 
breathing sounded like an overloaded ventilator, and he 
forced himself to breathe more deliberately as he fired three 
shots down the dim corridor. Ping! Spang!
Plastcrete fragments from the revs' shots showered 
Trystin as he squeezed off two more rounds. He felt that 
there were only two revs crouched at the end of the 
corridor, but they had pushed in a turner blade for a 
shield- far more effective than the dead rev bodies he 
crouched behind.
Stifling a sigh, Trystin cranked up his reflexes to high 
and leaped sideways, then charged the revs. From a 
standing position, he had enough height to fire over the low 
turner blade-and sprayed the area in an effort to neutralize 
the revs he could see only as intermittent distortions. Ping!
Only one shot came his way-one that creased his 
helmet.
He lowered his reflexes back to one notch above normal 
and crouched on his side of the turner blade, almost 
hyperventilating in an effort to relieve his oxygen debt, 
feeling both his overloaded suit and body straining.
"Shit . . ." he muttered. No system defenses, and who 
knew how many revs left. He could barely see the revs, and 
only if they moved. He was running through a stan's worth 
of oxygen in half that time by upping his metabolism to 
stay alive.
He remained concealed, but could hear nothing through 
the suit's limited "ears."
He'd killed at least four revs, maybe six-but what had 
happened to the rest?
Slowly he eased around the turner blade and headed for 
the lock to the garage. As he expected, the big door had 
been blown open. One rev body lay sprawled by the door, 
visible only where a slash across the suit had turned back 
the armored and insulated fabric-probably caused by door 
shrapnel.
Peering from behind the heavy plastcrete pylon at the flat 
ground around the station, he saw nothing moving. Outside, 
the badlands looked the same, and so did the one side of the 
single reclamation tower in his vision Field. What was 
different were the dozen bodies and the fragments of 
composite armor strewn beneath the station walls.
Trystin stood, chest heaving. He wasn't thinking clearly, 
not at all, a sign of fatigue, and who knew what else. 
Fatigue? Idiot! He mentally tripped his reflexes and 
metabolism down to normal, and stood shaking. Step-up 
meant burning more energy, and he'd been in enhanced-
reflex status for all too long. He almost slumped into a heap 
as fatigue washed over him.
He swallowed nearly all the Sustain in the suit's helmet • 
nipple, ignoring the chills and cold jolt he felt as it hit his 
guts.
How long he waited, he wasn't sure, not until he 
checked his implant. With no movement for nearly a half 
stan, he doubted there were any revs left.
Then, picking up one heavy foot after another, he turned 
and headed back through the useless lock door to the tech 
section, and the emergency transmitter.
At the end of the corridor were two more bodies. One 
was a rev with the shoulder of his suit burned away; the 
other was Ryla.
"Shit - - ." Trystin swallowed; he was supposed to 
protect the tech.
He stepped slowly inside the tech section. The system 
console looked almost normal-the gray plastic dull as 
ever-except for the dead lights and the corner with the 
hole large enough for him to insert a gauntleted hand.
He levered open the shielded cover to the emergency 
transmitter, and the light winked green. With his implant 
working for short distances, he linked with the simple 
circuits.
"Perimeter Control, this is East Red Three, from 
Lieutenant Desoll. Station East Red Three is down. 
System is red. No station integrity. Rev attack 
neutralized-"
"Desoll, Major Alessandro here. How many revs? 
What's your status?"
"I'm in armor using the emergency transmitter. There 
were two to three squads with backpacked heavy weapons. 
They've got new shielding, and you can only see them on 
the fringe scanner frequencies and only at about a third of 
a kay. The vehicle-door shield jammed, and some blew 
their way in. Ryla-the tech-killed one, but they got 
him. I got six or so after I got in armor." "Is the station 
secure?" "It looks that way, but they blew a hole in the 
system controller. So I don't know for sure. And their suits 
make them almost impossible to see." "Do you want to 
hole up?"
"That's negative. You can't tell what's happening in the 
bolthole."
"Can you try to use a scooter to get to East Red Two?" 
"That's affirmative."
"If the scooter isn't operational, let us know." "Stet. East 
Red Three out." He off-linked and looked back around the 
tech office. Trystin had no real choices. Hanging on at the 
station for a tech cleanup team that could be days wasn't a 
choice, not really, not with all the damaged stations on both 
perimeters. He'd head for East Red Two, slightly closer 
than East Red Four.
He shook his head and looked at the slug thrower, then 
walked down the corridor and up the stairs to the cabinet. 
He extracted all the spare clips, putting a full one in the rifle 
and carrying the others, before heading back down. 
Standing around a dead station doing nothing wasn't exactly 
brilliant.
Then again, riding an unarmored scooter north for sixty 
kays wasn't exactly brilliant either-assuming he had a 
working scooter.
Both scooters were untouched, and the fuel cells and 
motors on both checked out. Trystin took number two 
because it had full tanks, and stuffed two additional oxygen 
tanks inside with the spare clips. He took both ration kits 
from the scooter he was leaving. Although eating in armor 
was a pain, what was even less desirable was handling other 
metabolic processes.
After loading and checking the scooter, he hurried back 
to the emergency transmitter, still carrying the rifle. He 
looked down at Ryla's body, and the open eyes. Finally, he 
went back into the workroom and found some plastic 
sheeting and slowly wrapped the tech's figure into the 
plastic, then laid him out on the long workbench. What else 
he could do, he didn't know, since the scooter would be 
cramped. After that, he turned to the emergency transmitter.
"East Red Two, this is East Red Three." "Trystin, 
interrogative you headed our way?" "That's affirm. Me and 
my little scooter." "We'll be watching." "Stet. East Red 
Three out."
He closed off the transmitter and walked back to the 
loaded scooter, settling himself in the driver's seat and 
plugging his armor into the scooter's oxygen tank. He 
leaned the rifle where he could reach it almost instantly- 
at an angle across the narrow passenger seat. With a last 
look around the garage, he eased the vehicle through the 
ruined door. Once clear of the station, he followed the 
depressed and flattened ground of the shuttle track 
westward.
As he drove west, past where the turners had processed 
the soil, a darker earth had been mixed through the reddish 
surface cover and reset by the turners. Even so, Trystin 
could see the faint trace of the creepers beginning to grow 
over the combined mosaic of red and brown.
With each kay he headed westward, the low blue-green 
mottled creepers that looked like a cross between lichen and 
kudzu grew thicker, with less ground between the creepers 
and darker soil around them. As the bioengineered creepers 
grew, they slowly released the oxygen once bound into the 
soil eons ago. Already the free oxygen in the air was 
approaching five percent, but the total pressure was still 
half T-norm. Sometimes, looking westward across the 
creepered plains, he could almost see the gas rising. On a 
bright day around Klyseen, the gas from the most active 
creeper clusters cast wavering shadows.
The four-wheeled scooter bounced and jolted, without the 
air cushion of a shuttle or transport, and Trystin jolted and 
bounced with it. Scooters were not designed for long 
distance travel. He also had to keep the scooter on the hard-
packed soil of the track. If he bounced into the fine and 
gritty soil where the creepers grew, the scooter could easily 
dig in wheel-deep. More than a few turners had literally 
buried themselves in patches of ultra Fine soil and sand.
By the time Trystin reached the north-south shuttle track 
and turned north toward East Red Two, the creepers grew 
almost calf-high in places.
As he drove, he continued to scan the terrain, now mostly 
mottled blue and green. The constant movement reminded 
him how much harder it was to check everything visually. 
His neck would be sore by the time he reached East Red 
Two. Even more sore, he corrected himself.
The scooter continued to bounce northward, and Trystin 
continued to scan the terrain, seeing only the endless kays 
of blue-green.
In time-after two uncomfortable stops, and four 
standard hours, he finally eased the scooter to a halt at the 
intersection of two shuttle tracks.
After looking at the track eastward and checking the 
small plot on the scooter console, Trystin turned the scooter 
toward Quentar's station and linked to the scooter comm. 
"East Red Two, this is East Red Three."
There was no response. Trystin shook his head. The 
scooter comms were supposed to be good for more than 
thirty kays on open terrain. He couldn't have been more 
than Five from East Red Two. Had the tanks all been full 
on the scooter he took because the comm system wasn't that 
good?
As he headed eastward, the creepers became lower and 
more scattered.
After the scooter had covered another kay Or so, and he 
could see most of the reclamation towers, Trystin tried the 
comm again. "East Red Two, this is East Red Three. I'm 
about three kays south. " Nothing.
He tried the helmet comm, with no results, and the 
scooter rolled on toward East Red Two.
"Approaching scooter. . . if that's you, Trystin. . . make a 
left turn, then a right, then a left back on your original 
heading. Then stop for a moment-the same number of 
times as your call number."
Trystin followed Quentar's directions, with three quick 
stops, trying not to mangle either creepers or the scooter, 
before resuming his course toward the station. He kept 
trying the comm intermittently. Then he began trying the 
helmet link. At about a kay, he got a response. "You're 
coming in weak, Trystin." "That's helmet comm. I can read 
you, but the scooter transmitter's shot." "Revvie casualty?"
"Negative. Maintenance casualty, I think." "Talk 
about it later. Natsugi is waiting for you." "Stet."
Trystin guided the scooter toward the station. As he 
neared the garage entrance, both shields and door opened-
in sequence. Trystin wondered if he or Ryla should have 
lowered the shields to East Red Three earlier. If he had, 
then maybe Ryla could have had time to repair the shield 
mechanism. Then again, maybe not. If the shield could 
have been repaired, they'd both paid for that oversight, Ryla 
far more than Trystin. He swallowed again. It had still been 
his responsibility. Natsugi waited at the vehicle door, a 
heavy rifle aimed at the scooter. He kept it aimed at Trystin 
until Trystin un-helmeted inside the station. "Lieutenant 
Desoll, Natsugi."
"Pleased to meet you, ser." Natsugi didn't look 
convinced, but Trystin had encountered the problem 
before-he looked like too many revs.
"Maybe you could help, Natsugi." Trystin tried not to 
lean against the wall, but the armor was heavy, and he was 
exhausted. "The revs got Ryla. I couldn't bring his body, 
but I wrapped him in sheeting and laid him out on the tech 
table. If you could let someone know . . ." "I'll see what I 
can do." "Thank you. Quentar up in the center?" "Yes, ser."
Trystin slowly walked up the stairs. Quentar waved as he 
saw the other lieutenant and motioned to the hard chair next 
to the command seat. Trystin sat on the hard chair and took 
a deep breath.
East Red Two smelled like weedgrass and ammonia, but 
not so strongly as his station had.
"So what happened?" Quentar's eyes remained glazed, 
indicating that his attention was on his screens.
"A lot of revs, with heavy backpacked weapons, with 
really good visual and heat shields that kept them off 
scanner until they were within a couple hundred meters. 
The lower vehicle-door shield jammed. A bunch of them 
got past the gattlings and rockets and blew their way in. 
Ryla got one; I got six, I think, but they got him."
"You're lucky to be alive. According to PerCon, you had 
all six squads targeting you."
"I used a lot of rockets and almost all the gattlings. They 
still beat the armor to shreds." "Our super high-tech 
composite boron plastic armor?" "The same stuff."
"Did you think about the bolthole?" asked Quentar. "Fine. I 
go down into that coffin and do what? Wait? Who'd ever 
come and get me? That's for when you're a basket case."
"Yeah. I feel that way, too. "Quentar shook his head and 
pointed to the small console in the corner. "After you report 
to PerCon, you can use the off-watch cubicle and the 
shower. Let me know where they're sending you."
Trystin stood and trudged across to the console, linking 
into the system.
"Perimeter Control, Lieutenant Trystin Desoll, calling 
from East Red Two. Reporting status-"
"Desoll, this is Major Alessandro. Did you encounter any 
more revs?" "No, ser."
"Can the station be brought on-line quickly?" "I don't know. 
The upper right corner of the tech center got scorched with 
an HE round, but the rest seemed all right." "How did they 
get in?"
"The vehicle-door shield jammed open after Ryla 
returned from a repair run, and we never got it Fixed before 
the revs showed up."
"That's been a problem. Do you have any idea how many 
revs assaulted your station?"
"No, ser. The scanners wouldn't focus on their shielding 
right. I couldn't see anything either, not until I did a full-
frequency scan, and that was only on the fringe, and they 
still seemed to flicker. . . ."
The questions seemed to go on and on. Trystin propped 
himself against the wall and kept answering.
Finally, Alessandro concluded, ". . . if we need any more 
information, I'll get back to you. There will be a tech team 
and a sweep team going in tomorrow, and they'll send a 
carrier for you-around zero seven hundred. Later on, we'll 
send out the rest of the station crew."
Trystin logged off and walked back toward Quentar, 
slumping back into the hard chair. "And?" asked Quentar.
"They're sending a tech team out tomorrow, along with a 
sweep squad. They'll pick me up." "Lucky you." Quentar 
paused. "No one else was there?" Trystin shook his head. 
"The attack the other day . . . well, the revs bent a door and 
shield frame enough that the station stunk. So Voren and 
the techs bailed out. Gerfel had leave, and her replacement 
wasn't due until the late shuttle." "Makes you wonder."
"Yeah," Trystin snapped. "How did they manage to 
locate the one under-force station on the entire perimeter- 
from orbit yet-and the only one with bad shields-and 
still get wiped out?" "A lot of bodies?"
"What's a lot? I counted maybe a squad, but I didn't go 
looking. They're all still there."
"They're good for fertilizer, anyway. Except we've got to 
transport them." Quentar laughed. "You know the one thing 
I like about this job?" "What?" asked Trystin tiredly.
"Killing revs. It'd be better if I could be a pilot. That way 
I could scorch a bunch, but the gattlings do a real good job. 
You know," Quentar said, his voice dropping to a more 
conversational level, "the revs aren't really human. They 're 
part alien." "I hadn't heard that."
"Oh . . . the policy types on Perdya hushed that up. They 
said it makes people too excitable. How else do you 
explain it? Would you run right at a gattling, Trystin? 
Would anyone human? How else can you explain it?"
"Their faith," suggested Trystin. "If they die in a holy 
war or whatever it is, they go to paradise."
"No real human could swallow that. No, they're aliens. . 
They just look human." Quentar laughed again. "Wish I 
were a pilot. Then I could scorch a whole lot of them. Keep 
'em from killing real people." His eyes half glazed at a 
message or some line input, and he added in a disinterested 
tone, his consciousness half elsewhere, "You need some 
rest."
"Yeah. " Trystin nodded and walked down to the 
shower, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the 
other. A shower and sleep, those were what he really 
wanted-and not to think about alien-acting revs. Or 
Quentar's wanting to kill anything that moved. Just a 
shower and sleep.
6
In the gray light before dawn, the troop carrier was  even 
grayer than the morning, the thermoshield
plastic that covered the composite armor blending 
into the western horizon. The beetle-shaped carrier bore 
twin forward-slanted antennae composed of Sasaki 
cannon. On each side of the bulge that held the fully 
automated guns was a single rapid-launch rocket tube. 
Under the guns were the cockpit portals-dark armaglass 
irises that looked like blind eyes. Trystin watched as the 
carrier slowed outside the station, putting its fans on 
bypass and settling down. He closed his helmet. The suit 
still smelled like a weight room, despite his quick efforts 
to clean it out that morning before redonning it. He 
stepped through the outer portal from East Red Two, 
walking quickly toward the armored carrier, aware that 
Natsugi had dropped the shields behind him as soon as he 
was clear. With each step, his boots sank ankle-deep in the 
powdery soil.
The carrier's armored side door swung down as he 
crossed the reddish ground that continued to vibrate under 
even the idling of the carrier's engines. As he put his foot on 
the textured plates that backed the door and served as a 
ramp, his implant linked with the carrier's order circuit. 
"Lieutenant Desoll?" "Stet."
"Major Juraki. Settle in for the ride. Lieutenant. I'd like 
to have you act as an observer once we're inbound to your 
station."
A trooper in a full-armor suit gestured toward a seat 
opposite the door.
"I'd be happy to." As Trystin answered the carrier 
commander, he took the vacant seat and strapped in, then 
slipped the seat's tube into his suit's oxygen plug. 
"Appreciate the ride." "Our pleasure."
The armored door eased up into place; the fans hummed; 
and the carrier swept back westward along the shuttle trail, 
leaving a trail of fine red dust. The air-cushion shuttle didn't 
have any problems sinking into the soil, but it did leave a 
lot of dust. It could only carry about a third of its rated 
capacity, given the thinner Maran atmosphere, and the 
abrasion on the fans was murder.
Trystin glanced up at the monitor, which showed the 
shuttle track in front of the carrier, and then closed his eyes. 
He hadn't slept that well, not with dreams of exploding 
revs, and consoles and systems that didn't work.. He'd even 
dreamed of revs turning into scaly aliens. He snorted. 
Quentar and his alien Fixation-the revs didn't have to be 
aliens, not physical ones. Their blind faith made them alien 
enough. He pursed his lips. Quentar's cheerful admission of 
living to kill revs bothered him, but he couldn't say why he 
felt that Quentar was carrying it too far. After all, the revs 
had proved they were certainly out to kill him. He shook his 
head, recalling the fanaticism of the rev officer.
When he shifted his weight on the hard seat, his hip 
throbbed. It was still sore and promised to turn vivid shades 
of blue and yellow.
The carrier was far smoother than the scooter had been, 
and Trystin slipped into a doze, ignoring the faint hissing of 
the oxygen forced into his suit and the occasional clicks of 
the CO2 cartridge system. "Approaching East Red Three . . 
." Trystin sat up with a jolt and blinked. Had he slept that 
long? He wanted to rub his eyes, but the involuntary motion 
brought his gauntlet against his helmet. He yawned and 
straightened in the seat.
The sweep trooper beside Trystin thumped his 
companion on the shoulder and pointed at the single screen 
in the troop area, focused on East Red Three.
The pinkish light of early morning illuminated black 
holes in at least a dozen spots in the station's composite 
armor on the south side. The maintenance entry was a 
jagged dark cutout. Chunks of armor lay at the foot of the 
station walls and even meters away. Scattered between the 
fragments of armor were the dark Figures of dead revs.
Trystin tried to count the bodies, but lost track at over a 
dozen.
"Desoll?" buzzed through his implant. "How does it 
look?"
"Looks the same as when I left. The shielding on the 
revvie suits seems to have worn off, though. I didn't recall 
that many bodies." "Maybe we'll see how dead they are." 
"Don't aim at a nearby body. Some are booby-trapped with 
organic HE." "Organic HE? You got to be kidding." "I wish 
I were. Take my word or check with RESCOM."
Trystin could feel the slightest jerk as the Sasakis let go. 
A huge gout of flame erupted from a dead figure, and 
chunks of metal-weapons, respirator paks-clunked 
against the carrier's plates.
"See what you mean." Major Juraki's voice was dry 
through the implant. "We'll do a turn around the station- 
but all sensors indicate it's dead."
While the carrier slowed, it completed a full circle of the 
station before coming to a halt opposite the south side. 
Most of the damage had been there-where the entry 
portals were. The rest was on the east side, near the sensor 
conduits, at the level of the rocket launch and gattling 
portals, and around the armaglass port of the control center 
on the second level. The station's armor on the north and 
west sides was untouched. So were the reclamation towers. 
The shields still covered the power turbine fans.
Trystin frowned. The damage indicated that the revvie 
attack had been directed at all the defense installations. But 
that made a sort of sense, since once the defense systems 
were knocked out, nothing could stop the revs from 
destroying the rest of the station. "Sweep team, stand by for 
reoccupation." "Lieutenant Desoll"-that came through on 
the implant level-"stand back and let them sweep the 
place. We'll need you to identify what happened. After 
they're clear, come on up through the middle door."
The carrier eased to a halt and a full squad of the 
armored troops swept down the ramp and into the station. 
They moved quickly, if not on reflex boost.
When the armored door swung up again, Trystin 
unplugged from the oxygen line, going back to his suit 
supply, and stepped through the narrow hatch and climbed 
the three steps to the control deck.
The major, sitting in the left seat, motioned to the jump seat 
that folded down between his seat and the gunner's console. 
The gunner, wearing black armor, remained focused on his 
consoles. Trystin pulled down the jump seat and plugged 
into the auxiliary air jack. "So far, so good." The major's 
voice was detached sounding through the implant, as if his 
attention were elsewhere. "Just dead revs."
"My tech is wrapped up in sheeting on the tech table," 
Trystin added. "It was all I could do." "I'll pass that along."
Trystin waited, shifting his eyes between the screens and 
the armaglass portals. Both showed the same scene-
flattened soil, fragments of composite armor, and the 
battered station walls. Beyond the station, he could glimpse 
the reclamation towers and the badlands. Two troopers 
were carting rev bodies to the carrier's rear cargo bay and 
stacking them. The revvie weapons went into the front bay.
"Station's clean. Lieutenant," announced the major. "Tech 
team's coming in, and they should have you back on-line 
before long." "I hope so."
"Until the next attack. Damned revs. Wish we could just 
clean them out. Galaxy'd be a better place. But no . . . 
politicians in Cambria say that a big war would do us all in. 
This isn't? Every year, they send more troids, and every 
year the messes are worse." The major's hand pointed 
toward the station. "They're after real estate. What they all 
need is to buy the farm. You notice how they leave the 
reclamation stuff alone?" "I'd noticed."
"They want us to do the hard work, and then, when the 
planet's set, they'll be ready to take it over. Hell . . . we've 
done enough here that without any more work, the air'll be 
breathable in another generation or so. Damned skimmers."
The implant circuit went dead, and Trystin waited. "Tech 
shuttles are on your track. Only be a few minutes."
Again, the circuit went blank, and Trystin felt shut out as 
the major began to recall his team, and as the cargo-bay 
doors were closed and sealed, and the troopers reboarded 
the carrier.
Even before the carrier was reloaded, the three gray tech 
shuttles settled onto their braced fan skirts outside the 
station's vehicle door, and a handful of techs scurried into 
the dead station.
The last of the revs' weapons went into the carrier's 
forward bay, and the cargo-bay doors closed.
"Tech team confirms that the station will be up in a 
couple of stans. They'd like your input on priorities." "I'd 
better be going." Trystin stood. "We're off to the western 
perimeter. There's another crew of revs down, and reports 
that they brought some sort of EDI/radar-transparent carrier 
with them." The major shook his head. "Seems like there's 
always something new."
Trystin unplugged and headed down the three steps. "I 
appreciate the transport and help."
"That's what we're here for. You station guards are 
stretched pretty thin for all your fancy hardware." The 
helmet bobbed in a nod. "Luck, Lieutenant."
"Thanks." Trystin stepped back onto the red and brown 
soil outside East Red Three.
7
 ". . . there being a god, that god must be worshiped. 
Worship means raising the god above the individual, and 
liturgies often make the point that the individual is less than 
nothing compared to the deity. If this be done, then, when 
the god is invoked, the individual has so little worth that he 
or she may be sacrificed for the needs of the god. . . .
"And who speaks for the god? If all people do, then no 
one does, and there is no god. If the people accept a 
priesthood, or the equivalent, then those priests exercise 
whatever power that god's believers grant that god over 
them, and that elite may cause an individual to be worth 
less, to be exiled, or even to die or be killed. Yet such 
powers do not come from a deity.
"In modern history and science, never has there been a 
verified occasion of a god appearing or demonstrating the 
powers ascribed throughout history to deities. Always, there 
is a prophet who speaks for the god. Why cannot the god 
speak? If a god is omnipotent, then the god can speak. If he 
cannot, then that god is not omnipotent. Often, the prophets 
say that a god will only speak to the chosen, the worthy.
"Should a people accept a god who is either too 
powerless to speak, or too devious or too skeptical to 
appear? Or a god who will only accept those who swallow a 
faith laid out by a prophet who merely claims that deity 
exists-without proof? Yet people have done so, and have 
granted enormous powers to those who speak for god.
"More ironically, as technologies have advanced, men 
and women have gained powers once ascribed to deities, 
yet deistic faiths always claim greater powers for their 
deities and appear to seek equally great controls over their 
followers, over those followers' finances, and at times even 
over their sexual habits and private lives . . . and many 
people have accepted such controls, even with enthusiasm. 
..."
The Eco-Tech Dialogues 
Prologue
8
The perimeter station still smelled, not only of ammonia  
and weedgrass, but of oil, hot plastic, and burned insulation. 
Trystin coughed and wiped his nose. His eyes burned at the 
corners, and his hip remained sore from the bruise he'd 
gotten half falling down the emergency ladder.
He swallowed the last of the Sustain and cleared his 
throat. Then, for the second time, he called up the message 
that had been waiting for him when the station had come 
back on-line.
"Glad to hear you made it. Also glad it was you and not 
me. Ulteena."
Short and uncuddly, but nice to know that someone paid 
attention, even if he'd never met Lieutenant Ulteena Freyer. 
But a message wasn't enough. He needed to talk to 
someone, preferably someone female and sympathetic.
With a slow breath, he linked into the audio pubnet and 
tried Ezildya. She'd been out of her office earlier. 
"Fernaldoi."
"Ezildya, this is Trystin. I'll be in Klyseen on sevenday 
afternoon...."
"And the wandering Service officer wants a warm and 
willing companion? With so little notice?"
"The Service officer is the one who had six squads of 
revs tear down his station a few days ago. I've been 
somewhat preoccupied with survival." He tried to keep his 
tone light.
"That was your station we had to cannibalize everything 
to put back together?"
"It wasn't that bad-just armor and more armor and 
about thirty percent of the main system console."
"Oh . . . you were number four. We didn't have that much 
left. . . ." "Sorry I called."
"Trystin . . . it's been a long eightday." "I know you had a 
long eightday. Me-1 had a wonderful time. I really 
enjoyed going fifty kays in armor on a scooter with no 
comm, almost as much as I enjoyed having my tech killed 
and my station blown open." There was a long silence. "I 
am sorry, Trystin. Was it that bad?" "If you're free on 
sevenday, I'll give you the details." As he talked, he flicked 
across the screens again, trying to ensure that he wasn't 
missing anything. There wasn't a flat prohibition on his 
using the pubnet, but it wasn't something he should drag 
out, either. "I could take off a little early. Say seventeen 
hundred?" "At your place?" "That would be best." "Thanks. 
I'll see you then. I've got to go." "You on-line?" "Of 
course."
"Trystin . . ." There was a sigh. "I'll see you sevenday." 
Ezildya's sigh confirmed her displeasure at his calling on 
fluty, but Trystin was tired of the unspoken restrictions of 
duty. He was more than a little tired of all the unspoken 
constraints that seemed to fill life-don't question this; 
don't ask about that-especially if you were a Service 
officer on a perimeter line.
After his own sigh, Trystin ran through everything 
again-screens, maintenance, power, and station-keeping. 
Nothing had changed, and even the trend-analysis screens 
didn't show anything, although the cloud buildups over the 
eastern badlands' hills registered heavier than usual. The 
perimeter lines were clear, and the turners, some kays 
south, continued to turn and process soil for creeper 
seeding. The turbine fans were generating forty percent of 
the load, and the organonutrient levels were down to twelve 
percent.
Trystin flicked off another reminder to supply, but all he 
got was the programmed acknowledgment.
"Lieutenant Desoll, ser?" The voice was that of Hisin, 
Ryla's replacement.
"Yes?" Trystin asked, half wondering if Hisin's rapid 
replacement of poor dead Ryla signified that Service 
personnel were as expendable as revvie missionaries. He 
pushed the thought away.
"I'm going to have to go off-line. The damned turners for 
the precrackers have jammed up. That means taking the 
scooter out."
Trystin zeroed in on the lower left screen, the satellite plot. 
There! "I make them about eight kays south and about a kay 
inside the line. Is that where you have them?"
"Yes, ser. Be a good stan 'fore I'm back, and that's 
without trouble. "
"Check in if it's going to take longer, and take scooter 
one. The comm's shot on number two."
"The one they brought back from East Red Two, ser? It 
looks to be in better shape than number one, especially the 
tanks."
"That's the way it looks, Hisin. That's why I used it. 
That's also how I found out the comm was shot." Trystin 
shook his head. He'd totally forgotten to tell the tech about 
the faulty comm. "That's my fault. I didn't report it-1 
couldn't because the net was down, and I forgot to log it 
once we got things back together."
"Stet, ser. Once I get the turners working, if I can, I'll 
look into it. I appreciate the information. I'd hate to get out 
there with no comm." "I didn't much care for it, either." 
"You actually neutralized six squads of revs, ser?" "I didn't 
count. Cleanup squad told me I got a few. A lot of it was 
luck. I couldn't sense much with their new insulated suits." 
"Bastards." "Yeah." "Going off-line, ser." "Stet."
Trystin checked the entire maintenance line, code by 
code and signal by signal. While all the major systems were 
functioning, a number of less critical areas were still 
awaiting maintenance action. The lower rear inside door to 
Block A was still jammed, and the replacement door to cell 
three in Block B still hadn't come in. Neither could be 
replaced without a new frame, and both doors and frames 
were back-ordered out of Klyseen central depot with no 
estimated delivery date. Surely a door frame, even a heavy-
duty sector control station door frame, couldn't be that hard 
to fabricate? Could it?
He shook his head. While the tech team had been effective 
in restoring armor, station integrity, and weapons systems, 
internal items not necessary for the operation and defense 
of the station had a lower priority, and supplies were low 
after PerCon had been forced to rebuild nearly totally the 
three stations on the western perimeter.
His hip was still sore, and somehow itched. He started to 
massage it gently, then stopped. The massage just re-' 
minded him more of the soreness.
Hhhstttt. . . craccckkkk!!! The storm over the badlands 
discharged somewhere east of the tower, close enough that 
the First wave of the static knifed through the implant 
before the system's overload breakers cut in. Trystin's eyes 
watered even more, and he sneezed. "Shit. Friggin' 
stormlash." Was he getting more and more sensitized to 
stormlash, or was it just fatigue? Would the medical 
screening coming up the day before endday discover he was 
sensitized? What did medical screening have to do with the 
Farhkans? Who knew much about them, except that they 
were remarkably humanoid beings living in toward Galactic 
center who had been around a long time, and who had 
demonstrated, with rather convincing firepower, a few 
centuries earlier, that their desire to be left alone except 
through formal contacts was something that had to be 
respected.
The Eco-Tech Coalition had only lost one ship- 
officially. The revs had lost almost a hundred ships-and a 
major outlying Temple, along with a good portion of New 
Salem-before they had gotten the idea. The Farhkans had 
demonstrated close to total ability to annihilate the entire 
heavens of the Revenants of the Prophet before the revs had 
gotten the message.
Would the Eco-Tech Coalition have to do the same to stop 
the waves of revvie ships? He sighed. That wasn't his 
problem, and he doubted that the Coalition had either the 
ability or the will to wipe out entire systems. Still, he 
wished they'd do something, rather than just have perimeter 
officers like him sitting and waiting and reacting. Someday, 
he might not react quickly enough. Once the Coalition and 
the revs had been allies against the Immortals . . . but that 
had been a long time ago- before the Farhkans.
He frowned, realizing that he'd never really seen a 
Farhkan, not in person. According to the holos, they had 
pale gray skin and dark iron-gray hair that was short and 
bristly over their entire body, except around their mouth 
and single nostril. They had two red eyes and teeth that 
looked like greenish crystals which framed a double-hinged 
mouth.
With the rising wind, he reset the breakers and went back 
on-line to check the power screen, pleased to see that the 
fans were generating nearly sixty-five percent of the 
ambient load. So long as the winds held, the drain on 
organonutrient for the fuel cells would remain low. Cling!
"All PerCon Stations. DefCon visual plot indicates two 
paragliders on entry envelopes. Paragliders are new beta 
class. Probable landfall coordinates follow. Full alert on 
perimeter stations. DefCon Two. DefCon Two . . ."
Trystin checked the coordinates. The probable landfall 
was beyond the western perimeter line, and the revs didn't 
miss by the width of the entire central plains-not by 
fifteen hundred kays. Not so far.
New beta-class paragliders! Now the revs were bringing 
down heavy equipment, and that equipment came off troids 
that had been launched from Orum or somewhere nearly 
twenty years earlier. What else had they developed that 
would be coming in the months and years ahead? He pursed 
his lips-better just to worry about the days ahead. 
Someone else could worry about the years.
Hhhstttt. . . craccckkkk! Crack!.' Trystin only winced at 
the stormlash, and checked the metplot. The big storm was 
rolling westward and down toward East Red Three.
He tried to raise the scooter that sat, according to the 
satellite plot and the beacon, right beside the turners that 
Hisin was repairing. "Hisin, this is Lieutenant Desoll." 
"Barely read you, ser. . . ." The response was crackling, 
probably because of the approaching storm.
"We've got a big storm rolling our way. I'd estimate not 
more than a stan."
"I'm almost done. This time it wasn't that bad. Just had to 
clean out the toxics accumulator. The turners must have run 
through a bad patch here."
"Stet." Trystin checked the metplot again, but, if 
anything, the storm had slowed. That was good because 
Hisin would get back in time, and bad because a slower-
moving storm tended to have more time over the station.
Supposedly, the storms would get worse as more oxygen 
and water vapor built up in the atmosphere, at least on the 
perimeter lines where old and new tended to mix. That had 
something to do with the slope of the hills at the edge of the 
high plains, not the perimeter lines themselves, although 
they had reached the badlands.
In another Five years, the Service would have to begin to 
repeat the whole process on the western continent, and 
things would get even hairier.
Trystin stood and walked around the center, stretching his 
legs and glancing out the armaglass, where the eastern sky 
was continuing to darken.
The station still smelled of ammonia and weedgrass, and 
he rubbed his nose, so sensitive that the rubbing hurt, but 
his nostrils itched, and his eyes still watered. He blotted 
them on the back of his suit sleeve and headed back to the 
command seat.
After checking the four-screen once more, he watched as 
the scooter pulled away from the turners and curved back 
toward the station. Then he took another sip of the Sustain. 
Sometimes he felt as if he were living on the high-energy 
liquid nutrient. He coughed and cleared his throat. 
Sometimes he was. "Back in-station, ser." "Stet."
CrackkH! CRACKK.'H! At the first knife through his 
skull from the clouds rolling out of the hills and across the 
station, Trystin winced, but the overrides cut him off-line 
again. While he waited for the storm to pass so that he 
could go back on-line, he called up the split screen on the 
console, visually scanning the displays, and feeling slowed 
and partly blinded by his loss of direct access to the 
network and station systems. His fingers were far slower 
than his mind.
Outside was dark, almost like twilight, as the heavy 
clouds passed over the station. The armor and walls 
couldn't block out the whining of the wind, or the gritty 
tick, tick, tick of sand against the armaglass window. Crack! 
Another bolt of energy lashed from the storm. Trystin 
shifted in the command seat, leaving his links to the system 
dead until the storm passed. There wasn't much sense in 
trying to go on-line and getting kicked out, especially since 
high-energy surges offered a chance of incremental neural 
degradation, small but definite.
The screen showing the area around the station continued 
to darken, as did the armaglass portal looking toward the 
eastern hills. At least the fans were generating enough to 
carry the entire load and actually load the backup 
accumulators.
The sand continued to tick against the window. Crack! 
Crack! Two more lightning bolts flared down near the 
perimeter line, raising the illumination in the station and on 
the screen.
"Lieutenant, I'm shutting down the tech boards." The 
words came through the speaker, automatically turned on 
when the link system went off-line. "Go ahead." "Stet, ser." 
Crack! CRACK!!!!
Trystin didn't need the red lights from the maintenance 
panel to know that the last discharges had mangled 
something, only to pinpoint where the damage was-main 
reclamation tower number one. Again, he should have been 
the one to suggest the cutoff earlier. He shook his head.
If it weren't the revs, it was the damned planet. He took a 
sip of Sustain and manually called the metplot onto the side 
screen before him. According to the scanners, the storm 
center had passed. Crack!
That didn't mean the storm was Finished with East Red 
Three, not as the station shook again.
Cling! This time, the tone came through the speaker, 
since his implant was off-line. Trystin fumbled with the 
console and shifted the message to the screen on the 
console. He hated being off-line. It was slow and clumsy.
"All PerCon Stations. DefCon has confirmed two beta-
class paragliders with landfall near western perimeter. Both 
gliders are being neutralized. Landfall coordinates and 
estimated time of landfall follow. Full alert on western 
perimeter stations. DefCon One. DefCon One . . ."
Once more Trystin fumbled with the console controls and 
the keyboard before Finally locating the landfall 
coordinates-directly across the plains to the west, and less 
than five kays into the western badlands.
He pursed his lips, not liking the phrase "are being 
neutralized." Was Maran Defense Control having trouble 
with the shielding on the gliders as well? More trouble than 
before?
Crack! The intensity of the lightning was lower. Trystin 
continued to use his eyes to scan the screens on the console, 
begrudging the comparative slowness of his fingers in 
handling the displays. Still, the monitoring screens weren't 
that much work, and they were the only systems, besides 
basic station-keeping, that were on-line while the storm 
thundered westward over East Red Three.
As the storm faded, and the afternoon light rose, Trystin 
finally relinked to the system and began to reactivate the 
technical side, confirming as he did so that in addition to a 
number of minor circuits through the system, all systems of 
reclamation tower one were inoperative. "Lieutenant, tower 
one is down. Down cold." Trystin checked the metplot, but 
the storm was a good ten kays west of the station and 
beginning to break as it crossed the more heavily creepered 
areas. "Looks clear if you want to check it out."
"Stet. Scooter one is all right." A laugh followed. "I can 
always walk back." With the nearer tower one less than a 
kay away, Hisin would be close, not even out of helmet 
comm range.
Trystin checked the four-screen again, but could see no 
signs of more storms or revs-not that he had that much 
confidence in the scanners being able to detect anything the 
revs had until they were practically overrunning the station.
Then he used the net to scan the comm inslots, coming 
up with little more than routine messages.
Hisin hadn't been at the tower more than ten standard 
minutes before he called back. "Lieutenant, all the power 
links to the control boxes are fused. That last bolt from the 
storm overloaded the grounds, and . . ." Hisin's voice trailed 
off. ". . . haven't seen anything like this in a long time."
"There's a lot we haven't seen in a long time, and it's 
happening more frequently, I think. Do what you can."
"I'll have to come back to the station to see if we even 
have enough components."
"Stet." Trystin watched as Hisin reentered the scooter 
and rode back to the station. Just two more days before he 
could go to Klyseen. Medical exam or not, he was ready for 
a break. Cling!
"Advisory for PerCon Stations. Revvie assault repulsed 
West Red Five. Full alert remains for western-perimeter 
stations. DefCon One. DefCon One . - ."
Trystin shook his head. Another long session for the 
western sector watch officers. Repulsion was not 
neutralization by a long shot, and that meant the revs had 
heavy weapons. And that meant trouble.
He shifted his weight to remove some of the pressure on 
the sore hip, then checked his own screens again, even 
remote-swiveling the outside scanners to the west for a 
quick sweep, but everything remained clear, not that he 
expected the revs to cross the high plains instantly.
Lifting the cup of Sustain, he looked at it, then set it 
down without drinking. He was already hyper, and being 
too hyper on the net was a recipe for headaches. He'd had 
enough headaches in the last two weeks.
9
"The time is zero four hundred ten." At 0410, the single 
sentence from the system was enough to jolt
Trystin from sleep. He swung his bare feet onto the 
hard plastcrete flooring of the cubicle and sat on the edge of 
his bunk. He had a moment, but not much more, before he 
trudged to the shower and the chemically pure recycled 
water that had no zip. He rubbed his forehead, then 
struggled upright. Even so early in the morning, he could 
sense a faint static through the implant.
The shower helped-some, but even the hot water couldn't 
wash away the odor of ammonia and weedgrass.
Trystin dried himself, wrapped himself in the towel, and 
trudged back to his cubicle. He dressed in informal greens, 
then made his way to the lock doors to wait for the shuttle.
At 0440, the ground shuttle stopped on the pad outside 
the center, and Trystin, respirator over his mouth, beret 
tucked in his belt, kit bag in hand, triggered the door to the 
pad, stepped out, and marched out and in through the 
shuttle's rear door. The passenger compartment was scarred 
green-gray plastic, with matching seats, and lit by a single 
glow-strip down the middle of the overhead.
A square-faced noncom looked at Trystin for a moment, 
scanned the uniform and pointed to a seat along one wall. 
Four of the twelve wall seats were taken, each by a junior 
officer, and each officer wore a respirator.
"Lieutenant Desoll?" came the faint indirect-link 
question.
"That's me," Trystin responded back through the static. 
"Leave your respirator on, ser, but you can plug into the 
jack by your seat. We won't go to full oxygen till we finish 
the pickups."
As Trystin strapped in, the shuttle pulled away from the 
station. The faint hiss of the shuttle's air fed through the 
respirator, along with the odor of oil and metal . . . and 
ammonia and weedgrass. Trystin leaned back in the seat 
and closed his eyes, much the way the others had done, he 
suspected.
He didn't really sleep, or even doze, but sat there in a 
semiconscious daze, as the shuttle swayed through three 
more stops and starts before beginning its return to 
Klyseen. "Full pressurization."
Groggily, Trystin opened his eyes and pulled off the 
respirator, unplugging and folding the mouthpiece into the 
pak. He rubbed his eyes gently, crusted as they were from 
the irritation of ammonia and weedgrass. Then he took a 
deep breath that was not quite a yawn.
"You're Trystin, aren't you?" The dark-haired officer next 
to him wore a star beside the double-linked collar bar, 
signifying her selection for major. Her nose was sharp, but 
fitted to her face, and the chin firm, squared, above the 
strong shoulders that were almost, but not quite, too broad. 
Her body seemed trim and muscular.
"Yes. " Trystin looked again, realizing that the eyes were 
harder, the face older than he had first seen. "I'm Ulteena 
Freyer."
"Congratulations." He nodded at the pin. "How long?" 
"Next month. I'm one of the few with anniversary dates in 
Unodec." Her eyes fixed his.
"Could I ask how you knew who I was?" Then he 
grinned stupidly. They were all in uniform with the 
highlighted name badges below their shoulders.
"Actually, I picked you out before I could see the badge." 
She gave him a smile that was friendly, but not cuddly. 
"You're the only one who looks like a rev." Trystin 
shrugged. "Can't do much about genetics."
"You from a long-term techie family?" "Yes. One of the 
first on Perdya-believe it or not." He hated explaining that 
despite his rev looks, he was a techie through and through 
with family links that went back to the foundation of the 
Eco-Tech Coalition.
"I believe it. It also explains why you survived those 
booby traps the revs sent. You know Weslyn didn't? 
Neither did a couple of tech officers on the western 
perimeter." "Why?" he asked politely.
"I'm sure you have to prove everything, and you and your 
family always have had to. Any failures in your family?"
Trystin understood the star beside her bars. Then he 
grinned. "You, too?"
The momentarily blank look was replaced by a grin. 
"Yes. Don't forget it, either, Trystin." Then the grin faded. 
"I know. Next month, it will be 'major.' " "It will. That's 
true. But your time will come. Ranks are temporary." She 
leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes.
What was that all about, he wondered? Except he knew. 
For whatever reason, Ulteena Freyer had as much to prove 
as Trystin did-maybe more. In a way, it was too bad. 
Despite the slightly sharp nose, he liked the way she 
looked, and her competence. It reminded him of Salya. He 
wondered how his sister was doing, then shook his head. 
Wondering wouldn't answer the question, and he settled 
back and closed his own eyes.
"Klyseen depot!" announced the noncom from the 
doorway.
Trystin jerked awake in time to see Ulteena step out 
through the shuttle's doorway into the shuttle depot. He 
stood and stretched, letting the others leave first. According 
to the implant, it was still only 0715, and he had more than 
enough time to get something to eat before his 0900 
appointment at the Service medical center.
The tunnel from the depot was double-wide, nearly 
twenty meters across, with the side to Trystin's right-the 
eastern side--bearing a maroon stripe. The five meters 
next to the wall were reserved for electroscooters and open 
passenger carts. The carts each had three bench seats and 
were programmed to stop roughly every quarter kay.
Trystin ignored the carts, unlike most of the Service 
people, and walked away from the depot, situated under the 
center of Klyseen, southward toward the residential domes. 
On his days off, he had learned that the better cafes were 
there, with cross tunnels for pedestrians that led to the 
western Service dome-though the term "dome" was a 
misnomer, since the bulk of each structure was below 
ground.
Even with an interior and largely underground culture, 
most of the personnel on Mara had darker complexions than 
Trystin, not surprisingly, since the Eco-Tech heritage had 
been genetically mixed, to say the least. While he did not 
quite tower over the average Eco-Tech, at 195 centimeters 
he was taller than most, but he tried not to slouch.
He passed the first restaurant-the Tunnel Cubed-
because it was crowded, with Service people at practically 
every table. Another half kay south along the tunnel, he 
stepped into the Marigold, where less than half the tables 
were taken.
After scanning the menu, he saw why. The prices were a 
good third higher than at the Tunnel Cubed. Hoping that the 
higher tariff meant better food, he tapped in his order at the 
service console-real eggs, toasted white algae bread, and 
browned potatoes. Potatoes could be grown almost 
anywhere. The console compared his thumb print and ID 
number and beeped its approval.
Trystin took the squarish slip with his number on it and 
walked over to the dispenser for some tea. The tea cost as 
much as the rest of the breakfast, but he needed something 
hot and real. He took a corner table beside the planter filled 
with live marigolds and rysya. The marigolds provided 
color and a bitter scent that Trystin found more acceptable 
than all the artificial fragrances that drifted past him. The 
rysya-planted everywhere in Klyseen-had only small 
white blossoms, but served as a supplemental oxygen 
regenerator. He could feel the directed heat from the laser-
type sunsquirts in the ceiling.
Sitting at the green round plastic table in a green 
plastic chair, he sipped the tea and watched people 
walking, or riding, along the tunnel outside, separated 
from the cafe proper by the row of waist-high planters 
filled with the mixed flowers.
He still got curious glances from passersby, 
occasioned by his sandy hair, blue eyes, and broad 
shoulders, but once the eyes took in the Service 
uniform, especially the officers' bars, they tended to 
glaze over with the reassurance of the familiar.
Trystin took his time with the eggs, and enjoyed 
sipping the tea and studying the people who walked 
by-the Service officers and technicians in their pale 
green uniforms, the contract technicians in whatever 
they wished to wear, and a handful of dark-haired and 
dark-eyed children, usually in school tunics and 
trousers.
Children-he hadn't seen many since he'd left 
Cambria, not that most Eco-Tech families had more 
than two, if that.
He pursed his lips and finished the toast, then took an- I 
other sip of the tea. Ulteena-somehow she fit his mental 
picture, and somehow she didn't. Certainly, she wasn't as 
openly warm as Ezildya, but her nose wasn't the beak he'd 
somehow visualized. And she was certainly competent.
He laughed. Ulteena was on the fast track, and before 
long, she'd be a major. She certainly had made that 
clear, but why had she mentioned that ranks were 
temporary? He took another sip of tea, sniffed the 
marigolds, and sat back to watch the pedestrians. He had 
time, more than enough time.
At 0820, he finally left the Marigold, walking quickly 
toward the pedestrian tunnel interconnecting Residence 
one to Service two.
At 0830, Trystin was entering Service two, the 
support dome of the Service. At 0840, he passed the exit 
for the botanical garden. He wished he'd left the 
Marigold earlier and had given himself enough time for 
the garden. Perhaps later. He missed the greenery. He 
kept walking.
At 0855, Trystin stepped through the front slider in the 
underground medical center, and walked to the console. 
"Lieutenant Trystin Desoll-"
"Follow-up physicals are in corridor three B, Lieutenant. 
Follow the orange stripe to the blue. Make a right where the 
blue starts, and follow it to the next reception area." The 
dark-haired tech gave him a polite smile, then returned to 
his console.
Trystin shrugged and followed the orange stripe on the 
wall for nearly a hundred meters before turning right. 
Another hundred meters of turns led him to a waiting area. 
He stepped up to the tech at the console. "Lieutenant Desoll 
. . ."
"Take a seat. Lieutenant. A med tech or Dr. lhara will 
call you."
Trystin tried not to shake his head and turned. In the 
front row of the hard plastic chairs sat Ulteena Freyer. She 
smiled and motioned to the empty seat beside her. "They 
don't care much for rank here," she observed. "I noticed." 
Trystin settled into the seat. "How long have you been 
waiting?"
"About five minutes longer than you." She gave him a 
quick smile, and a sense of the warmth flashed over him 
and was gone. "I don't cut it quite as closely as you do. 
Women can't afford that kind of reputation, even today."
"I didn't plan on cutting it that closely. The med center is 
bigger than I'd realized." "Your first time here?"
Trystin nodded. "My annual physical isn't due for another 
month. You think they'll combine it with this?"
"Not a chance. Regs say you have an annual Service 
physical, and you will." Ulteena brushed back a strand of 
hair scarcely longer than Trystin's.
"Desoll!" The med tech in greens by the console glanced 
around the room where the dozen young officers waited. 
"Here. "Trystin stood.
"Please follow me, ser." The "ser" was definitely a 
formality, without respect. Trystin smiled at Ulteena. She 
offered a faint smile in return.
"See you later, at least on the net." She 
nodded politely.
Trystin followed the med tech around the corner and to a 
line of curtained booths where the tech pointed at a booth 
with an open curtain. "Strip down to your underwear. Then 
stand in front of the console and let it wrap around you. Put 
your arms in the restrainers, and tap the stud under your 
little finger. There's one under either hand. Hold still. The 
console will take blood, skin, and a few other samples. 
When the tone sounds and the restraints lift, dress and walk 
up the corridor to delta four. Take a seat there, and wait for 
Dr. lhara." The med tech looked at Trystin. "Is that clear, 
ser?" "Clear."
The technician nodded and was gone. Trystin closed the 
curtain and began to strip, beginning with his boots, setting 
them in the corner of the cubicle. With a deep breath, he 
stepped up and let the console embrace him, the plastic and 
metal cool against his bare skin. His hip twinged at the 
chill.
The implant flickered, indicating energy flows, in 
response to the brief sprays and energy probes that invaded 
him.
In less than five minutes, according to the implant, the 
process was complete, and the restraints lifted away. In 
spots, Trystin's skin tingled, and he wondered if he might 
have a few small bruises later.
He shook his head. Nothing to compare with the one he'd 
received from falling down the station's emergency ladder. 
He dressed quickly, opened the curtain, and walked up the 
corridor and around the corner. Another waiting area 
contained four chairs. Three were full, with a major and 
two senior lieutenants. One of the lieutenants was a woman 
with sandy-blond hair, not so fair as Trystin or his sister, 
but the first other blond Trystin had seen in the Service.                                       
She looked up and grinned. He grinned back.
At that moment, a Service officer Trystin had never seen, 
also a lieutenant, stepped out of the room, shaking his head.
"Next. Lieutenant Berne?" A heavyset doctor in dress 
greens stood in the open door.
The sandy blonde stood and followed the doctor. Trystin 
settled into the chair and closed his eyes, realizing how 
tired he really was.
"Next. Lieutenant Desoll?" A heavyset doctor in dress 
greens stood in the open door.
Trystin tried not to jerk awake, and rose as smoothly as 
he could.
"Don't worry about it. By the way. I'm Dr. lhara. None of 
you perimeter types ever get enough rest."
Trystin followed him into the large office, where a halo 
of the western badlands filled the wall space on the right 
side of the room. The combination desk/console was bare, 
as was the credenza on the wall behind the console.
Trystin's eyes slipped past the panorama of fast-moving 
clouds to the third figure in the office-a not-quite human 
figure in what looked to be shimmering gray fatigues. The 
iron-gray hair and square face were the most human 
features of the Farhkan. Trystin tried to ignore the red eyes 
and wide single-nostril nose that seemed to flap with each 
breath. The crystalline teeth were not quite fangs or tusks, 
and seemed blunt.
lhara shut the door behind Trystin. "This is Rhule Ghere, 
Lieutenant Desoll. He is roughly my equivalent with the 
Farhkan . . . hegemony."
Trystin nodded. The term "hegemony" was the closest 
description that matched any human term, although the 
Farhkans seemed to employ what really seemed to Trystin 
something like an ultrahigh-tech, self-policing, consensus-
based, anarchistic democracy based on environmental 
understandings and an overall technology that the Eco-Tech 
Coalition could only drool over from a distance.
"Pleased to meet you, ser." Trystin offered a slight bow, 
feeling that some sign of respect was in order. "It is 
interesting to meet you, Lieutenant." Ghere's voice floated 
through Trystin's thoughts, almost as though unrolling on 
his mental screen, but more completely and more quickly. 
"How?"
"I-we-have the ability to communicate, at short 
distances only, through your military communications 
implant. That makes communications easier-or possible."
"Dr. Ghere is here to interview those of you who 
volunteered to participate in the Farhkan project. I doubt 
you remember much, beyond the small annual bonus, about 
the project. . . ."
Trystin did remember, but not as much as he would have 
liked. Supposedly, in return for certain basic technology 
transfers, the Farhkans were following a small cohort of 
Service officers for a ten-year period-or longer-with 
periodic physical examinations, interviews, and some forms 
of mental tests. This was Trystin's second physical for the 
Farhkan project, but there had been no interview after the 
first.
"I recall the basic details, although I don't remember 
anything about interviews." He inhaled slowly, taking in an 
unfamiliar odor, a combination of an unfamiliar flower, a 
muskiness, and . . . cleanliness.
"You'll be getting an interview with each subsequent 
physical, unless, for some reason, the Farhkans find you 
unsuitable." lhara offered a grimace. "We hope they don't. 
Please have a seat."
Trystin took the only seat in front of the console, 
opposite the Farhkan.
Rhule Ghere turned his red eyes on Ihara. "The other aspect 
of the interview is that it is confidential," added lhara.
Trystin repressed a snort. How confidential was an 
interview with a Service doctor present?
lhara stepped to the second door and opened it. "Believe 
me. It's confidential. You'll see." He stepped out of the 
room and closed the door. "We do have our ways," offered 
the silent voice of Ghere.
"If you wish to speak aloud or use your implant, it does 
not matter."
Idly, Trystin tried to access any net that might be in the 
structure, but found a blankness. He raised his eyebrows. 
"Won't they try to break it?"
"Of course. They have been trying for several years. That 
is one reason why they agreed to the bargain." "Advanced 
technology?"
"They like the opportunity to steal technology. All 
humans do."
"So we're thieves?" As the words popped out, Trystin 
couldn't believe he'd said them.
"You do not like being a member of a species of 
thieves?"
"The thought doesn't please me much." Trystin shifted 
his weight in the chair. "You Find the idea of theft 
repulsive?" Trystin paused. "I don't like being thought of as 
a thief." "What about the theft of life?"
Again, Trystin paused. Was the alien a real alien, or was 
this just some fantastic screening device? But why would 
the Service go to such lengths? Would he know a real 
Farhkan from a phony one? "Do you have a spoken 
language? What does it sound like?" "Yes."
A string of noise followed, except that the sounds twisted 
around each other almost poetically. Trystin felt a vague 
sense of longing and asked when Ghere had finished, "Is 
that poetry?"
"Of a type. It is the opening to what you would call my 
testament. But I could be lying. I could be a fraud." "You 
could," Trystin admitted. "You act too human." "Too 
human, or too intelligent?" Trystin wanted to shake his 
head. "You never answered my inquiry about the theft of 
life." The red eyes turned directly on him.
Trystin felt that the alien was looking beyond him, and 
that the alien was alien. Why, he couldn't say. He wet his 
lips. "War involves the theft of life. What are we supposed 
to do? Let the revs kill us off and take everything over in 
the name of their Prophet?" "So you admit you are a thief?" 
"You're twisting words."
"Am I?" A harsh sound issued from the Farhkan. "Am 
I?"
"If I'm a thief, so are you." "I am a thief. I admit it. Are 
you?" asked Ghere. Trystin didn't want to admit anything, 
even philosophically, especially since he wasn't sure what 
the Service might find out. He paused. "Are you a thief?" 
asked Ghere again. "Since any intelligent species must take 
from other living things, even if limited to food, in order to 
survive," Trystin temporized, "I would say that intelligence 
requires theft in the general sense." "Is all taking a form of 
theft?"
Trystin shrugged: "I suppose taking implies possession, 
and, therefore, without ownership, taking would not be 
theft."
"But what is possession? Can any living form be said to 
possess something?"
"Temporarily, I suppose." Trystin felt warm, ready to 
burst into sweat.
"That is a careful answer, and it is true. Yet you will 
acknowledge that you eat. So why do you refuse to admit 
you are a thief?" Ghere shifted his weight in his chair, but 
so gracefully and silently that he made no sound.
Trystin sat silently for a few moments, suddenly 
conscious of the low-grade throbbing in his hip, and 
conscious of the absurdity of sweating through a moral 
argument with an alien-assuming Ghere was a real 
Farhkan.
The silence extended, so much that Trystin could hear 
the faint hiss of the ventilators.
"You have admitted that intelligent life must take from 
other life to survive. You know this is true. I have admitted 
I am a thief. You will not. Why not?"
"The word itself is unpleasant." Trystin felt the words 
being dragged out of him.
"Why?" "Why? I don't know."
Ghere stood and pressed a stud on the console. "You 
need to think about that. Lieutenant Desoll. Thank you for 
your time." His mouth opened.
Trystin tried not to stare at the long, sharp, crystalline 
teeth.
Click. In the silence, the opening door sounded like a 
thunderbolt, and the Service doctor entered. Trystin turned 
to Dr. lhara.
"I will take a rest now, for a few moments," announced 
Ghere in the same mental "voice," even as he headed for the 
rear door, moving silently and closing it behind him- 
assuming Ghere was male, or the Farhkan equivalent. lhara 
looked at Trystin. "That was long-for him." Trystin 
shrugged, wondering if he had failed some sort of test.
"Would you care to comment on the interview?" asked 
lhara. "Not really."
"No one ever does. No one. " The Service doctor sighed. 
"All right, what about Ghere himself?" "He seems real 
enough. "Trystin shivered. "And alien." "He's both," said 
lhara wryly. "Why do they want an interview?" Trystin 
asked. "It's a game." lhara glanced through the half-open 
door toward the empty waiting area. "The techs on the next 
level try to break his barriers, and he tries to get whatever 
he wants from you."
"He just asked general questions," Trystin said 
cautiously. "Nothing military at all."
"We've gathered that." lhara pursed his lips. "They want 
something. They've got some sort of plan, but no one seems 
to know what." "No one?"
lhara lowered his voice. "The med higher-ups drug-
probed one of the first interview subjects. Within days, we 
got a message telling us that all trade and information 
transfers would be canceled if it ever happened again. " He 
laughed. "So no one can make you say a thing." Trystin 
wasn't sure he believed lhara, but he nodded. "By the way, 
you're in good shape physically," the doctor added. "Upper 
ten percent. You work out regularly, don't you?" "Pretty 
much."
"It shows. But there's some minor nasal irritation. 
Probably a little too much local atmosphere in your 
station." "Is that all?" asked Trystin, looking at the closed 
door. "That's all. But if you ever want to talk about it . . . or 
let us know . . ." "I know where to find you."
As he walked from the med center, Trystin wondered 
exactly what it was that the Farhkans had provided that was 
so valuable that the Coalition would allow private 
interviews with promising young officers. It had to be 
valuable. No one, not even aliens, gave away technology 
for free.
Ghere, like everyone else, wanted something. But what? 
Certainly, probing the moral values of a junior Service 
officer didn't justify whatever technology the Coalition had 
received. Did it? Or was the whole thing a complicated 
charade? Trystin thought about lhara. The doctor hadn't 
been lying. So what did the Farhkans want? Was it some 
type of information about a lot of officers? Or were they 
screening for something? What could it be? And why? 
Trystin took a deep breath and kept walking.
10
 From the carved wooden bench, Trystin glanced across the 
five meters of grass separating him from the bushes and 
trees. A small red maple rose from the ivy. He didn't 
recognize the small brown bird with the red-shaded head, 
but watched as it cocked its head, then dropped from the 
branch and flew toward the south corner of the dome 
garden and a tree he didn't recognize.
Supposedly, the one-hundred-meter-square garden only 
contained flora and fauna that would fit the ecology of 
Mara when the planoforming was completed. And 
supposedly the purpose of the garden was to test the 
balance on a small scale. In reality, the garden was a 
reminder of what Mara could be, a reminder the Eco-Techs 
needed.
A green lizard wound its way up the trunk of a hybrid 
yuccalike plant with pale yellow flowers and spike-tipped 
leaves. The lizard's tongue flickered, but Trystin couldn't 
see the prey, or if there had been prey.
He shifted his weight on the bench, enjoying the smells 
of living things, the respite from the endless odor of plastic, 
ozone, and machine oil, and the silence from his implant. 
There were no net repeaters, at any frequency, within the 
garden dome where all his implant was good for was 
regulating his physical output-primarily sight, metabolic 
and muscular contractive speed, and reflexes-and for 
keeping time. Tweeett...
The unseen bird's call blended with the rustle of the 
leaves moved by the hidden ventilator streams to simulate 
winds. The lizard crawled out of sight behind the yucca 
trunk, and Trystin looked to his left, toward the small grove 
of lime trees, if a group of four trees could be called a 
grove. He checked his implant-1643-almost time for 
him to leave for Ezildya's place. Tweeet...
He stood and offered a salute to the hidden bird before 
heading out through the double locks toward Residential 
three. The odor of plastic and ozone struck him like a wall, 
along with the muttering of electronics picked up by the 
implant, and he almost stopped in mid-stride, but he kept 
walking.
He paused at the under ground junction where the tunnels 
intersected, and where a handful of small shops bur-rowed 
farther back away from the tunnel. Finally, he stepped into 
one-"Niceties."
The plastic counters in the front held decorative boxes of 
dried fruits. Trystin picked up one and winced at the price. 
Still, it had to have come from off-planet, and translation 
costs were steep. But for fruit? When you could grow it 
anywhere if you knew what you were doing? He shook his 
head.
"Could I help you, ser?" A man in a motorchair glided 
toward Trystin.
"In a moment. I'm sure." Trystin offered a forced smile. In 
the end, he bought a small, almost tiny, box of chocolates, 
paying more than he'd anticipated, but knowing that Ezildya 
had mentioned more than once that chocolate was what she 
missed most since she had left Carson.
Even after taking his time, at 1715 he tapped on Ezildya's 
door. "Just a minute." He waited . . . and waited.
Finally, the door opened. Ezildya looked up at him, 
golden-skinned face framed in fine black hair, green eyes 
somehow both tired-and sparkling. "I had to stay longer 
than I'd hoped."
Trystin handed her the small box of chocolates. "Those are 
real Austran chocolates. You didn't have to do that." She 
closed the door behind him and carried the box to the low 
table beside the love seat where she set the chocolates, 
unopened.
"I know. You didn't have to take off early, either." He 
walked to the balcony and looked at the garden below, then 
across the domed courtyard at the sliding glasstic doors of 
the other quarters, all closed except for one where a man sat 
on the balcony with a child in his lap. The dark-haired child 
waved something in a chubby fist, and Trystin smiled. "It's 
quiet."
"Late sevenday's always quiet. Everyone's exhausted. So 
am I." Ezildya sat down on the small love seat covered with 
a handcrafted green and gray spread decorated with a series 
of stylized and interlinked evergreens. "A tenth of a gee 
doesn't seem like much, but . . . I'm tired." Trystin looked 
up at the dome, seeing only a translucent white, though 
beyond the dome the white light of Parvati shone through 
the red skies and slowly thickening atmosphere of Mara and 
upon the distant red hills. "So am I." He walked back across 
the small room. "You're from Perdya. That's high gee." 
"Not really. It's just one point zero nine T-norm." "You 
work out every day." "Not every day," protested Trystin. 
"Almost every day, and you're used to this. I can see all 
those muscles. Carson is point nine eight. By sevenday, I'm 
still wasted." Ezildya stretched her long legs out and put her 
slippered feet on the padded stool. "Could you just sit 
beside me?"
"Sure." Trystin sat down, letting his feet rest beside hers, 
and his cheek against hers, enjoying the faintest scent of 
fleurisle.
"I get so stiff." Ezildya leaned her head back and then 
dropped her chin on her chest, as if to stretch her neck. 
"The weeks are so long, sometimes. I wish they were only 
seven days, like back on old Earth."
"That was a long time ago, and all the months had 
different numbers of days, and you couldn't tell anything 
without a complicated calendar. Every year every day of 
the month fell on a different weekday. Here, the 
seventeenth is always oneday." "I don't want to talk about 
history." He shrugged, barely, and squeezed her shoulder 
with his left hand. "I'm glad you could get the time off."
"SysCon is pretty flexible." She grinned. "I will have to 
take Kentar's endday duty next week." "That's an abort."
"Here? It doesn't matter unless you're into one of the club 
activities, and who cares for cycling in small circles? I've 
never liked my face in the water-must be because I was a 
synthwomb child. None of us are fond of swimming, even 
in these gees. I wonder why. "
"Because you're a synthwomb child." Trystin squeezed 
her shoulder again, then took his right hand, caressed her 
cheek and tilted her face toward his. Thhrrrrummmmm. . . 
The room shook with the vibrations.
Ezildya brushed Trystin's lips with hers. "That one was 
close. Must be headed for the south basin."
"The new south sea," Trystin corrected. "There's water 
now."
"Aren't the water comet transits hard on you?" "Damned 
hard, especially if you're on-line and at full sensitivity. 
Even lightning out beyond the perimeter is bad." He 
squeezed her hand. "Trystin..." "Yes?"
"Just sit here. All right?" She squeezed his hand. "We 
can fix something later. I'm glad you're here, even if you 
call on such short notice."
Trystin bent over and kissed her neck. Her dark hair 
smelled fresh, clean, and he almost wanted to bury his face 
in it, to push away the memories of ammonia and 
weedgrass. Instead, he studied her profile, the almost pug 
nose and thin lips, the not-quite-flat cheekbones, and the 
faintly golden skin framed with fine dark hair. Ezildya 
smiled. "That's one thing I like about you." "What?"
"When you settle down, you're all here." "I'm not 
sometimes?" Where was he? Thinking about Farhkans-or 
revs?
"You know what I mean. Sometimes people nod and 
agree and even carry on a conversation, and you have the 
feeling they're a thousand kays away, and they could care 
less what you say. You look at me, and you're here." She 
looked at Trystin. "Most of the time. But you're not now. 
Where are you?" "I met a Farhkan today."
Ezildya shivered. "I met one a couple of years ago. 
They're creepy. They sort of look right through you. All 
gray, except for those red eyes and those greenish teeth." 
"How did you meet one?" asked Trystin. "They sent a 
technical team to Carson. To the shipyards there. My 
mother was an assistant to the translation engineer. She 
spent a lot of time with them, and brought one of-them 
home for dinner. They're hydrocarbon-based, like we are, 
but they need a lot more arsenic than the traces we use. 
"Ezildya shook her head. "You didn't like him? Her?"
"Do they have sexes? I never found out. They're very 
private, and very polite-at least this Heren Jule was."
"So was the one I met," added Trystin, "but very 
insistent."
"Heren was, too. He, I guess he was a he, kept asking me 
about the reasons for having children. I was fourteen and I 
wasn't even thinking about children." Ezildya's laugh was 
short.
"Let's not talk about them. "Trystin squeezed her 
shoulder again. "You're still upset, aren't you?" "Me?" 
"Yes, you."
Trystin looked at the small hooked rug on the floor. "I 
guess so. I didn't realize it, though."
"We don't have to talk about aliens. Or revs. Or work." 
Ezildya leaned toward Trystin and kissed his cheek. "I've 
got some real Carson pasta. And I made real sauce-the 
tomatoes are working fine in the tanks.'' She stood. "Come 
talk to me."
Trystin followed her to the kitchen alcove, where he 
leaned on the wall and looked in, since there wasn't room 
enough for two people. "This won't take long." "Good."
"And don't leer. You won't get fed. And I won't offer you 
any of your chocolates, either." Trystin leered. "You're 
impossible." "Not always."
Ezildya turned back to the small burners and the large 
water-filled pot too large for the miniature stove. Trystin 
waited. 

11

"Wherefore shall it profit a man to gain all the lands 
under the heavens if the cost of those lands
be that he take into his heart that which is an 
abomination unto the Lord?
"What be an abomination, ye ask? Ye are the people of 
the Lord, and I am His Prophet, and I say unto ye that an 
abomination is that which displeases the Lord and rejects 
His teachings.
"What displeases the Lord? A man who does not hold the 
Lord and His ways above all, or a woman who would place 
the ways of the world above her duty to bring forth souls 
and to nurture them in righteousness and in the ways of the 
Lord.
"Although there are indeed many mansions in your 
Father's heavens, any being, whether conceived in the 
depths of the most distant heavens or in the fires of the 
nearest stars, any being which does not accept the Lord and 
His commandments, such is displeasing to the Lord. For 
those who accept not the Lord have lost their souls to 
darkness and are to be counted as less than the dust under 
the soles of a man's boots, as less than the sand between a 
woman's toes.
"Even less are they who have known the Lord and 
rejected Him, for they have chosen nothingness over the 
substance of the Lord.
"This is the first and greatest commandment, that ye shall 
accept the way and the laws of the Lord, and ye shall have 
no other god before Him. And the second is like unto it, 
that no man and no woman shall turn away from the needs 
of another soul of the Lord. "For the work of the Lord is the 
work of all faithful souls, and woe be unto those who toil 
not in the Fields of the Lord. Neither shall they know peace 
nor certitude, nor cool water upon parched lips, nor the 
succor of a loving Father. But they shall go unto 
nothingness troubled and despairing through all the days of 
their lives, which shall flicker out and be gone as quickly as 
those of the mayflies.
"The souls of the Lord shall live forever in the sight of 
the Lord, and He shall be glad to receive them, and they 
shall come to live in His mansions for so long as the 
heavens shall endure, and even beyond.
"As I have spoken, as the Prophet of the Lord, so shall it 
be, now and forever.
"For, as I raise my left hand to cause the lightning to 
flash, ye see and do not see. This flame I raise in the name 
of the Lord, and I have raised it with my lesser hand, and I 
am far less than the Lord. Would ye have me raise my 
greater hand? Or have the Lord bring His mightiness 
against ye?"
Book of Toren 
Original Edition
12
Ammonia and weedgrass still permeated the station, 
although the artificial cinnamon and rysya incense-
Gerfel's latest attempts-muted the worst of the weedgrass 
odor. The tighter main door seals had eliminated any new 
infiltration of the fine grit, but there was more than enough 
remaining in the station to irritate Trystin's still-itching nose 
and to give him the beginnings of a sore throat. He rubbed 
his nose gently and turned the command chair to the left. 
Through the scratched armaglass of the window, he could 
see the clouds forming to the east. So far there was none of 
the static on the net that indicated electrical buildups, but 
that would come later. It always did.
With his right hand, Trystin massaged the back of his 
neck, trying to knead out tight muscles. Being away from 
the station had offered momentary relaxation, and so had 
Ezildya's presence and cooking, but the respite had been all 
too short.
Then he checked the reclamation systems. Tower one 
was still down, and one of the precrackers was operating at 
less than fifty percent. Hisin had requisitions in on both.
"Hisin, any idea when you'll get the stuff to fix the tower 
and that precracker?"
"No, ser. There's a lot of damage. That storm whacked a 
couple of mid-plains secondary systems, and you know 
what the revs did. It's hard for supply. We haven't been hit 
this hard all at once ever before." "Any idea when we'll get 
the parts?" "It'll be a couple of weeks, at least. I don't think 
the Klyseen techs were ready for these kinds of losses."
"A couple of weeks . . . well . . . we do what we can. 
Thanks." Trystin rechecked the fuel cells' organonutrient 
level. He still couldn't believe that supply had only refilled 
the tanks to sixty percent. Then he mentally spooled 
through the messages and even did a key-word search. 
None of the references to fuel cells or organonutrients 
showed anything except the delivery itself and the quantity. 
He shook his head, rechecking the four-screen display 
before accessing the tech console again. "Hisin?"
"Ser?" The tech's voice sounded faintly irritated. "There's 
nothing in the tanks. Do you have any idea why our fuel-
cell resupply was only a half tank?" "Half a tank, ser?"
"We were at around ten percent when I went to Klyseen. 
Now the tanks are at sixty percent. That's about a half 
tank." "Oh, that. Lipirelli-he's the tanker tech-told me 
that power loads were up and that they couldn't give us a 
full load because of the damage to all the stations. Just a 
temporary problem there."
"I hope it doesn't result in our being temporarily out of 
power when the revs show up." "Ser?"
"Nothing. Thank you, Hisin." Trystin went back to the 
galley where he mixed another cup of Sustain. After one 
sip, he added more of the powder. That made the jolt harder 
when it hit his stomach, but he hated the watery taste that 
he got when he mixed the Sustain according to the 
directions.
He paced along the narrow space between the console 
and the wall, from the secondary console in the corner to 
the window and back. His guts were still tight, and he didn't 
know quite why. Was he worried about the Farhkan 
physical, or the interview?
Why had the Farhkan-Ghere, was it?-why had 
he/she/it been so hung up on getting Trystin to admit he 
was a thief-even in the general sense? Why had Ghere 
insisted that Trystin think about it? What did the damned 
interview have to do with the technical help the Coalition 
was supposedly getting? What kind of help was it? Ezildya 
had mentioned that her mother was a translation engineer. 
Were the Farhkans helping improve the translation engines 
of Coalition spacecraft? Why? How did he fit in?
He shook his head. Maybe his mother would know more 
about the Farhkans, not that he could ask her until he got 
home leave, and that wouldn't happen anytime soon. He 
took another sip of Sustain, pausing to look out the window 
at the slowly growing storm to the east.
Why was Mara suddenly receiving so much attention 
from the revs? Was it because it was nearing 
semihabitability and they were running out of room-
again? Why were the revs always trying to take, take, take?
Cling! Trystin swallowed his sip of Sustain as he called 
up the message through the implant and headed back to the 
command seat. "All PerCon Stations. DefCon visual plot 
indicates four paragliders on entry envelopes-split pattern. 
Probable landfall coordinates follow. Full alert on perimeter 
stations. DefCon Two. DefCon Two . . ."
After plugging the coordinates into the system, Trystin 
cross-checked. Two of the revvie gliders were aimed into 
the midsection of the eastern badlands-making East Red 
Three a prime target.
Trystin hoped that the revvie pilots changed directions 
for evasive purposes, but he knew it wouldn't happen. He 
took a deep breath as he sensed another red light flare on 
the maintenance screen.
Hisin's voice fed through the implant. "Lieutenant, ser, 
that precracker's frozen, except for the mobility module. I 
knew it was going to happen, but, no, they can't spare the 
boards. I should disable it." "You can't do it by remote?"
"There's no circuitry left to accept the signals. It's just 
going to waddle along doing nothing."
"How far is it out?" Even as he asked, Trystin used his 
satellite plot screen. "Ten kays, isn't it?" "Nearer eleven, 
ser."
"Let it go for now," Trystin decided. "The techs made 
their decision. We've got revs coming down, and the last 
thing we need is for you to be out there if they start a fire-
fight."
"Tech HQ won't be happy. Running nonfunctional wastes 
fuel."
"Let them be unhappy. Better than your being dead. 
Blame it on me."
"Appreciate it, ser. I can't say that I was looking forward 
to it."
"Don't worry. You'll have to do something once we deal 
with the revs, but you won't have to worry about them at the 
same time." Trystin clicked off-line and returned to his 
scans. Nothing.
He continued to run through the scans and the satellite 
plots, but everything continued to register as before. Then 
he went through the maintenance levels. Besides tower 
number one, the malfunctioning and still-mobile 
precracker, more than a few small problems remained, 
including the still-bulging cell door in Block B.
After reviewing the maintenance status, he scrolled back 
through all the recent messages, but most were just routine 
reports, except for Gerfel's report on an evening revvie 
attack he hadn't even known had occurred. From what he 
could tell, she'd neutralized them quickly. He studied the 
note about the use of rockets as flares. The new revvie suit 
fabric fluoresced some at night-or the light patterns 
looked that way. He'd try to keep that in mind, although he 
wasn't due for night-shift duty again for another month.
Cling! Trystin licked his dry lips and accessed the 
message.
"All PerCon Stations. DefCon One. DefCon One. 
Ambient atmospheric conditions preclude detection and 
neutralization of paragliders. Ambient atmospheric 
conditions preclude detection and neutralization of 
paragliders. Estimated landfall approximately 1256. 
Landfall estimated at 1256. DefCon One. DefCon One .. ."
Ambient atmospheric conditions? He checked the 
metplot. The skies were more than half clear, nothing out of 
the ordinary. More like inability to penetrate improved 
revvie shielding. Why couldn't DefCon admit it? In any 
case, the revs were down without a rocket or a laser being 
laid on them, probably with more heavy equipment. Trystin 
called up all station shields, except those for the power 
fans, then accessed the tech console.
"Hisin, DefCon missed the revs, and they're on the 
ground, but no one knows where. We're shielding now- 
except for the power fans. With all the new revvie toys, 
they could be on top of us before the scanners register." 
"Keeping the shields up is fine by me, ser." "I'll let you 
know. That's if they don't announce their arrival otherwise." 
"Maybe they'll pick on someone else." "I think they've 
decided not to play favorites. We're all the targets." "You 
are cheerful, ser.''
"I try, Hisin." Trystin broke the link to the tech console 
and immediately checked the satellite plot, the scanners, 
even the EDI system-which usually wasn't much good for 
anything short of a spacecraft's energy discharges. He got 
nothing, except a growing tightness in his guts, probably 
compounded by drinking too much Sustain.
He felt better about his decision not to have Hisin shut 
down the defective precracker. If the revs attacked, and 
Trystin couldn't stop them, then the precracker didn't 
matter. If the revs attacked someone else and made a mess, 
no one would care about it, either. Not with four shielded 
paragliders that no one could track. He tried to concentrate 
on the screens.
As the minutes passed, Trystin kept focusing on the one 
screen, the full optical view, which only showed the few 
native cacti bending in the rising wind, and a few 
centimeters of grit scudding along the hillsides. Every so 
often, he tried the full energy scan screens. Nothing 
changed.
The storms built to the east, and then subsided. The wind 
rose and fell, and the odor of ammonia and weed-grass 
irritated his nose. Every so often, he sneezed, and his nose 
hurt more.
"Lieutenant, ser? Have you heard anything?" "Not yet"' 
"The precracker's stalled out, ser." "Well . . . it's not going 
anywhere, and you didn't have to disable it."
"The mobility module's probably shot, too.'' "Blame it on 
me." Trystin shrugged. That's the way it would Come out. 
Officers were there for people to blame so that the techs 
didn't have to worry about it. He went back to four-screen, 
but still found no signs of the revs.
Hsssttttt. . . A thin wave of static singed the net. Trystin 
studied the maplot, but, by all indications, the afternoon 
storm was fading early.
Cling! Trystin let the message scroll through his mind. "All 
PerCon Stations. DefCon One remains. DefCon One 
remains. Anticipate perimeter station attacks at any time. 
Anticipate attacks at any time. DefCon One. DefCon 
One..."
Wonderful. PerCon anticipated attacks. Where along the 
two-thousand-kay perimeter did PerCon anticipate the 
attacks?
He took a small sip of Sustain and stood, stretching. 
Under DefCon One, he had to remain in "close physical 
proximity" to the command console, but he needed to 
stretch tight muscles, especially if the revs were indeed 
coming.
After stretching, he walked behind the console and 
looked into the locker. His armor was there, and so was the 
slug thrower. He unsealed one clip and set it by the weapon 
that wasn't supposed to be loaded inside the station unless 
station integrity were broken. PerCon did not like careless 
officers punching holes in the station. The revs and Mara 
itself presented enough problems.
Trystin slowly walked back to the command seat and 
settled back down.
At 14:59.03, he spotted the puffs of dust barely rising 
above the hilltop to the northeast. He immediately dropped, 
the scanners to the lowest band frequencies to find the 
distorted images of the rev missionary troopers.
This time, though, there were no images near the 
perimeter lines-only hints near the top of the hills beyond 
the perimeter line, and nothing clear, just intermittent puffs 
of dust that couldn't be natural. But the scanners didn't 
show what caused the dust puffs.
Trystin licked his lips, and checked all the defense 
systems, trying to compute a rocket trajectory for the 
backside of the hill.
Crumpt! The impact of the first heavy shell reverberated 
through the station, and at 15:01.12 alert-red spilled 
through the net. Trystin snorted. "A lot of warning from all 
this hardware." Then he hit the alarm for Hisin. "Revs! 
They've set up behind the hills, and it looks like we're in for 
a few shells. I can't see any signs of a troop assault." 
'Triggers! " Crumpt! Crumpt!
Despite the additional impacts, since they were barely 
above the soil line, Trystin held off lifting the shields for 
the power fans-for the moment-and fired off a quick 
attack report.
"PerCon, this is East Red Three. Desoll. East Red Three 
receiving fire. East Red Three taking fire. There are no revs 
in view or registering on any system. . . ."
Crumpt! Another shell exploded, this time in the soil less 
than three meters from the station's lower wall, Trystin 
released a three-rocket spread. Two more shells plowed into 
the station's composite armor, well away from the fans or 
the defense systems.
Trystin frowned. Why were the revs targeting that 
section? He called up the station schematic, noting that the 
fuel cells were beneath and behind the heavy lower walls 
there.
A gout of dust rose, barely clearing the hilltop, and 
Trystin froze the schematic, and released a pair of rockets.
Crumpt! The station shivered ever so slightly from the 
impact of the incoming shell.
Trystin split screens, but nothing showed-nothing but 
incoming rounds illustrated in screaming pink on screen 
three-the representative screen. Not even a single 
flickering image appeared on any band width. The revs 
were definitely not mounting their typical suicide-style 
approach, and that bothered Trystin.
Another alert-red flashed through the system, and 
Trystin's mouth opened as he watched all four screens. 
Three wide plumes of dust appeared on the one-screen, and 
before each what appeared to be a miniature hover-tank 
with a comparatively oversized gun, made visible only by 
dust flowing around it. Absently, Trystin noted that the 
tanks had no turrets, probably to reduce weight, and used 
the hover fans to turn the whole tank.
"Hisin! Get into armor and get into the bolthole on the 
north side away from the fuel cells. Understand?" "But-" 
"Do you understand? There are three damned tanks out 
there, heavy guns, and I don't know what else." "Bolthole?" 
"The armored caisson?" "Stet."
Crumpt! Crumpt! Crumpt! The entire station shook. 
Trystin, even as he was hurrying to the locker and pulling 
on his armor, was redirecting the gattlings, so that all the 
firepower was concentrated on the center tank.
He could sense the tank wobbling some, and as an 
experiment, targeted a pair of rockets into the low slope in 
front of the tank. The tank swerved, and both rockets 
exploded harmlessly across the composite armor.
"Shit!" Half into the armor, Trystin disabled the autoseek 
on the rockets and cut the gattlings. He didn't want to hit the 
tanks. The rockets wouldn't do a thing to that armor, not 
before the station was so much junk. Crumpt! Crumpt!
The station shivered again, and amber telltales began to 
flash across the maintenance board.
Trystin directed three more rockets into the dirt in front 
of the center tank. With his armor in place, he grabbed the 
helmet and dropped back into the command seat as more 
shells shivered the station.
"PerCon, this is East Red Three. Under attack by light 
armor-all hovertanks-class unknown. Repeat, under 
attack by light armor." He added a few frozen screen 
images to the message and pulsed it off.
Crumpt! The station shivered once more under the 
impact of the little tanks' heavy shells. How had the revs 
gotten them planetside? He aimed another pair of rockets in 
front of the middle tank.
Crumpt! Crumpt! A single telltale flashed amber on the 
maintenance panel, but Trystin didn't check it. There wasn't 
a lot he could do.
Trystin's rockets exploded in the soil before the lead tank, 
and gouts of fine soil shrouded the hovertank. It nosed 
down into the small crater created by the rockets. Trystin 
aimed the gattlings at the soil around the front of the tank, 
and dust billowed up and around the vehicle.
Trystin grinned as the unknown tanker overrevved his fans, 
and more dust swelled into a swirling plume. Crumpt! 
Crumpt!
The grin vanished as the station shook again, and several 
more amber telltales flashed red. The remaining two tanks 
were less than four hundred meters away, their guns aimed 
point-blank at the wall above the fuel cells.
Trystin grounded more rockets in front of the left tank, 
and dirt and dust flew, but the tank swerved and kept 
coming, throwing more shells at the station's rapidly 
degrading composite armor.
Another brace of rockets went into the ground-and 
another...
"East Red Three! East Red Three, this is PerCon. 
Interrogative status. Interrogative status."
"PerCon, trying to repulse hovel-tanks. Will report later. 
Out."
Idiots! Automated direct-feed or not, he could only split 
his attention so many ways.
Another telltale went red with the next set of shells that 
rocked the station, and the upper bank of fuel cells began to 
lose power. Probably cracked cells, reflected Trystin. 
Perimeter stations hadn't been designed to undergo 
continuous heavy shelling. Crumpt! Crumpt!
The station lights blinked, and flashed, momentarily, as 
the power load shifted to the accumulators. Trystin realized 
that the fans were still unshielded, and he left them open. 
He was going to need all the power he could get. As he shut 
down all the nondefense systems, he released another set of 
rockets, and followed with a pointed burst from the 
gattlings. The background hissing of ventilators died away.
Dust and plastic fragments filtered down around him 
from the ceiling and probably everywhere else, mixing with 
ammonia and weedgrass.
Kkkheewcchew! He sneezed, and an errant rocket flared 
into the hillside as Trystin rubbed his nose. The left tank 
pitched nose down into a rocket crater, and fans whined. 
Dust rose, higher and higher, and the tanker tried to rock 
himself out. Trystin permitted himself a tight grin as smoke 
curled out from the ghostly looking tank. The grit of Mara 
and the revvie tanker's impatience just might have cooked 
that tank's systems. Crumpt!
Trystin checked his status-and wished he hadn't. He had 
less than a dozen rockets left and perhaps twenty percent of 
his gattling rounds. Surely, he couldn't have gone through 
an inventory that fast!
But he had to stop the damned tank, or he wouldn't have 
a station left. Another pair of rockets exploded into the 
ground in front of the last tank. Before long, it would be too 
close for his rockets. Crumpt!
With one tank left, the odor of ammonia was stronger, 
and the number of amber and red warning telltales had 
gotten too numerous to count. Another system check 
indicated that the gattlings were down to ten percent, and 
that he had nine rockets.
Where were the rev troops? There had to be some- 
somewhere.
Another shell from the single functioning tank rocked the 
station. Above him the armaglass window cracked- 
probably from the flexing of the upper station walls under 
the pounding of the tanks' guns. Minitanks, at that.
Trystin studied the remaining mobile tank, which had 
suddenly turned and swept back toward the badlands. Then 
he nodded. His slim stock of remaining weapons had to be 
reserved for the troops that would follow.
The station shook, and Trystin licked his lips. The 
remaining tank stood back beyond the hill crest and lobbed 
shells into the lower walls. The fuel cells were plastic and 
twisted metal and spilled organonutrient-if that. Crumpt! 
Crumpt! AIR SYSTEM INTEGRITY LOST!! With the 
holes in the lower levels, any vestige of breath-able air was 
rapidly dissipating. Trystin jabbed the suit's external tube 
into the seat pak. He didn't want to use suit supplies any 
sooner than necessary, and he didn't want to leave the 
control center yet. He wanted a shot at the rev troopers, and 
the station's armor would hold out for a few more direct hits 
from the tank's shells.
Then he pushed the console jack into the suit's wrist slot, 
since, when he closed the helmet, he'd lose much of the 
implant's speed and range without the amplifier.
As more ammonia rolled into the room he closed the 
helmet. Somehow, the screen images felt metallic. That was 
the only way he could describe the sensation. Now, he 
could sense the flickering images of suited revs slipping 
from cover beyond the perimeter. They seemed to know 
that the command center was collapsing under the 
continued attack from the single damned tank. Crumpt! 
Crumpt!
How many shells did the damned little tank carry? Trystin 
licked his lips again and waited, checking the immobilized 
tanks. Both remained nearly gun-deep in fine red soil.
The revs, whose flickering images looked to be nearly 
eight squads, poured down the hillside toward the 
apparently dead station as more shells smashed into the 
collapsing armor. Trystin forced himself to wait, even as he 
noted the fire in the fuel cells, hoping he could hold on for 
just a while longer.
With a last shell, the hovertank swung wide and toward 
the south side of the station. Trystin understood that. The 
tank would use its shells to blast through the armor over the 
vehicle door.
He waited, calculating where the tank would station 
itself, and pretargeted the rockets. The revs slipped closer 
and closer to the station. The hovertank seemed to turn and 
center itself on the door. After refocusing the one-screen on 
the tank, Trystin felt as though he were looking right down 
the muzzle of the tank's gun.
The shells crashed against the armor shields of the big 
door. Had the maintenance board been on-line, it would 
have been bright red, Trystin knew, but he watched and 
calculated, watched and calculated, as the shells hammered 
their way through the vehicle-door armor, pounding an 
opening through composite and metal.
Then he triggered the last blasts of the gattlings, mowing 
through who knew how many revs, sensing vaguely, rather 
than really seeing, bodies falling across the shell-churned 
red powder that had been soil. As an afterthought, he also 
triggered the antisuit bomblets. They might get a few 
revs-maybe.
All nine rockets went off, one after the other, right in 
front of the tank. Trystin had counted on the tanker moving 
forward, in rage or reaction, and he had guessed right, as 
the tank dove into the pit.
Without waiting to see the results-with little power and 
no rockets or ammunition left, there was nothing more 
Trystin could do from the command center-Trystin 
unplugged the system jack and ran for the locker where he 
grabbed the slug thrower and the clip bag. He jacked his 
reflexes up one notch and bounded down the stairs.
Dust and soot and heat swirled through the lower layers 
of the station, hot enough that Trystin could feel it through 
the heavy armor. He made it to the lock doors to the vehicle 
bay, where the heat died away with the distance from the 
burning fuel cells. Slowly, he cracked the door into the 
vehicle bay. Spang!
The bullet ricocheted off the fragments of the outer door, 
where shredded metal framed a rough oblong in the metal. 
Fragments of composite armor formed a low barrier in the 
middle of the opening.
Trystin skidded and dived behind the largest pile, hoping 
that he didn't rip something vital in the armor. It was 
supposed to be tough, but so were perimeter stations and 
shell-shredded composite fragments.
He squinted through the helmet and through a narrow 
opening between two fragments of composite armor at the 
indistinct images. One rev was crouched behind the eastern 
corner of the station. Several appeared to be firing from 
where the last grounded tank lay silent. Spang!
Trystin waited, the slug thrower ready. And waited. And 
waited. Finally, the rev behind the corner peered out. 
Trystin still waited. The rev lifted his head slightly, just 
enough, and Trystin fired.
The one shell ripped the juncture between neck and 
chest, and the rev pitched forward.
"Lousy, lucky shot," mumbled Trystin lo himself, 
resigning himself to waiting, and checking his suit supply 
as he did.
Who would run out of air first? The rev suits used a 
concentrator and a supplement system, but he had no idea 
when they'd last been resupplied. Spang! Spang! Bullets 
ricocheted through the garage. There had to be at least a 
dozen of them outside. He checked the clips. More than 
enough ammunition for the moment. He squeezed off two 
rounds toward the figures around the last grounded tank. 
They scrambled or sprawled deeper into the grit. Another 
rev figure shambled, almost drunkenly, around the corner 
of the station-respirator problems or lack of oxygen, 
Trystin thought. Or a brush with a suit bomblet. Tough. 
Trystin brought him down with a single shot.
Then he waited, watching as another figure scuttled 
through the dust. The revs were low on air, and they 
intended to sneak around, trying to attack from both sides, 
and maybe from the tank all at once. It was a lousy plan, 
but they didn't have a lot of choice if they were short on air. 
Trystin frowned. Did they have grenades, or something like 
that?
That might make things less desperate. He waited, still 
watching, as Parvati crept closer to the horizon, the sun's 
image getting redder and redder. He didn't like his minimal 
cover, so close to the door, but if he drew back into the bay, 
he couldn't see, and they could corner him inside. So he 
stayed flat, rifle ready. Then three revs exploded from 
holes, from somewhere, toward the door Trystin guarded. 
One of the running revs buried something, and Trystin fired 
once, bringing him down, but the cylindrical object flew 
over Trystin's head and deeper into the vehicle bay. 
Thwumpf They had grenades.
He fired half a dozen times, maybe more, until no one 
was standing, then quickly replaced the clip. He had five 
clips left.
Parvati sank farther down, almost touching the western 
horizon.
As dozens of flickering figures appeared in the twilight, 
running toward Trystin, he kicked his reflexes into high as a 
shower of bullets spang'ed above and around him.
Trystin tried to concentrate, to make each shot deliberate, 
but there seemed to be far too many revs, and he switched 
to semiautomatic, running through the clip, and slipping the 
next into place, and then another. Figures fell, but more 
seemed to replace them.
The second grenade bounced off the door and exploded 
somewhere behind Trystin, spraying his leg with needles of 
shrapnel and pain.
He ignored it, and ran through another half clip before he 
looked at what seemed like rows of bodies strewn before 
the vehicle-bay door.
Lying on his side, 'he put the last clip in the slug thrower, 
and waited.
A flickering appeared to his right, then vanished. He 
watched. Another flicker, just momentary. Trystin nodded. 
"The rev was trying a slow approach in the dim light so that 
Trystin wouldn't be able to see him. After the next flicker, 
Trystin squeezed off two rounds. The rev, less than ten 
meters away, launched himself toward the doorway, 
collapsing less than three meters from Trystin.
Trystin took a deep breath, realizing he didn't have much 
air left himself. There were aux tanks in the back of the 
bay, and the scooter tanks, but did he dare move? If he 
didn't, like the revs, he was going to be dead because he 
couldn't breathe.
Slowly, slowly, he inched himself back and to his right, 
trying to move so quietly that no rev could see. His 
progress was slow, since pain stabbed through his right leg, 
and the leg didn't respond well.
Once he was clear of the opening and behind the 
shredded edges of the door, he staggered up, rifle ready, as 
he backed toward scooter number one.
He could sit in the scooter seat and cover the door. It 
wasn't ideal, but it allowed him to breathe, which was better 
than the alternative, far better.
Another flicker caught his eye, and he fired. The image 
dropped from his sight. Trystin wanted to kick himself. He 
wasn't thinking well. He dropped his reflexes a notch and 
called up his night vision-except the effort brought stars to 
his eyes.
Edging backward, his intermittent vision on the opening 
blasted in the big door, he almost fell into the scooter. 
Awkwardly he tubed into the air supply. His vision cleared 
a bit, and his thoughts somewhat as well. Enough that he 
remembered to use the Sustain in the helmet nipple. Then 
he waited, his night vision stabilizing. The three grenades 
exploded where Trystin had been lying earlier, rearranging 
fragments of composite armor and metal and raising dust.
Trystin managed to struggle down to a position half 
sitting on the plastcrete floor while remaining connected to 
the scooter's air supply. His eyes were fixed on the opening 
in the door. Thwump! Thwump!
The second set of grenades exploded farther back, raising 
dust and splinters of plastic, but none of the fragments went 
the nearly fifteen meters back to the scooter where Trystin 
waited, rifle ready. Two revs burst through the door. 
Trystin got the first one in midair. The second turned in the 
wrong direction, looking toward the station lock doors, and 
spraying them with a short burst.
It took Trystin three shots in the near-darkness, and he 
yanked out his oxygen plug with the third.
Slowly, he levered himself back next to the scooter 
before replugging into the tank.
Then he waited. And waited. And waited. At some point, 
he remembered to drop his reflexes to normal-far later 
than he should have, but his thoughts weren't as clear as 
they should have been. And his leg burned, and burned. 
And burned. Trying to keep his mind off his leg, for a time, 
he tried to figure out the revvie tank design, and how the 
revs had managed to get them on radar-transparent 
paragliders. And where had all the shells come from? Shells 
had to have metal casings-or the equivalent-and casings 
were heavy. For all his speculations, he didn't really know 
any more when Parvati finally rose, bringing rosy light to 
the destruction around him. He did know that his leg was a 
mass of pain, and useless. Scooter one's oxygen supply was 
nearly gone as well. Still, he dragged himself to the corner, 
and pounded on the hatch before spotting the emergency 
comm jack. It took him a while to plug in.
"Hisin. This is Lieutenant Desoll. I think I need some 
help."
"Lieutenant. You been out there all night?" "Call it guard 
duty." Trystin tried not to wince. "How's your oxygen?"
"It's about gone. I'd have to come out soon and get some 
more."
The hatch opened slowly, and Hisin's suited figure 
clambered out.
"Ser?" Hisin's voice rattled in Trystin's helmet. "I'm here. 
Feel like shit, and can't move worth a damn." Hisin's eyes 
went down to Trystin's leg. "Yeah." He swallowed, but his 
throat was dry and his tongue felt swollen. "I haven't seen a 
rev since early last night. So, could you see if you could 
raise us some help?" Hisin looked toward the shredded 
vehicle bay door.
"They had tanks." "Tanks?"
"Little ones, but they had big .enough guns. Now . . . 
about that call for assistance . . ." "Ah . . . yes, ser."
"First, help me over there where I can plug into scooter 
two's tanks." Trystin tried to straighten his leg, but couldn't, 
as he dragged himself into the second scooter's seat. His 
eyes blurred as he watched the tech edge across the bay and 
into the station.
Later, how much later Trystin couldn't say, not with the 
effort of trying to stay alert, Hisin clumped out from the 
tech room, his movements in the suit awkward. "Tech team 
is on the way, ser." The words were scratchy through the 
helmet phones. "How soon?"
"I don't know. They didn't say. It couldn't be more than a 
few hours."
"Great." Trystin squeezed his lips together and looked 
down at the mangled mass of armor and leg. Then he 
looked at the line from the auxiliary oxygen tank. So far, 
the positive pressure was keeping his breathing supply 
clean. But Mara's slightly corrosive atmosphere was feeling 
more than slightly corrosive on the exposed parts of his leg. 
"You all right, ser?"
"So far, Hisin. So far." He looked out at the shredded 
door to the vehicle bay, and at the bodies, and the one 
grounded tank. "I hope we've got plenty of oxygen. It's 
going to be a lot longer than a couple of hours." "Ser?"
Trystin took a deep breath. They had no fuel cells, no 
place that was atmosphere-tight, except the bolthole, and 
there wasn't really any way he could climb down the ladder. 
There were probably revs and revvie armor everywhere. 
Somehow, he couldn't imagine PerCon exactly hurrying out 
to pick them up until the dust settled. He took another deep 
breath. It was likely to be a long wait. He hoped it wouldn't 
be too long.

13
The med center room smelled of rysya overlaid with an 
orange citrus odor too sharp to be real.
Trystin lay propped against the pale green pillows, his eyes 
flickering occasionally to the tubes and wires running to the 
fluid-filled harness around his right leg. The bedside table 
was empty except for the cup of medicated Sustain that 
tasted even worse than regular Sustain.
For about the third time in as many minutes he used his 
implant to flash through the med center's net library. 
Nothing looked interesting, and his leg kept burning. The 
med techs and doctors assured him that the burning was a 
good sign, that the nerves were regenerating as anticipated. 
That was fine. Their legs weren't burning. They weren't the 
one restricted to bed with tubes stuck everywhere to carry 
off the results of their normal bodily processes.
He tried the pubnet again, this time accessing a news 
update, one showing the brown-clad bodies around a 
perimeter station.
". . . in a devastating demonstration of blind faith, revvie 
forces..."
Trystin flicked off the pubnet. Blind faith? Some of the revs 
seemed blind, but the officer he'd questioned had made a 
deliberate choice to believe. Could anyone choose, 
intelligently, to follow such a faith?
Trystin looked up from the med center bed. A black-haired 
woman in Service uniform, wearing a subcommander's gold 
triangle on her collar, stood by the doorway, a green folder 
in her right hand. "Might I come in. Lieutenant?" Trystin 
gestured. "Please. I apologize for not being able to-"
"Don't worry." The subcommander slipped into the high 
stool beside the bed, her eyes level with Trystin's. "I'm 
Subcommander Mitsui, Midori Mitsui, integrative 
intelligence. My job is to follow up on the perimeter 
attacks." She raised the folder. "I also brought over some 
official papers you can look at later. No . . . don't worry." 
She set the folder on the table, then pulled a small recorder 
from the clip in her belt. She put the recorder on top of the 
folder and gently cleared her throat.
"This is official?" Trystin's eyes flicked to the recorder. 
"Don't worry."
Whenever senior officers said not to worry, Trystin did. "I 
know. Whenever a senior officer tells you not to worry, it's 
not a good sign." The commander smiled. "We've got a lot 
of problems, but right now, your biggest problem is to get 
your leg healed. Some rest won't hurt your neural system, 
either. What I want is background information on the attack 
on East Red Three-your impressions, your opinions, your 
conclusions. The scanners and data banks don't pick up 
those sorts of things that well."
"The scanners didn't pick up the revs too well, either." 
"We're working on that. But how did you find them? 
According to the records, you reacted before the scanners 
did-almost two minutes earlier."
"I didn't trust the scanners after the past attacks. When 
we got DefCon One, I didn't want to be surprised again. I 
was looking for dust, changes in the light patterns, 
anything. I saw the dust first. Then we got the shells, and 
then the tanks. The rev troops didn't come until a lot later."
"What about the tanks? Did you notice anything unusual 
about them?"
"You've got most of that on the net. I'm sure. They were 
small and used hovering to turn the gun-no independent 
turret. That meant weight was a problem-either they 
wanted numbers, or they didn't have enough fuel for 
heavier tanks. It seemed like they were designed to cross 
the plains." "Why did you think that?"
"I didn't-not then-but it makes sense now." Trystin ran 
his hand through his hair. It was getting too long. "Some of 
the badlands are rough. They'd have to be careful where 
they moved the tanks. Too rough, and they'd lose their air 
cushion-and the tank. That's not a problem on the plains. 
Of course, the hover assembly is lighter than treads. At 
least it should be, according to standard design." He shook 
his head. "I don't know. I didn't get close enough, and the 
scanners weren't worth an immortal's damn."
"Plains travel was one of the thoughts we had," she 
confirmed. "ResCom examined the immobilized tanks. 
They would have been very fast on the high plains, and, for 
hover vessels, they're extremely fuel-efficient. I wouldn't be 
surprised if we end up adopting some of the design 
features." Trystin nodded.
"Was there anything else about the tanks?" He pulled at his 
chin, then laughed self-consciously. "I remember thinking 
that they carried awfully big guns for such little suckers."
The commander nodded. "Very high projectile to gross 
ration."
"Big guns for little suckers," Trystin repeated with a grin.
Mitsui watched him, then asked, "How did you manage 
to immobilize them?" "You know..."
"We know that you managed to ground them, but I'd like 
your impressions."
"Well . . . I tried the gattlings, and one of them wavered, 
but it didn't stop it. My first rockets just sort of splattered 
across the armor. So I figured that if those didn't even slow 
it. I'd better try something else. Some of the soil is really 
fine. . . ." Trystin licked his dry lips. "So I tried to blow 
holes in the ground just enough in front of them that they 
couldn't avoid nosing down. I sort of figured . . . It's really 
just a feel, I mean, you don't calculate that sort of thing 
when the revs are throwing heavy shells at you and the 
station's coming apart around you. Anyway, I felt that they 
didn't know how fine some of the subsoil was, and they 
were throwing dust when they moved. I had the feeling that 
they might dig in. And once they stopped, they'd settle, and 
rocking would just make it worse. Plus, I hoped that the 
grit-it's really fine-would help gum up their systems."
"All that happened. Two of the tanks at your station 
burned out their engines. How did you know that would 
work?"
"I didn't. I just knew nothing else was working, and I 
didn't have much time."
"That was another thing. Why didn't you use all the 
gattling rounds on the tanks?"
Trystin shrugged, then pursed his lips as the motion 
carried down to the immobilized leg and the tubes and 
wires around it, and a flash of fire ran back up toward his 
back. "It didn't seem like a good idea. That is, the revs just 
attacking with tanks. You can't take a station without 
troops. If I used all the rounds on the tanks, then what could 
I do when all those revs swarmed out of the hills?"
"So you let them batter the station when you still had 
weapons left that could have beaten them back for a time?"
Trystin opened his mouth, then shut it, before finally 
answering, "Not exactly. The rockets and gattlings weren't 
stopping the tanks. They did stop troopers."
"According to your tech and the pickup team, rather than 
use the bolthole, you stayed in armor almost twenty-four 
hours." "Yes." "Why? You were wounded."
"Because we'd have been dead if I hadn't done what I 
did." "How do you know that?"
"Commander." Trystin tried not to sigh. Getting irritated 
at superior officers, even dumb ones, was not a good idea. 
"I've interrogated several revs. Most of them either wanted 
to kill me or tried to, or both. They regard us as golems, 
some sort of machines. They also don't have facilities for 
taking prisoners. That meant holding them off or getting 
killed. You can't hold someone off from a hole in the 
ground."
Even when Trystin thought there couldn't be any more 
questions, the commander kept asking them. Trystin tried 
to keep the irritated tone out of his voice, but knew he was 
failing.
Finally, when the commander had apparently exhausted her 
stock of what had seemed endless questions, he asked, 
"Could you answer a few of my questions. Commander?" "I 
don't know.  Ask."
"How did the other stations do? East Red Two-and 
Four?"
"East Red Four-Major Farli, I think-" 
"Freyer, Ulteena."
"Major Freyer managed to immobilize all four tanks 
sent against the station and neutralize all revs. East Red 
Two was a total loss."
Trystin frowned. Quentar? "Personnel in East Red Two?" 
"A total loss."
"East Red Four-how did Ulteena-Major Freyer-do 
that?"
"She used a turner to dig a line of trenches before the revs 
got there. She filled the trenches with ultrafine grit."
Trust Ulteena to figure it out ahead of time. Trystin took 
a deep breath. "Can you tell me how things turned out 
overall?"
"We managed to beat them back. We lost almost two 
thirds of the stations. They didn't have enough tanks to 
target every station. We had to bring in atmospheric space 
scouts and some very heavy weapons." For a long moment, 
Trystin just sat there. "That information is restricted, but 
you deserve to know. I will deny telling you, and you'll face 
serious disciplinary actions if you repeat it. But you and 
Major . . . Freyer were the only ones to survive assaults of 
more than a pair of tanks." "How is she?"
"She's fine. She's on the way to her next assignment." 
Trystin nodded, then licked his lips. "I've had some time to 
think. . . ." He forced a laugh. "I know that's always 
dangerous for junior officers. But I don't understand. When 
I First started as a station watch officer, we'd get a few rev 
attacks. Pretty scattered, never more than a squad, and we 
captured some, and killed some. Now, all of a sudden, 
we've been getting hammered. Lots of heavy weapons, at 
least heavy for respirator-suited troops to haul across the 
badlands, and enough firepower to crack stations they 
couldn't touch just a few months ago. So what's 
happening?"
"The revs were smarter than we thought." The 
commander's black eyes met his. "The attacks from the 
early glider drops were just to cover that they were bringing 
in those minitanks and guns. They've been caching 
equipment in the badlands for nearly three years-maybe 
longer. All underground with a couple of permanent 
depots."
"And no one could discover this until they wiped out half 
the perimeter stations?" Trystin found his voice rising. He 
tried to lower it as he spoke. Senior officers got upset when 
junior officers implied they were incompetent. In the back 
of his mind, he wondered if junior revvie officers had the 
same problems. They couldn't; they didn't think, did they, 
just followed their Prophet?
"Lieutenant. A planet is a damned big place. We're 
spread pretty thin. If we start building up defenses, then we 
have to divert from planoforming, and we'll never get the 
place habitable. Plus . . . the revs haven't been that sneaky 
ever before, and there weren't any signs we could pick up 
from the satellite scans."
"Exactly. If the satellite plots had better resolution, it 
wouldn't have happened."
"Maybe not," the subcommander admitted, "but better 
scanners cost more, and with as many stations as the 
Coalition has, what else do we do without?" "So they'll 
keep doing it because we can't see them?" 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 Sasaki-class 
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 intelligent 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] 1227E.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 plastic-
tinged 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 Coalition 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.
Trystin looked to the faded blue sky and the clouds 
scudding eastward to the Palien Sea. He took a deep breath 
of air filled with the scent of rain, of flowers he could not 
see.
The electrotrain, sliding silently above buried guides, 
did not arrive at the surtrans station for nearly fifteen 
minutes, but Trystin stood silently, drinking in the gardens, 
the green-winged heliobirds sipping from the tulip-tree 
blossoms, and the feel of moist air on his face.
He had the automated train to himself until the first stop, 
when two older schoolgirls got on, both slender and dark-
haired. The thinner-faced girl, wearing a silver medallion 
over a pale blue shirt, looked at Trystin. Her eyes fixed on 
his uniform; then she looked away. The other girl put her 
arm around her friend, and both hurried from the train at 
the next stop. Trystin looked back as both girls dropped 
onto the bench by the surtrans garden. The girl who had 
looked away sobbed almost uncontrollably.
Trystin took a deep breath. Had she lost a brother, a 
boyfriend, someone dear? How many girls like that, or 
boys, was the war affecting? Except that it wasn't really 
even a war. The revs sent their military missions, and the 
system control ships and the planetary perimeter officers 
did their best to destroy them, no one said very much, not 
in public anyway.
He hoped it had been the uniform and not his fair skin 
and sandy hair.
At the next stop, an older woman, white-haired and trim, 
climbed aboard briskly. "Greetings, Lieutenant. Going to 
enjoy your leave? I assume it's leave."          "It is, and I 
hope so. Thank you." "Don't thank me. Glad you're out 
there. Someone has to be. Did my turn back in 'thirty. That 
was when Safrya was really wild. Didn't have to worry that 
much about the revs then. Don't mind me, young fellow. 
Takes me back, though. Where have you been stationed, if I 
could ask?" "Mara."
"That'll take some time. Then someday, you'll be telling 
some young officer about when Mara was really wild, and 
you'll wonder where the time went." She grinned. "As I 
said, don't mind me."
"You're probably right." Trystin offered her a smile, 
relieved at the diversion her sprightliness offered. "Oh, I'm 
right, and someday you'll be right, too." They sat in silence 
until the next stop where, after running his card through the 
reader, Trystin slipped off the surtrans with a wave to the 
white-haired woman.
The house was nearly half a kay from the surtrans stop, 
but Trystin walked up the lane slowly, flexing and 
stretching his leg when he thought about it, looking at the 
greenery, even the few native bluestalk trees that had 
thrived under the integrated ecology. The ornate and heavy 
wrought-iron gates at the bottom of the garden were open, 
as always, and he walked up the curving stone path laid by 
his great-great-grandfather.
He rapped on the front door, but no one answered. That 
wasn't a surprise, not if his father were working and his 
mother still at the university. He eased open the door and 
called, "Hello!"
No answer. So he set the kit and shoulder bag on the 
polished agate of the hall floor and closed the door behind 
him. His forehead was damp, and he wiped it on his sleeve, 
then tucked the beret into his belt. The kitchen was empty, 
except for the smell of some sort of dish from the ancient 
convection oven, and he stepped down the hallway to his 
father's office.
Trystin rapped gently on the side of the open doorway, 
then waited a moment, watching the screens before his 
father.
From what he could tell, the screens displayed diagrams 
or schematics, but diagrams or schematics with which 
Trystin was unfamiliar, although he gathered a general 
impression that one screen dealt with waste disposal of 
some sort. Even before he could really read the data, the 
screens all blanked into restful views of the eastern coast 
beyond Cambria.
The older man, the reddish-blond hair shot with silver 
and cut short, touched the keyboard and removed the 
headset. "Trystin! I'm glad you could get home." He stood 
slowly, then deliberatively moved toward his son to give 
Trystin a firm hug. Trystin hugged him back.
"More muscle yet, I think." Elsin Desoll released his son. 
"Are you working out a lot?" "Some."
"Good thing to keep up. You're still young enough it 
doesn't matter. Me, I've got to be faithful about it, or I'd turn 
to flab."
Trystin couldn't imagine his father turning to flab, not 
with the carefully managed diet, the gardening, and the 
daily workouts, both physical and martial arts.
"There are times when I think it would be easier to work 
with implants, rather than the headset, and see the screens 
in my mind, but that technology's for the Service, and this 
array is as far as I can strain my tired old brain."
"Your tired old brain? Is this the same tired old brain that 
designs obscure system keys for fun? Or theoretical 
encryption systems?"
"Those are just puzzles. The older I get . . . the more I 
cherish the obscure." Elsin's brow crinkled for a moment. 
"Have a seat. I whipped up a casserole, but it's still 
simmering, and Nynca won't be home for a bit." "Is she still 
teaching at the university?" "Still? Your mother will never 
give it up, and she's even managed to persuade the provost 
that since music enhances mathematical conceptualization, 
basic musical theory should be one of the required 
perspectives."
"She was working on that years ago." Trystin took one of 
the wooden captain's chairs by the chess table, leaving the 
one with the frayed purple cushion for his father.
"You'll recall that your mother isn't exactly one to quit on 
something she believes in. Of course, both of our offspring 
are so pliable and amenable to whatever their parents have 
suggested." Trystin opened his mouth and then shut it. His 
father still could prod him into reacting without thinking.
"Better." Elsin nodded. "Snap-juice or tea?" He paused. 
"Something wrong with the leg?"
"It's stiff. It got torn up in an assault, and they had to 
rebuild it. I don't have the flexibility back, but the doctors 
say it's fine, just a matter of time. I keep exercising, and it's 
getting better every day."
"You can tell us about it at dinner. No need to bother 
now. Your mother will ask for all the details. Tea or snap-
juice? You didn't say." "Tea, with lime, if you have it." 
"Limes I have. More like liters of limes, now that I've got 
the balance in the upper garden right." The older man 
headed through the doorway and back toward the kitchen 
and wide eating area that overlooked the side garden, and 
the eastern side of Cambria.
Trystin turned in the chair to look at the garden, pleased 
to see sky without looking through a portal or a screen, or 
filtered through sensors and scanners. His eyes dropped 
back to the inlaid chess table beside him and the stone 
figures on it. The tabletop dated back eight centuries, and 
had supposedly been crafted by an ancestor on old Earth. 
Trystin smiled. It was old, but that old? The transit costs 
would have been prohibitive. If it were that old, it would be 
literally priceless, but only an immortal or DNA dating 
could verify the date, and neither of those was really 
feasible. The stone chess figures had been the contribution 
of his grandfather in his last years.
"Here." Elsin extended the heavy mug to his son, then sat 
and set his own mug on his knee.
"Thank you. " Trystin let the steam waft around his face 
for a moment, savoring the scent and warmth of the tea and 
the fresh lime-far better than the translation-faded tea that 
had been so exorbitant on Mara.
Elsin sank onto the cushion with a sigh. "Let's see. How 
much translation distortion this time?"
"It wasn't bad. A little over one week. Transports have 
more distortion, they say." Trystin took a sip of tea, which 
tasted as good as it had smelled. "I miss things like this."
"I did. I'm not surprised that you do, too. No matter what 
people say, we do have an affinity for the land and its 
products."
Trystin nodded, thinking about the limes, the tea, and the 
garden-and the more than five generations the house and 
gardens had passed through, if greatly changed by each.
"You look a little thoughtful . . . even disturbed." "Well . . . 
a woman I know said I was an idealist who didn't care 
much for people. She said I was just like the revs. She was 
really upset, too." "It bothered you."
"I guess so." Trystin shrugged, ''in some ways . . . well . . 
. you just wonder." "Do you know why she upset you?" 
"The people bit. I mean, I rode the surtrans from the tube 
station, and two girls rode one station with me, and one of 
them looked at my uniform, and she got off the train and 
broke down. I wondered who she'd lost. That was what I 
was thinking. And I think about Quentar. He was concerned 
when I had to make a run to his station because mine had 
been totaled. At the same time, he was talking about how he 
wished he could kill more revs, as if they weren't people. 
He's dead now. Instead of him killing them, they killed him. 
I don't know. I've always assumed that the revs were 
people, but that they weren't in a way. Quentar was honest 
about it. To him they weren't. I was. But I had to interrogate 
some revs, and most acted like machines, but one didn't. He 
said something like, while he believed, nothing I could say 
would shake him, as if faith were a choice." Trystin 
shrugged.
"You think that faith is something blindly imposed on 
people?" asked Elsin.
"I just hadn't thought about it. And I guess I was 
reminded of it because Ezildya accused me of blind faith, in 
a way. She said that if I put any sort of duty above human 
feelings I wasn't any better than the revs. In fact, she 
blamed my nonexistent rev heritage. If I look like one, I 
must be one. Does it mean I'm not human if I don't wear my 
heart on my tunic? Does it mean I'm a machine because 
ideals are important?"
Elsin laughed. "No. It means you're young and human. 
The young are cruel, and allowing others to see what you 
feel makes you vulnerable, and the young hate to be 
vulnerable. That's a luxury of age." "Thanks ...I think."
"I won't dwell on it. First, if I did, you wouldn't believe 
me, yet. And second, you'll see. Beware of women who 
want you to parade your emotions, and be equally careful 
with those who shy away from your feelings."
"That sounds like I should avoid them all. "Trystin took 
another sip of tea. "I'll try to remember your sage advice."
"You won't. I didn't listen to my parents until I was older. 
No . . . that's not quite right. I listened to their words, and I 
could recognize their wisdom, but that wisdom didn't seem 
really applicable to me. I suspect that's true with every 
generation, but none of us live long enough to confirm 
that-not beyond our children's children, anyway."
Trystin nodded. There didn't seem to be much to add to 
his father's words, even as they seemed to slip away, for all 
their trite truth.
"Your message said that you'd been offered orders and 
training as a pilot officer, and that you'd decided to take it." 
Elsin took a sip from his own mug. "If you do much deep 
spacing, maybe you will live long enough to see the 
patterns in life."
"The translation effect is getting less." Trystin pursed his 
lips and shifted his weight in the chair, for some reason 
thinking about Ezildya's mother's work with the Farhkans. 
"I got the impression that the Farhkans were giving some 
help to our translation engineers."
"Occasionally, that has happened. You might ask your 
mother. I don't know much about it." "What do you know 
about the Farhkans?" "They're dangerous." "Why?"
"Trystin, you're in the Service. So was 1. You know 
everything I did, plus a lot more. Why don't you tell me? 
Besides, why do you want to know? Do you think I know 
something you don't?" "You usually do," pointed out 
Trystin. "All right. " Elsin sighed. "They manage translation 
with virtually no time lag. Second, no one or thing invades 
their systems. We don't say anything, and the revs don't say 
anything, and the Farhkans don't say anything, but while the 
official line is that we lost one ship, we lost more than that. 
The difference is that we stopped trying. The revs didn't, 
not for a long, long time, and I'm not convinced that they 
ever have."
"What else?"                            
"The Farhkans are probably a lot better at integrating 
biotech and hardtech than we are." Elsin grinned and 
looked at his son. "You have that look on your face that 
says you know something, but I won't ask."
"Thank you." Trystin tried not to squirm in his seat. How 
had his father caught his thoughts about the Farhkans' 
ability to tap into his military implant? Had the Farhkan 
mental images been technology or an unknown physical 
ability?
"They have an agenda, and I'm not convinced that any 
alien agenda is necessarily for our benefit." Elsin rose. 
"Who could say? It probably isn't." "Since they're alien. I'd 
have to agree." Elsin cleared his throat. "This pilot business 
brings up something else." "I know . . . the separation . . ."
"There's that. I know you must have thought about it, and 
I'm not one to try and bring up anything to make you feel 
guilty. That's not what I meant. I am an integrator, and I 
want you to consider how to protect yourself from the 
downsides. I mean in cold, hard financial terms." "What?" 
Trystin shook his head. "You're young, and you're healthy, 
but what happens if your translation engine cooks its 
mainboard, and throws you forty years into the future? The 
Service will, of course, pension you off with the standard 
retirement, or let you stay on for another few objective 
years and do the same thing. You need to be prepared for 
that." "Oh..."
"It may not happen, but the chances are about one in ten 
that you'll have at least one translation error of more than 
two standard years if you stay for a career. If it doesn't . . . 
good. But . . . if it does . . ." "I hadn't thought about that."
"The Service will gladly hold your back pay, and 
provident in a lump sum, which, after taxes and inflation, 
will make it worth little enough." Trystin spread his hands. 
"What do I do?" "We set up a 'translation trust,' except we 
make it more general than that. Your pay goes directly into 
an institution where the funds are split into several 
accounts-an immediate credit account against which you 
can draw just like your regular credit account-but you 
specify a cap on it. Any funds received in excess of that 
level go into a diversified program. That way, if you're on 
extended duty, or not around, you can set up the program to 
pay any obligations and have the principal grow. It's more 
complicated than that, but fairly simple." "How did you 
know this?"
"I didn't." Elsin shrugged. "When I got your message and 
thought about it, I started doing research."
Trystin took another sip of tea. He hadn't even 
considered what his father had seen nearly instantly.
"Hold on a minute. I need to check that casserole." Elsin 
slipped from the room.
Trystin looked back out the half-open window, letting the 
spring breeze flutter through his regulation-short hair. A 
few clouds were piled up to the east, above the Palien Sea, 
but not enough for a storm, not anytime soon.
A moment later, his father returned. "Things should be 
ready about the time Nynca gets here." "She is regular," 
laughed Trystin. "Someone around here has to be."  "You 
know. Dad. I've had some time to think. I still don't know 
what you do. You're a free-lance systems integrator. I 
understand every one of the words, and then I come home, 
and you pull something else up, like this translation trust, or 
I look at those screens, and they still look like Greek, or 
revvie gibberish."
"Sometimes they do to me, too." Elsin nodded. "I was 
working on waste-nutrient integration-"
"For Safrya?" Trystin's eyes strayed to the window, 
caught by the green flash of a passing heliobird.
"Slowships, no! It's a system for a place called Verintka, 
out your way, on Mara."
"That's on the south continent-but it will be another 
century before the atmosphere's really breathable."
Elsin grinned. "Maybe not. We're trying to do some 
tinkering. Newsin has a new bug that they think can use 
hydrocarbons and CO2 and fix oxygen in the process." 
Trystin nodded.
"It creates a gummy awful green sludge, plus a lot of 
water and oxygen. I'm trying to find a way to use the green 
sludge. I just might have it-but that's going to take more 
work."
Trystin heard a faint footstep and stood. "I think Mother's 
home. Someone just came in."
"Even without all that biohardware, you still had ears like 
a hawk. Now nothing can move without your hearing it." 
"A hawk?"
"Predator of ancient earth. Supposedly could hear small 
rodents from kays away."
The woman who slipped into the office was stocky, but 
not heavy, with short hair half blond, half silver. Her green 
eyes smiled as she took in Trystin. "You look good."
Trystin stood quickly, stepping toward her, but his leg 
dragged ever so slightly. "It's good to be home," he 
admitted, bugging her tightly.
After a time, she stepped back. "Careful. I'm a fragile 
woman." "Ha!" snorted Elsin. "Not very." "Compared to 
your son, I am."
"My son? He's yours too, last time I heard." "Poor man, 
he's starving. Can't you see that?" Nynca winked at her son. 
Then her expression turned serious. "What's wrong with 
your leg?"
"Projectile injury. The doctors say it's fine, just stiff. I 
need to keep exercising it." "You didn't mention that in the 
message." "I didn't want to worry you."
"So I have to worry now?" Nynca shook her head. "You 
and your father." She turned to Elsin. "He still needs to be 
fed. He's too thin."
"Dinner has been waiting for you, honored professor." 
"Were you still working on that sewage project?" asked 
Nynca, stepping over to her husband and kissing him on the 
cheek. "Of course."
She shook her head. "Can you afford to?" "Not for money, 
but for Trystin and Salya." "Always the idealist." "How 
about dinner?" asked Trystin. "I'll get dinner. You wash 
up," suggested his father. By the time Trystin, still carrying 
his cup, entered the dining area that overlooked the middle 
garden, Elsin was setting the casserole on the ceramic and 
wood holder in the middle of the circular table. Greens and 
sliced fruits, topped with seasoned and crushed groundnuts, 
filled the big wooden bowl before Trystin's plate. Across 
the table, by the empty fourth place, was a basket filled 
with steaming dark bread.
Nynca opened the wood-framed sliding glass door, 
lifting the door frame slightly to ease it over a rough spot. "I 
can see I need to do some repair work here."
"Always the engineer." Elsin seated himself and turned 
to Trystin. "Help yourself. It's simple. Bread, salad, and 
casserole."
"It smells wonderful." Trystin waited for his mother to 
seat herself before settling into his chair.
"Isn't it always?" she asked. "I've gotten spoiled over the 
years."
Trystin waited until she had served herself, then heaped 
several serving spoons full of the churkey and rice casserole 
on the wide brown stoneware plate, followed by an equally 
generous helping of the greenery.
Elsin poured Nynca's tea and then helped himself to the 
food.
"Now . .. first things first. So I can get my worrying 
done. How did you get hurt?" asked Nynca. "Start from the 
beginning."
"That's what she always says." Elsin laughed. Trystin 
finished the last of the tea in his cup. "The revs have been 
stockpiling equipment in the Maran badlands for almost 
three years, covering the stockpiles with continual off-and-
on attacks on perimeter stations. . . ."
As Trystin outlined the background and the attack, Elsin 
refilled Trystin's cup.
". . . in the end, I really didn't have much choice besides 
staying in the armor. Then, while I was in the med center, I 
was offered the orders for pilot training and decided to take 
them. Part of it was the business about extending 
everyone."
"But not all of it. I'm not surprised." Nynca nodded. 
"Much as you love the house, it wouldn't be enough for 
you. Not now." Elsin cleared his throat.
"Besides. . . we've talked about this...." Nynca looked at 
Elsin.
"Talked about what?" Then Trystin nodded. "You mean 
that Salya will come back someday, and she really does 
love it enough to be happy here?"
His father nodded. "You, for years anyway, will be out 
there pushing the limits. You didn't want to hide away even 
when you were wounded, did you?"
"No," Trystin admitted with a short laugh. "I guess not."
"You've always liked being in control." "And you haven't?" 
asked Nynca, looking at her husband. "Trystin will want to 
settle down sometime. You did."
"He might be ready in another half century." Elsin grinned. 
"It's a good thing we've got young people like you." He 
took a mouthful of the churkey and chewed. "Turned out 
good this time." "It always does," Nynca said with a smile. 
Trystin frowned. "What did you mean about having people 
like me? 30 that not everyone stays home and . . ." Since he 
couldn't figure out how to finish the sentence, he didn't.
"The situation with the Revenants." His father took 
another mouthful of casserole.
"What does that have to do with me? Or the house? Or 
Salya?"
"Haven't you figured it out yet, Trystin? We're losing." 
"How do you figure that?"
"Because I'm an integrator, and I don't say much because 
there's no point in it. Everyone's doing everything they can. 
You don't help matters by screaming in a smoldering 
building. You just try to find more water." He shook his 
head. "I know. It's a bad analogy.
"On the surface, we've reached a stalemate. Our borders 
with the revs are stable, and we don't attack their fully 
habitable planets, and they don't attack ours-although we 
both could. Their population is growing-"
"Fast enough for them to re-create the Die-off within a 
few centuries on Orum."
"Try a millennium," suggested Elsin. "I've run the 
numbers. Planets are big. But your basic point is valid. 
We've opted to populate based on an integrated, sustained, 
ecologically  and technologically sound basis-and a lot 
smaller population." He paused and looked at Trystin. 
"When will Mara be ready for initial air-breathing 
colonization?"
"Somewhere in sixty to eighty years, or, if the Newsin 
bugs or your treatments work," grinned Trystin, "a whole 
lot sooner." "When will we really need it?" Trystin 
shrugged.
"How about never?" injected Nynca with a laugh. "I've 
heard the sermon."
"When could the revs use it?" Elsin pursued. "Probably 
now. That has to be why they're stepping up their attacks."
"Exactly. We're using everything we have." Elsin held up 
his hand and took a swallow of tea. "At some point, Trystin, 
advanced technology becomes meaningless. Does it really 
matter for most people in system-to-system transit if we've 
reduced translation lag from eight weeks to four days? In 
military terms, yes, we need that edge. But do the revs? 
What impact does that have on a troid ship loaded with 
enthusiastic young missionaries armed to fight for the 
Prophet? They don't have anyone to go back to, and if they 
survive, they'll become patriarchs and want for nothing." 
"But . . . ?" Trystin tried to get a word in. "You're designed 
as the ultimate military and killing machine possible. I don't 
even want to know how many revs you've destroyed. Has it 
stopped them? We have perhaps ten thousand young people 
like you, and maybe a quarter of those have the 
physiological strength to take full modifications. With our 
population, and the resources sunk in you, unless each of 
you kills thousands of revs, we lose every time a single 
Service member dies." Elsin broke off a chunk of warm 
bread, as though he wanted to tear someone's arm off.
"You think we should black-glass Orum and every other 
rev planet?"
"No. That's the problem. What kind of people do we 
become if we do that? We become our enemies. That's 
something that goes through the entire Eco-Tech Dialogues, 
and yet each generation wants to forget it."
"I don't see that." Trystin bristled inside at the gentle 
rebuke. He'd read every page of the Dialogues. "They 
haven't nuked us, and we're not considering that kind of 
barbarism."
"They won't. They need the real estate. But what about a 
nice four cubic kays of rock spiraling through Perdya's 
atmosphere? Then how civilized will we be?"
"Eventually, if I accept your argument, that would make 
sense."
Elsin laughed. "You shouldn't accept my argument. Find 
a better one. Or a way to refute it. Except that's why more 
time in the Service will be good for you."
"Can we talk about a few things besides the end of 
civilization?" asked Nynca. "We did see Salya last month, 
when she came in from Helconya."
"That's worse than old Venus, but they say it can be as 
green as Earth once was." Elsin sipped from the goblet. "Of 
course, it'll take a good millennium and the output of half a 
system. Intellectual lemmings, that's us." "How is she?" 
asked Trystin.
"She's found someone-he's a major, I think, or a 
commander."
"He found her," suggested Nynca. "She wasn't looking."
"That's always the way it is. I found you, dear. You 
weren't looking, either." Elsin beamed.
"I'm still not, even when you bury yourself in the garden. 
You do have your undeniable charms, more so than ever."
"He seems to have mellowed," conceded Trystin. 
"Mellowed? He's positively melted." Nynca laughed. "Do 
you remember the time that you and Salya undermined the 
little rock bridge and he went right down into the carp 
pond?"
"I didn't know he knew so many obscenities." Trystin 
grinned at his father. "What about the time that Salya put 
the fluorescent carp in the lower pond and told him that it 
had a carp-specific ichthyologic virus that had 
contaminated the old carp from Grandfather? Or the time 
that..."

17
Trystin took a last sip of the green tea from the heavy 
earthenware cup, the solid green one his
grandfather had made and given him on his tenth 
birthday. "Ahhhh - . . you miss these things. . . ."
"I think you've said that before." Elsin set his own 
smaller and more delicate cup beside the plate that had been 
Filled with fruit slices.
"I probably have. I may have even said it more than 
once."
Elsin chuckled. "Do you want anymore? You certainly 
huffed and puffed through that workout-"
"No. Not until later. You're working on the sewage thing 
this morning?"
"I could put it off. You mentioned that you wanted to go 
out to the Cliffs. We could do that."
"They're better in the afternoon. I just might take a walk 
this morning. I still want to stretch out the leg some more."
His father nodded. "If that's what you want. I'll finish this 
up then, and we can take the scooter out after lunch."
"That sounds good." Trystin stood and walked over to the 
sink, where he rinsed the cup. "When will Mother be 
finished? I think she was gone before I even woke up."
"She mentioned some sort of auditions. She won't be 
terribly late, but she didn't think she'd get away early, 
either. She's not the biggest fan of the Cliffs. So I think 
today would be a good day for that."
Trystin grinned. His father's observation about his 
mother's reaction to the Cliffs was an understatement, 
although how a former ships' systems engineer had such an 
aversion to heights was another question. Then, again, there 
were more than a few contradictions in his mother. "I won't 
be too long, but I did want to wander around some while it's 
nice out."
"Whatever suits you. We can leave whenever you get 
back." Elsin pushed back the heavy wooden chair, stood, 
and carried his cup and plate to the old-fashioned sink. 
After rinsing his own dishes, he reached for Trystin's plate. 
"You don't have to do mine."
"It's no problem," Elsin said. "Go take your walk, or 
whatever, and I'll play with sewage, and then we'll go visit 
the Cliffs. We could stop at Hyrin's for lunch."
"That would be good. Do they still have that sauteed 
mushroom platter?"
"Last time I was there they did." Elsin racked the dishes, 
carefully moving the green cup to where it would not bang 
into anything.
"It's good. You can't get food like that on Mara. "Trystin 
stood and looked toward the window and the clear greenish 
skies. "It's nice out . . . I won't be long."
"Just come and get me when you get back." Elsin gave 
his son a smile, but did not head for his office.
Trystin walked over and gave his father a quick hug. "I 
won't be long, but I really want to stretch my legs before we 
take a ride anywhere."
Elsin nodded and watched as Trystin headed for the front 
door.
Trystin closed the front door behind "him, and paused 
there on the small porch, looking beyond the steps and 
down the winding walk, surveying the gardens, pausing to 
study the bonsai cedar in the circular planter where the 
stone walk split around it. The cedar didn't look measurably 
different from the way it had when he had left for duty on 
Mara-or from the first time he had noticed it as a child. It 
couldn't be quite the same, because bonsai required careful 
pruning and much more, but the differences were more 
subtle.
A light breeze brushed across his face, bringing the 
combined scent of the low pines from the sides of the 
garden and the mixed fragrances of the early season 
flowers. Seasons-he had missed the changes in the 
temperature, in the foliage. While the botanical dome in 
Klyseen had helped, dome gardens weren't the same.
Sometimes he wondered. When he enjoyed plants and 
trees so much, why was he accepting pilot training? What 
did he really want from the Service? Or was he there 
because it was expected and because he hadn't found what 
he wanted in life?
He walked down the steps and stopped in front of the 
small cedar, letting his eyes run along the lines of the 
shaped limbs. His fingers touched the moss around the base 
of the tree-a shade dry. The clear skies promised little 
rain, but that could change within hours.
The mid-morning sun warm on his face, Trystin walked 
down the walk from the house and then, his steps slow, 
down the lane to Sundance Boulevard, where he turned 
onto the narrower stone-paved walk that bordered 
Horodyski Lane as it curved back around the hill. 
Heliobirds flitted from the regularly spaced branches of the 
ancient Norfolk pines anchored in the middle stretches of 
the hill and that blocked his view of the hillside house. 
Below the trees, ten meters of turf stretched between the 
trees and the stone flower beds that separated the sidewalk 
from the grass.
A young heliobird, identifiable as juvenile by the pale green 
feathers, perched on a branch tip. It hopped and fluttered 
awkwardly to clear its wing of the heavy spider-ant web 
stretched between the branches of a Norfolk pine. After a 
moment and another flurry, the juvenile freed its wing and 
streaked uphill and out of sight among the trees. Trystin 
smiled and resumed walking. The trifles overflowed the 
stone-walled flower bed beside the walk, their long green 
tendrils dropping almost to the grass as the tiny purple 
flowers offered their honey-lavender perfume to the 
morning. A small electroscooter hummed down the lane 
carrying a dark-haired couple. The man offered a nod to 
Trystin; the woman stared.
Trystin wanted to stare back, but only nodded. Was it his 
imagination or were the stares more frequent?
He followed Horodyski Lane almost a half kay before he 
reached the vehicle gate and the edge of the Academy 
grounds. Outside the two stone pillars that framed the 
driveway up to the school, Trystin looked at the carved sign 
that proclaimed Cambrian Academy.
"Knowledge . . . faith . . . power. . . and understanding." 
He read the words on the foul-pointed star logo under the 
name, recalling the words of the years-ago required 
readings from the original Eco-Tech Dialogues, not the 
more popular abridged versions.
"Without power, knowledge is useless. Without 
knowledge, faith is tyranny. Without understanding, 
humanity is blind, and without all four, it is doomed.
Of course, he reflected, no one had wanted to use such a 
negative statement publicly. So the Academy had come up 
with the four words and the four-pointed star-knowledge, 
faith, power, and understanding.
The polished blond wood of the sign looked the same as 
when Trystin had left the Academy almost a decade 
earlier, and probably no different from when his father had 
graduated. His mother had gone to the Science Academy.
The low, square-trimmed hedges served as a barrier, 
channeling visitors toward the drive or the stone archway 
that covered the main pedestrian entrance.
Trystin walked along the lane toward the main entrance, 
the spot where the surtrans still stopped, although, unlike 
many students, he had lived close enough to walk to 
school, even on the rainiest of days.
The main gate was open, but Trystin did not go in. He 
sat on a stone bench under the pagoda-type roof where so 
many students had clustered to avoid the rain while they 
had waited for the surtrans.
The athletic fields to the right of the classroom buildings 
were empty, and the whole complex seemed silent. Only a 
faint humming from open classroom windows gave any 
indication that the Academy was in session.
As he watched, a student in the green blazer of a top former 
walked briskly from the physical science building toward 
the older brown-bricked main building. Then the student 
entered the building, and the illusion of stillness returned.
Trystin stood and began to walk back toward the house, 
passing the sign and the four-pointed star again. 
Understanding-that was the hardest for him, and for most 
people, he thought. He looked uphill and continued 
walking, hoping that he saw no other electroscooters.
18
 Carrying his kit and shoulder bag, Trystin stepped through 
the Perdya orbit station's lock doors and
- onto the quarterdeck of the Roosveldt and into the 
faint smell of ozone and heated plastic. "Lieutenant Desoll, 
reporting for transport. Permission to come aboard?"
"Granted, ser," said the rating with the stunner in her 
watch belt. "Your orders?"
Trystin handed across his orders and the Service ID card 
and placed his hand on the scanner. The green light flashed.
"You'll be sharing stateroom four with Lieutenant 
Yuraki." The rating nodded and handed back the orders and 
the card. "He's the supply officer. Two and four are on the 
left as you head aft. One is the captain's. Five is the 
officers' mess. We'll be separating in less than an hour."
"Thank you." Trystin eased down the narrow corridor, 
sensing the humming of the ship's net through his implant. 
He turned sideways as he passed an officer with a major's 
triple bars holoed on the breast of her shipsuit. Above the 
bars and the name "Laurentian," she wore the antique 
wings. "Sorry, ser," he said.
"No problem. Lieutenant. You're our passenger, the one 
who's going to see if he can be a pilot?"
"Yes, ser."
Major Laurentian nodded. "This is a short hop-a 
nonduster. After you get settled, come on forward. You can 
watch and see if you know what you're getting into." 
"Thank you."
"You can thank me later." She was gone, heading 
forward.
Though bigger than most translation ships, the Roosveldt 
was still a small ship, tiny compared to the revvie troid 
ships, but then most translation ships were, given the 
limitations that Trystin didn't fully understand, but 
suspected he would come to learn. The entire corridor 
extended no more than thirty meters, the last twenty 
comprising the section aft of the entry lock and minuscule 
quarterdeck.
Why it was called a quarterdeck, Trystin didn't know, 
except that the name dated into antiquity. Stateroom four 
was just forward of the open third-aft safety hatch. Out of 
courtesy, he tapped on the stateroom door, but there was no 
response. He tapped again, waited, and then slid the thin 
sheet-plastic door open. Because of weight considerations, 
and practicality, the Roosveldt-and every other 
noncombatant translation ship-was constructed in airtight 
sections, but without significant airtight barriers within the 
subsections. So internal walls and doors were thin.
Trystin stepped into the stateroom and stopped. The tiny 
workspace built against the airtight third-aft bulkhead was 
an array of data file cases stuffed with two-centimeter data 
disks surrounding a compact console. At the console sat a 
bulky man with light brown hair and a creamy brown skin. 
Trystin could almost feel the hardwired signals running 
from the console, but he always had been more sensitive to 
the nets than most-and that sensitivity had been one of the 
reasons why the Maran storm feedback had been harder on 
him than on most. He carried his bags inside and set them 
down on the plastic-textured deck, sliding the door shut 
behind him. After several moments, the officer on the 
console finished tapping the keys and stood. He wore the 
single gold bar of a junior lieutenant, but the fine lines 
running from the corners of his eyes indicated he was 
considerably older than Trystin. "Sorry. You must be 
Lieutenant Desoll." "Trystin."
"I'm Elgin Yuraki-the one who's in charge of stowing, 
balancing, and retrieving cargo, not to mention food 
supplies, air regeneration, and all the other nonpropulsion 
and navigational details of the mighty Roosveldt. Welcome 
to our humble craft, cramped as it may be." "Thank you.  I 
didn't mean- "
"That's all right. We should apologize to you. We're 
carrying two very senior commanders. They got the two 
good transport cabins, ecobalance and protocol forbid that 
they should share with anyone."
"I'm sorry. It sounds like you've got a full load. How 
many on board?" Trystin asked.
"Not really that many. The crew's just six. The captain 
and Lieutenant Hithers, me, and three techs. But we've also 
got you and the commanders, and five more techs in transit. 
We're configured more for cargo than passengers. A barge 
like the Udahl could handle thirty supercargo easily, sixty 
in a pinch." Yuraki paused and gestured toward the console. 
"Sorry . . . but . . ."
"You must have a lot to do right now. Just tell me where 
to put things, and I'll get out of your way." Trystin offered a 
smile.
"The lower lockers are empty, and the bottom bunk's 
yours."
"Fine. Can I sit in the mess to get out of your way?" "That's 
where I'd be if I didn't have all this . . ." Yuraki grimaced. 
"But you should have it to yourself."
Trystin slipped his two bags into the lower locker, where 
they barely fit. By the time he had straightened, Yuraki was 
back at the console.
The mess was just abaft the aft-third bulkhead on the 
right-and empty. Six light gray plastic chairs clustered 
around a long narrow table, and three more were stacked in 
the corner. The combined odors of strong tea and the false 
citrus of Sustain permeated the room. After looking around, 
Trystin found a spare cup and thumbed the spigot on the 
samovar.
The steam carried the smell of relatively fresh hot tea, 
and Trystin burned his mouth with an incautiously quick 
first sip. He slumped into a corner chair. While connected 
to the orbit station-and the station's power supplies-the 
Roosveldt remained at full Perdyan gravity. A face peered 
into the mess. "Lieutenant?" Trystin turned around and then 
stood as he recognized not only the commander's uniform 
but the green shoulder braid that signified something on the 
Service Command Staff. "Yes, ser."
"Could you rustle up a cup of tea for me? I'd appreciate 
it." The woman in the uniform had traces of actual gray in 
her short-cropped black hair. "I'm in number six."
"I'll see what I can do, ser." Before Trystin bad Finished 
responding, the commander had vanished.
With a slow, deep breath, he went to the wall cupboard 
and took another plastic cup from the rack inside, then 
filled it. He turned right outside the mess and walked to 
number six, where he rapped on the door. "Your tea. 
Commander."                                  . "Come on in."
Trystin opened the door and stepped into the stateroom, 
no bigger than the one he would share with Yuraki. The 
commander's eyes were faintly glazed as she concentrated 
on the largest portable console Trystin had ever seen. The 
display seemed to contain a three-dimensional star map, 
and he couldn't resist mentally trying to adjust his implant 
to pick up the signals.
"I wouldn't. The standard implant isn't equipped for that 
kind of data flow." She took the tea. "Thank you." Her eyes 
glazed over as she turned in the chair back to the console 
that sat on the built-in desk shelf.
Trystin stood there for a moment, then realized he had 
been dismissed. He closed the door and returned to the 
mess, where he sat and took a deep swallow from his own 
cup.
He really hadn't even been there for the commander, 
except as a piece of equipment. He got up and poured 
another cup of tea from the samovar.
As slowly as he sipped and waited, no one else entered 
the mess. No one even passed the open door.
"Stand by for seal-off." Major Laurentian's voice echoed 
from the speakers. "Stand by for seal-off."
With the announcement, Trystin rinsed off the empty 
cup, reracked it, and slowly walked forward past the now-
empty quarterdeck and the sealed hatch through which he 
had entered the Roosveldt.
As he neared the open hatch to the cockpit, the major's 
voice again echoed from the speakers. "Stand by for power 
changeover."
Trystin reached out and braced himself between the 
narrow bulkheads.
The noncom at the screens in the alcove to his left 
grinned.
Then the lights flickered; for a moment the hum of the 
ventilators stopped; and the gravity dropped to point five, 
ship standard.
As always, Trystin's guts twisted slightly at the 
transition. He licked his lips, leaned forward and peered 
into the cockpit. The consoles in front of the captain and the 
first officer blazed with lights.
Trystin eased up the receptivity of his implant-and 
staggered slightly as even a fraction of the complete data 
load seemed to drown him before his cutoffs blocked the 
flow. His eyes watered, and his head throbbed. After a 
moment, he licked his lips again. Did all pilots have to 
carry and monitor that much data-or was he accessing the 
wrong channels?
He shrugged. It could be either, and he wasn't about to 
ask.
". . . Pelican two. . . cleared for low-thrust separation. . ." ". 
. . Pelican two separating this time - . ." The 
representational screen, easiest for Trystin to recognize, 
showed the separation of the Roosveldt from the orbit 
station.
Trystin watched as the signals apparently cascaded across 
the boards, and as the screens flashed the latest data. 
Neither the major nor the pilot officer in the second seat 
used their hands, but those hands rested lightly on the 
manual controls, and Trystin could see that both officers 
clearly cross-checked the purely visual screens, almost as if 
they did not fully trust their implants and the direct links to 
the Roosveldt.
"Lieutenant?" The first officer looked at Trystin. "Yes, ser." 
Although Hithers couldn't have outranked Trystin much, 
Hithers was the first officer in the line of command, and 
Trystin responded.
"We won't be translating for almost three hours relative, 
and it's likely to be rather boring. Go get some tea or 
something." "Could I get you anything?"
"No, thank you. It might be boring for you, but we'll be 
occupied."
Trystin took the hint and headed back to the mess, where 
Elgin Yuraki was pouring himself a cup of tea. "You all 
right?" Trystin asked.
"Fine. Last-minute stuff." Yuraki glanced toward the 
door and lowered his voice. "Commander Milsini-she's 
the one in six-she dumped something like five tonnes of 
shielded equipment on us. That's a bitch to handle at the last 
minute-shielding, weight and balance, and recomputing 
all the mass for translation." The supply officer cleared his 
throat. "I was afraid we'd be over the translation limit, but 
we've got a good two tonnes to spare."
Trystin nodded politely. Two tonnes on a large ship 
didn't sound like that much of a safety margin.
"See . . . the total mass isn't as much of a problem as the 
accuracy of the mass calculation. The closer the calculated 
mass is to the translation power approximation, the less the 
translation error-all other things being equal, which 
they're not. Anyway, you'll learn all that better than I know 
it. All I know is that the captain gives me hell if the mass 
calculation isn't as good as I can make it." Yuraki took a 
deep swallow of the boiling tea without even wincing. "And 
when some commander dumps stuff whose mass is mostly 
unknown on me . . . how do you tell a commander it's a 
problem? All they say is that I should solve it:" "That's 
right." Both junior officers glanced up. The second 
commander-a stocky dark man with the holoed wings 
over the name "Chiang"-stood by the samovar. "When 
you're a junior officer, you have to solve problems. When 
you get to be a commander, you get to create them. When 
you get to the senior staff level, you have to tell the 
commanders which problems to create." He snorted. "Enjoy 
problem-solving while you can. It's easier." With that, 
Commander Chiang carried his cup from the mess.
"Who are they?" Trystin asked. "Do you know?" 
"Commander Milsini works for the planning branch of the 
general staff. Commander Chiang-1 don't know. Except 
all the pilots sort of whispered when they heard he was 
coming. He only brought three cases of stuff, and the mass 
computations were taped to each case." "Thoughtful of 
him," observed Trystin. "He was, or is, a pilot. If all pilots 
are like the captain, they never forget the importance of 
mass computations." Yuraki stood and poured another cup 
of tea, then added a heap of Sustain powder to the steaming 
liquid. Trystin winced. "How can you drink that?" "You get 
used to it." Yuraki took a deep breath. "Besides, I've got 
more to do. See you later." He carried the cup out of the 
mess.
Trystin helped himself to a half cup of tea, without 
Sustain, and slowly sipped it. He must have dozed, because 
he sat up with a start, checking his implant for the time- 
over two hours since he had left the cockpit. He must have 
been more tired than he thought.
Another cup of tea, with some Sustain, helped wake him, 
and he finally walked forward to the cockpit, past the tech 
in his shipsuit, still monitoring the ship's maintenance 
systems through the six-screen panel.
"Not bad timing," said Hithers from the right-hand seat. 
"Be another fifteen or so." His eyes glazed over. Major 
Laurentian never glanced toward Trystin. The cascade of 
lights across the board seemed to slow, more and more 
lights winking out with each passing minute. Were systems 
being powered down prior to translation? Trystin didn't 
know. This was the first time he'd watched a translation 
from the cockpit, and the time slipped past.
"Prepare for translation. Prepare for translation." 
Hithers's words spilled from the ship's speakers. "Thirty 
seconds to translation."
The whole ship went totally silent. The ventilators 
stopped. The screens blanked. The gravity went, and 
Trystin thrust out his legs and awkwardly braced himself, 
inwardly damning himself for his forgetfulness.
At the moment of translation, the entire ship seemed to 
turn inside out, and black turned to white, and dark to 
light, for an instant that seemed momentarily endless-yet 
was totally subjective. No clock ever designed had been 
able to measure any duration for a translation.
Then, with a stomach-wrenching twist, the ship was 
back in norm-space. The screens in front of the pilots 
began to flash, slowly, and then more quickly, as the 
telltales reported system information.
The hissing of the ventilators resumed, and ship's 
gravity dragged Trystin perhaps ten centimeters to the 
hard deck.
But neither pilot moved, although Trystin could almost 
sense the stepped-up flow of information through the 
cockpit.
The representational screen twisted, and reformed, 
showing the Roosveldt heading in-system, toward Chevel 
Beta, and the first officer reached out and tapped a stud 
beside the console.
"Translation complete. We are heading in-system. We 
are heading in-system."
Somewhere on the inbound leg to Chevel Beta, the 
Roosveldt would use its receivers to pick up the 
simultaneous dual and continuous signals beamed from 
asteroids on opposite sides of the system in synchronous 
orbits. The signals contained coded algorithms that, when 
deciphered and with the computed parallax, allowed 
incoming Coalition ships to determine real time and thus 
their translation error.
"That's it, Lieutenant. We'll see you later." Hithers 
offered a brief smile to Trystin.
Trystin understood the dismissal. "Thank you, ser." He 
slipped back into the narrow corridor behind the crowded 
cockpit.
From the tech alcove beside the hatch, the noncom in the 
shipsuit glanced up. "Good luck. Lieutenant."
From what he'd seen, Trystin wondered if he'd need a lot 
more than luck, a lot more.
19
The only instructions Trystin had received when he had 
checked in at the Chevel Beta training command and 
received his room assignment were to report to room B7 at 
0900 a week later with everything on his checklist taken 
care of. Room B7 meant second level, relatively high for an 
asteroid station. Report to B7 and wait, not that he'd been 
doing much besides waiting. Taking another physical, 
updating his personnel files, being issued shipsuit and fitted 
for deep-space pressure armor hadn't taken all that long. 
The most complicated thing had been arranging all the 
paperwork for his translation trust. Neither payroll nor the 
admin section had been terribly pleased, but his father had 
provided a step-by-step procedure and all the Service and 
legal cites. That hadn't exactly pleased Major Turakini, and 
her reaction had given Trystin the distinct impression that 
should anything happen to one Trystin Desoll, the Service 
really wanted to hang on to his pay and everything else for 
as long as possible.
The other time-consuming, necessary, and boring item 
had been a screen-based intro class to the basics of spatial 
coordinate systems. He'd spent a lot of time in the station 
library, using his implant to access all the general 
information on piloting, and on translation engines, and 
more than a few hours in the high-gee exercise room. With 
the station gravity kept at point five, probably because the 
energy consumption to maintain standard gee would have 
taken a pair of large fusactors alone, high gee was classified 
at one point one, or a trace over Maran norm.
Trystin tried not to bound or bounce as he walked toward 
the up-level ramps. His quarters-a cube four meters on a 
side carved out of solid rock and sealed with plastic- were 
on J level.
The ramp corridors, zigzagging back and forth toward 
the surface of Chevel Beta, were plastic-coated rock, bare 
except for the air-collection vents set midway between each 
level.
Between E and D level, a noncom brushed by Trystin, 
her eyes flickering to his name patch as she muttered a low, 
"Excuse me, ser."
As he nodded and moved aside, wondering at her glance 
at his rank and the totally perfunctory nature of the request, 
Trystin cranked up his hearing and caught the words, ". . . 
'nother frigging greenie . . ."
Would the whole training program be like that, with 
perfunctory respect covering scorn for junior officers by the 
deep-space noncoms? Trystin took a deep breath and kept 
going up the ramps.
Room B7 smelled faintly of sweat and ozone, but looked 
like an old-style classroom, with a dozen flat consoles and 
scratched gray plastic chairs. Trystin glanced around. Three 
lieutenants and a major returned his glance.
The major, a dark-haired and fresh-faced woman who 
looked little older than Trystin, despite her triple bars, 
nodded. "Make yourself at home. Lieutenant. I'm Ciri 
Tekanawe." "Trystin Desoll."
"Jonnie Schicchi." The stocky and dark-skinned 
lieutenant who looked older than anyone was the first to re-
spend.
"Constanzia Aloysia." Lieutenant Aloysia was thin-
faced, with short light brown hair that frizzed around her 
face.
"Suzuki Yamidori." The lieutenant's thin lips barely 
opened, and her syllables were clipped.
Trystin slipped into a chair behind a console equidistant 
between Major Tekanawe and Lieutenant Schicchi, his 
implant indicating that it was 0855 standard space time.
At 0859, a squat, dark man with the subcommander's 
gold triangle on his chest beside the name insignia that read 
Torowe stepped into the room and glanced across the group 
of five officers. Above his name and rank insignia was the 
implanted holo of an antique-looking pair of wings. Finally, 
he asked, "Any of you sing?" Trystin frowned.
"Never mind. It was a bad joke-obscure anyway. Most 
pilots-those who survive-end up with dated and obscure 
senses of humor. You'll get used to it, and about the time 
you do, everyone except the older pilots will give you blank 
looks because what you thought was funny they haven't got 
the referents for." Torowe shook his head. "Just file it away. 
You'll understand someday."
Trystin moistened his lips. He hoped that all the 
instruction would not be nearly so obscure.
"All of you have survived perimeter-station duty. That's not 
a great recommendation, but it's a good indication that you 
are either extraordinarily lucky or marginally competent, 
and it saves us the trouble of doing gross screening. We like 
that here, because real stupidity costs us ships and, 
occasionally, instructors. As an instructor, I have certain 
biases, especially against stupidity." Torowe paused again. 
"Lieutenant Desoll, in the next day or so, we could up your 
implant and direct-link you to the vette or the troop barge 
you're going to be the owner, master, and flunky for, and 
you'd probably be able to handle just about anything. So 
why don't we?"
"Because just about probably isn't good enough." "There's 
no question about it," said Commander Torowe. "As far 
back as decent military training goes, the records indicate 
that a disproportionate amount of time has been spent 
training officers in control of vehicles on how to handle 
situations that happen one percent of the time-or less. 
Some non-Service efficiency experts still occasionally 
suggest that such devotion to rarity is the height of cost-
inefficiency-unless an emergency occurs on the ship 
they're taking." He smiled. "The problem with emergencies 
is that most of the time you lose all or part of your normal 
operating systems, and that's one reason why we just don't 
turn you into part of the machinery-the revvie insults 
notwithstanding.
"And, by the way, you'll also be required to use hard-
copy manuals for systems, in addition to on-line tutorials. 
Do you have any idea why. Lieutenant Schicchi?" "No, 
ser."
"Think about it. Lieutenant. How can you figure out how 
to repair the power system if the information you need can 
only be accessed through a system powered by the ship and 
you don't have power, which was the problem to begin 
with?" "Oh...."
"Think! You all need to think more." Torowe shook his 
head sadly. "After this indoctrination, you won't see me for 
a long time. You'd better hope you don't." He offered a 
slow smile. "Now . . ." He looked at the five again. "We're 
going to disable your implants-just temporarily-and send 
you back to school. You will learn everything you need to 
learn to pilot without any on-line assistance. You won't 
become pilot officers unless you can. Major Tekanawe, can 
you tell me why?"
"Implants or linkages fail under some conditions, and 
unboosted ability may be necessary to complete a flight or 
mission," Ciri Tekanawe answered.
"That's the correct long answer. The short answer is that 
it might save your ass. You're going to have a class in 
estimation. Why? With calculators and implants, you can 
get precise answers. Fine. What's the square of sixteen? Can 
you tell me without your implant? How about the square of 
that?" Torowe's finger pointed at Lieutenant Aloysia.
"Sixty-five thousand five hundred thirty-six, but I 
doubt I could do it in my head."
"No, but you'd better be able to estimate the general 
magnitude in less than a second, because that may be all 
you'll have." The commander turned back to Trystin. 
"Lieutenant Desoll, try to imagine this. You have the kind 
of static in your head that's worse than direct-feed from a ' 
badlands storm-yes, I've been on the Maran perimeter 
line-and your implant is down. You have a spread of torps 
flaring at you, and you have no plots and no input except 
the visuals on a flat screen. And you have less than a 
minute to decide. Now what?" Trystin winced.
"I think you might have the vaguest idea of what faces 
you. Maybe." He paused. "Then again, maybe not. I said 
you had a minute to decide, but I didn't tell you that if 
you guess-or calculate-wrong, you'll watch disaster 
coming for a good stan, and you may not die until your 
emergency life support blows, and that could be a long 
time."
The commander straightened. "Your first stop is 
medical for your implant deactivation. That's right. No 
reflex boosts, and no cheating by overhearing what you 
should have gotten the first time. Medical's in C fifty. 
After deactivation, report back here, and your packets 
will be waiting with your schedules for classes and 
simulators. I won't be." He turned and walked out of the 
room.
Trystin nodded: No repetitions of directions or 
instructions. No redundancy. You either got it, or you 
didn't. He stood and followed Major Tekanawe out the 
doorway and back toward the ramps to the lower levels.
The medical door was marked with the antique red 
cross.
"Ah . . . the latest crop of lost ones . . ." Trystin picked 
up the whisper from the tech standing behind the 
console.
"Major, you're first. Lieutenant, take a seat, and you'll be 
next."
Trystin sat in the battered black seat, and watched as the 
major walked through an archway and out of sight around a 
corner. The three other lieutenants slipped into the room 
and sat, following the age-old dictum of letting the senior 
and the brave face unfriendly fire first.
Shortly, a somber-faced Major Tekanawe walked back 
through the archway. "Lieutenant?"
Trystin stood and followed the woman tech down the 
short corridor and into a room with little more than what 
looked to be a dental chair in it.
"Lieutenant, sit down right here." The tech gestured to 
the chair.
As he slipped into the chair, Trystin looked up at the 
assembly of electronics that vaguely resembled a folded-
back helmet.
"Don't worry, ser. It only looks like a torture device. It 
doesn't take long, and it doesn't hurt at all."
The tech lowered the device and slipped the sections 
down and around Trystin's head, fitting the smooth plastic 
along Trystin's jawline and around his ears until only his 
lower forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth remained uncovered. 
The plastic of the long chair felt clammy against his back.
The tech touched several keys on the console but said 
nothing aloud.
"Can you hear this through your implant?" The 
words/sounds rolled through Trystin's implant so loudly 
that he winced. "Yes."
''You're one of the sensitive ones-or you got some high-
class work there."
The tech touched another key, but Trystin heard or felt 
nothing. "That's good. No harmonics there."
"Let's try this...."
Trystin almost bolted through the apparatus when the 
white noise knifed through him.
"Sorry, Lieutenant. You're definitely a sensitive. Pluses 
and minuses there. This should do it."
Trystin shivered as his implant went dead-leaving him 
completely alone for the first time in years. Even the 
background static he'd learned to tune out was gone. His 
skull was indeed silent, and he would be unable to 
communicate except by impossibly slow words or by 
physically manipulating console dials, switches, studs, and 
whatever. "That's it." The tech began to peel back the 
equipment. He stood slowly and walked out of the medical 
section, feeling somehow off balance, and somehow as if 
everything were designed for exactly that purpose.
20
 "What is this crap?" asked Jonnie Schicchi as the  four 
officers walked toward the lecture room.
Trystin shrugged. "You know as much as I do. 
We're scheduled for four of these 'Cultural Ethics and 
Values' seminars."
"They're mandatory," added Lieutenant Aloysia, bobbing 
her head.
"Isn't everything?" Suzuki Yamidori bestowed a smile on 
Constanzia Aloysia, who ignored it.
The four were almost the first ones there, and Trystin 
took the opportunity to sit as far back as he could. The three 
others took the three chairs in the second row next to him. 
The room smelled dusty, and Trystin rubbed his nose. He 
didn't really want to sneeze. Kkhccheww! Suzuki did 
sneeze. "Sorry."
"My nose itches, too," admitted Schicchi. Trystin just 
watched as other student pilot officers straggled in.
At 1028, a dark-haired man, slender and wearing dress 
greens and a commander's insignia on one side of his collar 
and a cross and a crossed olive branch as the other collar 
insignia, stepped into the room and nodded. He set a stack 
of papers on the table and said quietly, "Handouts for later."
"Frigging ethicist . . ." mumbled Schicchi. "A chaplain by 
any other name," answered Yamidori in a low voice.
The chaplain turned to the dozen-odd officers. "Good 
morning. I'm Commander Matsugi, and I'm the first lecturer 
in your series of seminars on Cultural Ethics and Values." 
His dark eyes traversed the room. "This seminar has been 
called boring. Dull, even. There's another term for it. Call it 
necessary. No, you won't be tested, not here anyway." 
Several sets of lungs exhaled. "I won't attempt to insist that 
this will save your life or your career." A grim smile played 
across Matsugi's face. "And I don't have the marshal's 
power or charisma. So you will have to bear with me." He 
cleared his throat.
"The Revenants of the Prophet are the declared enemy of 
the Coalition, but what raised that enmity? That enmity 
arises from fundamental cultural differences, and those 
differences arise from religion, from belief systems dating 
to antiquity. . . even from basic economic precepts. . . and 
from the Coalition's emphasis on rationality. Rationality is 
the enemy of any closed faith. What do I mean by a closed 
faith? One that relies on a dogma that cannot be questioned 
without the threat of death or exile. The Revenants are 
closed to what you might call outside truths, and their 
culture is so stable internally that change from within is 
highly unlikely. I'll put it in terms that are simple. Minds, 
like ancient parachutes, function better when open, but, like 
fists, they strike harder when closed . . . call that a cultural 
parallel . . ."
Trystin stifled a yawn, trying to keep his eyes open. Still, 
he kept missing words, even though what the chaplain said 
seemed to make sense. But he was so damned tired, and 
Matsugi's voice seemed to drone on and on. Crack!
Trystin jerked awake with the sound of the impact, 
gazing at the front row where one lieutenant struggled into 
his seat, red-faced, apparently so asleep that he had toppled 
right onto the floor. ". . . trouble for Herrintin . . ." ". . . wait 
til Folsom finds out . .." Trystin swallowed another yawn. "I 
am glad to see you were not hurt. Lieutenant," the chaplain 
added. "I would hate to obtain the reputation for injurious 
seminars." Faint laughter ran through the officers. "Now . . . 
as I was discussing . . . the fundamental differences in 
beliefs between the Revenants of the Prophet and most 
beliefs within the Coalition lie in two areas. First, the 
Revenants believe, deeply, in a single set of revealed truths, 
as expounded by Toren, the Prophet of God, while few 
belief systems within the Coalition are so rigid as to 
exclude all possibility of entertaining other truths. 
Exclusivity is one factor. . . the second is the participation 
of a revealed God in the workings of life and the universe ... 
this dates back to Judaism-that's the forerunner of the old 
Christian religions that were the forerunners of both 
Mahmetism and Deseretism, which in turn were the 
forerunners of neo-Mahmetism and the Prophet-for those 
of you into history . . ."
The commander wiped his forehead. "The participation 
of God. Even Christianity, which arose from Judaism, 
believed in a god who cared, who gave his son up to save 
those who believed. . . ."
Trystin stifled a yawn and forced himself to concentrate. 
Maybe he should read some of the handouts.
". . . Jesus of Nazareth walked into the Temple of the old 
Jews, which had taken forty-six years to build, and said 
that, if the Jews razed it, he would rebuild it in three days.. 
according to old scriptures, he really referred to the temple 
of his body, which, in the Christian tradition, God 
resurrected in three days . . . and on three occasions after 
that he showed himself to his disciples.
"Here too God descended to the level of daily living, 
involving himself. This long tradition of deistic 
involvement did not start with the fusion of the neo-
Mahmets-the so-called white Muslims-and the followers 
of the Prophet into the Revenant culture. Rather the 
Revenants affirm and believe that tradition. A daily living 
God is totally real to them . . . it permeates their entire 
culture and value system. ..."
Idly, Trystin wondered how the Revenants would react if 
some modern-day prophet actually appeared and created 
miracles. Beside Trystin, Jonnie Schicchi shifted his weight 
and yawned. Constanzia Aloysia took a long and slow deep 
breath.
Commander Matsugi droned on, and Trystin tried to 
concentrate.
21
The warning light on the fusactor systems remained amber, 
signifying that power output was less than seventy percent. 
Running at less than ten percent, with all the telltales red, 
the accumulators were close to burning out.
The smell of ozone and worn equipment seemed to press 
in on Trystin, but he checked his closure against the 
ambient space-dust density, breathing a sigh of relief to 
learn that he could initiate translation, even as his fingers 
toggled  the sequence.
"Translation power-up beginning. Four minutes to 
translation."
The representational screen flashed red momentarily, and 
Trystin glanced from the translation plot to the EDI where 
the tracks from the revvie system patroller were wider, 
indicating more power output and a higher closing speed. 
An amber circle dropped over the center point in the 
screen-representing the damaged corvette Trystin was 
trying to get out of the revvie system-and a single ping 
issued from the screen speaker.
"Shit . . ." he mumbled. The rev had a lock-on. Trystin 
lost a few instants trying to coax an answer from his dead 
implant before his fingers flickered across the console. 
Everything seemed to take so long manually.
Three minutes and ten seconds until the translation 
systems were on-line and synchronized. System power 
output was at sixty-five percent and dropping. Full shields 
would drop the available power level below the fifty-five 
percent required for translation. The revvie patroller was 
less than fifty thousand kays away-only a fraction of a 
light-second-and closing, and semitranslation torps ran 
just below light speed.
In the half-gravity of the cockpit, Trystin's stomach was 
rising into his throat. He pulsed the shields, then toggled 
them off as the available power dropped to twenty percent. 
As he watched, the available power level began to climb 
back. . . twenty-five percent. .. thirty-five percent. . . forty-
five percent . . . forty-eight percent. . . .
"Present free power flow insufficient for translation," the 
main console scripted. "Interrogative delay of translation 
initiation?"
He ignored the question and wiped his forehead, 
conscious that the small cockpit smelled of stressed human 
as well as stressed equipment. Not only was his forehead 
damp, but his whole body was damp. What could he do?
He cut the power to the artificial gravity, and felt his body 
both rise against the straps and be pressed ever so slightly 
against the pilot's couch from the continuing acceleration of 
the in-system thrusters. His guts rose farther up into his 
throat in the near null-gee. "Two minutes to translation." 
The mechanical words scripted across the console in front 
of Trystin.
The representational screen flashed red, and a series of 
dotted pink lines flared toward the screen center-toward 
Trystin.
Bzzzz! Bzzzz! The power warning light flashed. "Power 
below fifty-five percent," scripted across the console.
Trystin's eyes flicked between the screens and the power 
meter in the corner of the console, and to the digital clock 
readings, as he tried to calculate his options. Finally, he 
toggled off the environmental systems, then watched until 
the power output inched over fifty-five percent. Then he 
flicked the guard off the emergency translation stud and 
slammed it down.
The cockpit flared white, then black, before the entire 
board powered down with a dull whining sound. The 
cockpit turned into inert plastic, metal, and electronics, lit 
only by the faint red emergency lights.
"Systems Inoperative!" The red words flashed across the 
top of the screens perhaps three times before they too died 
in the darkness, burned out by the back-power surge created 
by translation without accumulators.
Trystin wiped his forehead, trying not to shake his head. 
What else could he have done? Dying a slow death in the 
cold without power or getting incinerated instantly-what a 
choice. He sighed.
The door at the back of the cockpit opened. "You couldn't 
do a damned thing. Lieutenant. Not at the end. Once you 
got to the point where the torps had you bracketed with no 
accumulators and less than enough power for both shields 
and a translation, you were dead one way or the other. A 
blind early jump was the best option you had., but you'd 
still probably end up freezing somewhere in an outer orbit 
off some system without even enough juice to call for help 
and not enough heat to survive even if you were heard." 
Subcommander Folsom shrugged. "Unstrap. We'll go to 
briefing room B." The slender officer disappeared, leaving 
the hatch open and Trystin alone in the simulator. Trystin 
unbelted and slipped out of the worn pilot's couch. Then he 
eased his gear bag from the locker beside the empty 
noncom's couch. After ducking through the hatch and 
stepping across the gap from the simulator to the fixed 
platform, he slowly climbed down the ladder to the gray 
rock floor of the simulator bay.
By the console stood now-Major Freyer and her 
instructor, a subcommander Trystin did not recognize who 
was talking to the simulator tech. "How did it go. 
Lieutenant?" asked Ulteena Freyer. Trystin wiped his 
forehead. "I froze to death in deep space . . . slowly." 
"Endgaming. "She nodded. Trystin frowned and paused.
"It's a old chess term-the game, you know. Look it up. 
If one player can think a move farther ahead than the other, 
then he can force the less perceptive player into making 
apparently logical moves that lead to a trap." She glanced 
toward the commander. "Head on up, Major."
She smiled briefly at Trystin and lifted her gear bag. 
"Hold tight, Trystin."
Trystin nodded back at her and then walked slowly out of 
the bay and into the corridor off which were the seemingly 
endless small debriefing rooms. Kind as she was, why did 
Ulteena always act so superior? He snorted. Probably 
because she was. Back on Mara, she had figured out how to 
defeat tanks before they arrived. He hadn't even figured that 
the revs might have tanks.
He took another deep breath and stepped into briefing 
room B.
"Sit down. Lieutenant." Subcommander Folsom smiled. 
Trystin sat.
"Do you have any idea why you ended up where you 
would have frozen into a cold cometary lump in some 
forsaken outer orbit?"
"Was the situation designed to sucker me in?" Trystin 
wiped his forehead. "Or designed to let me sucker myself 
in?"
Surprisingly, Folsom leaned back in the plastic chair and 
nodded. "Now why would we want to do that to you? And 
why do we use what appear to be antique physical 
simulators, rather than modem neuronic simulators?"
Trystin had pondered that question himself-certainly 
more than once, but the rigorous schedule had left him 
limited time for questions. The entire Service left little time 
for questions, and only when he was too exhausted to 
ponder them. "I had wondered that. My first thought was 
that they're expensive, and that they probably take a lot of 
maintenance."
Folsom half nodded, then pulled at his chin. "That's 
partly right. The underlying reason is because we're still 
full-body creatures. A lot of feedback to your brain is 
nonconscious, but you're still aware of it. The more we can 
duplicate the entire environment, not just your mental 
processing of that environment, the more real it seems. 
Sure, I suppose we could hook each of you up in suits that 
fed inputs into every nerve in your body, but every damned 
one of those suits would have to be custom-designed. The 
physical simulators are much more cost-effective. Also, we 
don't have to worry nearly so much about monitoring your 
system. The physical simulators also have physical limits." 
He paused. "Although we have lost a few idiots who 
screwed things up so bad that the overrides couldn't 
compensate quickly enough." Trystin swallowed.
"That doesn't happen very often. But back to the original 
question. Why did I set up this trap for you?"
"So we recognize that kind of situation before it gets out 
of hand?"
"It's worse than that." Folsom squared himself in the seat. 
"There's an ancient saying about forgetting that your 
objective was to drain the swamp when you're ass-deep in 
allodiles. Now, what that means is obvious enough. . . and 
it's not. When you're out there alone in that vette, or when 
you're the one in charge of piloting a cruiser or a transport 
with other people's lives in your hands, and when 
everything starts to go wrong-and it does, more than we 
like to make public-there's a terrible temptation to let the 
patterns you've learned take over. After all, reflexes, 
especially implant-boosted reflexes, are far faster than 
stopping to think, especially when you feel like you only 
have minutes or seconds to respond. Boosted reflexes make 
that even worse, because you can respond with trained 
patterns far more quickly than you can analyze a situation. 
That's why you have to anticipate." Trystin waited.
"Anticipation-that's the key to being able to think and 
react, simultaneously. We try to help you at first by 
deactivating your implants to slow down your training 
patterns. Later, you'll have to handle these things at full 
speed or even at full reflex boost-and it may not be fast 
enough. Remember, a lot of the time you're going to be on 
the wrong side of the time-dilation envelope, and that 
means you'll have to react instantly and correctly, while the 
rev has all the time in the world-comparatively." Trystin 
moistened his lips.
The brown-haired subcommander took out a series of 
sheets and laid them on the small table. "First... your 
handling of the fusactor dump was quick and effective. 
Nicely done. I probably would have cross-checked the 
accumulators earlier, but that's something you learn with 
time, and it's not in the tutorials." Trystin wiped his still-
damp forehead. "Why would the accumulators have blown. 
Lieutenant?" Trystin frowned.
"I know. They blew because I told them to. . . but what 
sort of problem could have caused that to happen?" "Well, 
ser . . ." "Don't stall."
"Poor maintenance or too many rapid temperature 
changes. Either that or physical damage-a close-in laser or 
shrapnel-but that wouldn't seem likely, since-"
"Since anything close enough to inflict physical damage 
would probably be enough to take you out. You're right." 
Folsom cleared his throat. "The two biggest causes of 
equipment failure are the same as they always were, even 
back when people tried to slash and bash each other with 
broadswords-operator error and maintenance or 
construction error. Take it from there."
"Operator error," began Trystin, trying to get his brain to 
operate more quickly. "Would a pattern of dumping too 
many quick load shifts on the system eventually wear out 
the accumulators?"
"That's right. Sure, that's what they're designed for, but 
save that ability for when you really need it. I know, station 
controllers want you off the lock now. And tactical 
coordinators want you to react even more quickly, but an 
extra minute to allow a gentle buildup of thrust and a 
smooth power transfer won't change anything, and it might 
mean those accumulators won't blow when you really need 
them."
Trystin winced, thinking about his abrupt power shifts. 
"You all do it to begin with. It's part of the process. What 
about maintenance?" "Does that mean better preflight of 
equipment?" "That helps. How would you tell a stressed 
accumulator from one that wasn't?" "I don't know," Trystin 
confessed. "There are ways. Some are in the tech library. 
Some are in the minds of the better techs. I won't tell you. 
I'm not being cruel. I've told student pilots before, and most 
never remembered. So I don't. The ones who want to live 
go find out."
Trystin repressed a groan. Another item to dig out of 
obscure files, manually no less, since his implant linkages 
didn't work for anything.
"Back to your flight. Once the accumulators went, why 
didn't you just bat-ass above the ecliptic for a dust-free zone 
and translate?"
"I was still running at eighty-five percent-" "Until you ran 
into the dust and had to beef up the shields."
Trystin was beginning to see the pattern. The power he 
had shifted to the shields was meant to be temporary, but 
with his out-system velocity and the extended dust belt, the 
power load had strained the capacity of the fusactor, and its 
efficiency and output had dropped, and then the rev 
patroller  had shown up.
"So why didn't you tilt for the ecliptic after you cleared 
the dust?"
"I shut down all EDI emissions and thought I would be 
able to coast clear of the first rev."
"You did that all right, but by then you were in the 
detection envelope of the second without enough power to 
outrun a solar-sail ore carrier or a water asteroid on a slow 
spiral." Trystin nodded.
"Do you see. Lieutenant? Each decision you made 
seemed perfectly logical. Except for one. "That toggling of 
your defense shields was unnecessary, probably the only 
really overtly stupid thing you did, not that it would have 
changed the outcome much. Anyway, there are times when 
you'd just better cut your losses and run for home."
Folsom stared at Trystin. "Now . . . I understand young 
pilots. None of you want to admit that there's something 
you can't handle. There's a saying that dates back to the first 
years of atmospheric flight. It's still true. 'There are old 
pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold 
pilots.'
"The other thing that you had to be considering in not 
choosing a high ecliptic exit was the compounded 
translation error. Is saving a month-or a year-in elapsed 
time worth the rest of your life? Some pilots have thought 
so. I hope you're not one of them. After all, we do have 
several million credits already invested in you, one way or 
another."           .                    .
Trystin nodded once more, trying not to reveal that the 
commander had caught him out again.
Folsom picked up the papers from the table and stood. 
"Not too bad, all in all. Especially if you learn something 
from it." Trystin stood. "Yes, ser."
The slender commander walked out, his steps slow and 
deliberate.
After packing up his notes, Trystin flicked off the 
debriefing room lights and walked down the corridor 
toward the ramps. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to get a 
shower before his translation-engineering class, and the 
way he smelled, he needed a shower.
The simulators were on nearly the bottom levels-that was 
because it was easier to cancel the grav fields generated by 
the equipment nearer the center of the small moon-or big 
asteroid-that was Chevel Beta.
He had almost reached J level when he heard someone 
come out of a corridor below and start to follow him up the 
ramps. "Trystin?" He stopped and turned.
Jonnie Schicchi trudged up the ramp behind him. "I saw 
you had Commander Folsom as your setup instructor. 
Constanzia says he's a mean old bastard." "He's tough," 
Trystin conceded. "Everything here is tough." Schicchi 
looked down at the ramp. "You figure out the power-
translation problems?"
"Most of them, except the second one. As far as I could 
figure out, you can't make a translation. " Trystin wiped his 
still-damp forehead. "But the worksheet asks for power 
requirements, maximum distance, and a coordinate 
envelope. I don't know." "So what did you do?"
Trystin shrugged. "Put down the calculations indicating it 
couldn't be done. I probably overlooked something, and 
Commander Eschbech will make me feel like an idiot." 
Trystin looked up the ramp. "I've got to get moving. I need 
a shower before class." "So do I, but I'm too tired to rush." 
"See you later." Trystin hurried up the ramps toward J level 
and his cubicle. Luckily, all the classes were on D level-as 
were the few administrative offices.
"Right. Maybe Yamidori can help me with the 
engineering stuff."
Trystin didn't rise to the bait, although he felt vaguely 
sorry for Schicchi. Supposedly, Jonnie had great instincts, 
at least in the simulator, but equally great difficulties with 
more abstract exercises.
Trystin began to unfasten the shipsuit even before he was 
fully inside his cubicle.
22
 "Before we approach the tactical aspects of translation,  
such as the virtual impossibility of synchroneity, that is, the 
synchronization of translations and emergence from 
translation by separate spacecraft, we need to discuss 
translation error. We talk about 'translation error,' but is it 
really an error? Of course not." Commander Kurbiachi 
nodded at his own answer to his question. "We call it an 
error because we cannot determine in advance exactly how 
much apparent elapsed time passes in our space-time 
universe while a ship is in the process of translating 
between the congruencies created by a translation engine. 
Two identical ships with precisely, or as precise as we can 
make it, the same cargo and personnel can routinely emerge 
at the same point inspace with differences in translation 
time as great as two months. The problem is that each ship, 
each point of translation, each time of translation is unique. 
Thus, even attempting to determine the impact of literally 
hundreds of subtly different variables upon a translation 
through what can be roughly called chaos, though it is not, 
becomes a mathematical problem beyond the capabilities of 
any equipment yet developed. Oh, our estimations have 
gotten relatively precise, but they are only estimations, and 
they are really only even halfway precise for a single ship. . 
. most references do not account for the impact of the so-
called translation error upon multiple ship movements . . ."
Sitting in the second row of the dozen-plus would-be 
pilots, comprised of officers at three slightly different 
practical training levels, Trystin stifled a yawn.
"As established by the noted academician Ryota more 
than a century ago, because so-called translation error is a 
function of the unique properties linked to each translation, 
the result approximates a random distribution within a 
range limited by the gross variables of the situation." The 
commander paused as a major in the third row raised her 
hand. "Yes, Major?"
"I might be getting ahead, but theoretically," asked 
Ulteena Freyer, "theoretically, if you had a large enough 
group of ships, and you attempted simultaneous 
translations, effectively wouldn't you end up with groups of 
ships emerging at roughly coincident times?"
"That is certainly theoretically possible, and it was one of 
Ryota's theorems that such would be the case-the 
Distribution Theorem. However. . ."-Kurbiachi paused 
before continuing-"the number of variables involved 
would have required, according to Ryota's calculations, 
based on the translation engines of that time, a fleet in the 
neighborhood of ten thousand ships. Today, my modest 
adaptations of the Distribution Theorem suggest that to 
achieve a barely acceptable distribution, that is, twenty 
groups of ten ships emerging from translation chaos with 
the ships in each group translating into real space within a 
day of each other, would still require almost a thousand 
ships." Kurbiachi bowed slightly, his short jet-black hair 
unmoving.
"Thank you. Commander."
"Your question illustrates the problem of achieving 
synchroneity, which is obviously the basis of tactics on any 
level above that of the individual ship. Theoretically and 
practically, synchronizing multiple ship movements 
through interstellar distances remains impossible, even 
using advanced chaos-perturbation modifications."
"What about the Harmony raid?" asked someone behind 
Trystin.
"Ah, yes. That is a good question." Kurbiachi smiled. With 
the smile, Trystin saw why he didn't want Kurbiachi as a 
check pilot.
"A good question, indeed. You are familiar with the 
Harmony raid?" Kurbiachi paused. "For those of you who 
are unfamiliar with the details, I will elaborate slightly. In 
Septem of 720, the Coalition effectively attacked the 
Harmony system with a fleet of nearly one hundred 
translation ships and destroyed all the feasible military 
targets within the system, then the main staging base for the 
Prophet's missionaries. That success has never been 
repeated, nor is it likely to be. The Coalition began to 
translate ships into the sub-Oort region of the Harmony 
system nearly four months before the attack. To obtain one 
hundred and eight ships-the precise number that began the 
attack-required attempted translations of over two 
hundred ships. Eighty ships missed the attack window 
through wide variations in translation and returned 
unharmed, although the last did not return to Chevel Beta 
until nearly three years after the attack. Twelve ships 
attempted the translation and did not return. The 
assumption is that those twelve missed the sub-Oort free 
dust zone and translated into nontranslatable zones...."
"Boom. . ." came a muted whisper from the front row. 
"Exactly," agreed Kurbiachi. "Then, of the one hundred 
eight ships that commenced the attack, twenty-seven 
survived and returned." He bowed to the lieutenant who had 
asked the question. "After the Harmony attack, the 
Revenant military authorities widened their patrols to 
include the outer fringes of their systems. That tactic, while 
somewhat costly, precluded any Coalition attempt to evade 
the synchroneity limits through a phased buildup of forces 
within a system. . - ."
Trystin pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his 
nose, trying to avoid a yawn. History and more history! The 
conclusion was simple enough: No one had yet figured out 
how to have two ships translate at the same time and 
emerge close to each other, either in time or space, although 
time seemed to be the bigger problem.
". . . As a result of the synchroneity limitations, pitched 
interstellar battles between fleets are highly unlikely, and 
the system defense provides, with the development of EDI 
technology, certain advantages to the defender. . . ."
Trystin stifled another yawn. While Kurbiachi was a 
brilliant tactician in his own way, his lectures were boring. 
Out of the old parashinto mold, he was polite and refused to 
adopt more interesting classroom techniques because they 
might cause his students to lose face publicly.
Rumor said he was far more taxing in private. Trystin 
hoped never to find out.
". . . likewise the Tompkins' Limit restricts the capacity 
of translation engines to masses of less than roughly two 
thousand metric tonnes . . . and translations involving 
masses exceeding one thousand tonnes have certain. . . 
difficulties ..."
In the engineering class, Trystin reflected. 
Subcommander Eschbech had begun on the mathematics of 
the Tompkins' Limit, and Eschbech was far more 
interesting.
". . . in combating both the synchroneity restrictions and 
the Tompkins' Limit, the Revenants of the Prophet have 
returned to what might appear to be an anachronistic 
approach-the use of fusactor mass conversion-boosted 
asteroid ships, with modified translation-effect acceleration 
and deceleration, based on . . ."
Trystin doodled out what looked like a chunk of iron 
asteroid, then added his conceptualization of the so-called 
deceleration module. Sooner or later, Kurbiachi had to get 
into tactics, rather than why there weren't tactics. At least, 
Trystin hoped so.

23
"That's all, ser. Your implant will feel strange for a while 
with the wider band receptivity, but everything checks, and 
your neural system's in better shape than when you checked 
in." The tech folded the equipment away from Trystin's 
face. "We'll give you another check before you leave on 
your assignment, but everything should be all right. If 
anything hurts or burns, get back here immediately. That 
shouldn't happen, but it does sometimes." She coughed. 
"You ought to feel better, at least until you give it a 
workout."
"First rest it's had in a while." Trystin stood and 
stretched. In fact, it had been eight standard months since 
he had used his implant. "Glad it's you and not me." 
"Why?" asked Trystin.
"You ever see someone with a burned neural system? 
Those who don't die? They shake and shiver all over, and 
every time they move, their faces twist, like each movement 
sends needles through their brains. No thanks. Lieutenant. 
You can have it." The tech shook her head.
The first sensation he was aware of was that the silence 
in his skull was gone. The trickling signals even from the 
medical equipment registered, like a background hum, and 
he could sense the main Chevel Beta net, though he didn't 
have the protocol to tap into the signals. "Thank you." He 
turned to the tech before leaving. "You're welcome, ser."
Did he hear a note of sadness in her voice? Resignation? He 
checked the time through the implant-1320, more than 
enough time before his simulator session for him to stop by 
the library and work out the references he needed to 
complete the problems that Commander Eschbech had 
dumped on the engineering class.
Why weren't there hookups in their rooms? All it took 
was cabling and inexpensive, or relatively inexpensive, 
hardware. Trystin rubbed his forehead. In a way, it didn't 
make sense. Yet, so far, everything that the Service did had 
a reason, not always a reason Trystin accepted, but a 
reason. Was it too expensive? Or old habit? He pursed his 
lips. That question would wait for later. He still had to 
figure out a series of problems on superconductivity lines 
and translation engines.
The workstations at the South end of the library were all 
vacant except for two-one in each corner. Trystin did not 
recognize either officer in the room. He took the console in 
the middle, easing his gear bag as far under the shelf that 
held the console as it would go, and toggling the screen 
controls before realizing that he could again use his 
implant.
The implant link-connect was soft, almost flat, but faster 
than he recalled as he called up the engineering index and 
began to race through the superconductivity entries.
As usual, none were exactly what he needed, and he 
wondered if Commander Eschbech designed his 
assignments just that way so that they always required four 
different references, interpolations, calculations, and 
sometimes just plain guesswork.
How was he supposed to come up with the specifications 
of a ceramic-carbon-helix design for a supercon line 
designed to handle a translation engine with a thousand-
light-year limit on optimality? And why? Trystin took a 
deep breath.
After completing three of the problems, Trystin rubbed 
his forehead. The noise of the implant still bothered him, 
enough that he had a slight headache. "Good luck this 
afternoon," said a soft voice. Trystin looked up at the round 
face of Constanzia Aloysia, who had cut her hair so short 
that the frizziness almost did not show.
"Thank you." He looked at her again. "Why?" "I saw the 
assignments board." "Not Commander Mitchelson?" "Not 
that bad." She smiled. "Commander Kurbiachi." "Thanks."
"You're welcome." She looked at the few notes he had 
scrawled on his pad and at the screen that showed his 
engineering work to date. "You do those problems? He said 
that they were optional." "If I don't do it all, I get in 
trouble." Lieutenant Aloysia shook her head, then brushed 
something off the sleeve of her shipsuit. "I thought you 
wouldn't want to be surprised."
"Thank you." Trystin tried to put more warmth into his 
voice.
"That's all right, lit see you in Engineering." As Constanzia 
left the study area, Trystin checked the time. Although he 
hadn't Finished the last problem and couldn't figure out how 
to set it up, he was out of time. He gathered his gear and 
downlinked from the library system. He hurried out, but no 
one looked up.
After bounding down the ramps at a speed less than 
dignified, Trystin stepped up to the assignments board in 
the square foyer off the south end of the simulator bay. A 
name in glowing letters appeared next to his-that of 
Commander Kurbiachi. He moistened his lips. So far he 
had been lucky enough to avoid the commander, although 
the rumor was that he was fine in class, all right in the 
simulator, and murder in actual corvette trainers. Trystin 
headed down the corridor toward briefing room three B, the 
heels of his boots whispering across the textured plastic 
floor sealant.
Although his steps had always been heavy--Salya had 
claimed the Academy knew when Trystin left the house- 
the half-gee field in the station kept even Trystin from 
sounding like a reclamation tractor.
In the briefing room. Commander Kurbiachi was waiting, 
his informal greens crisp, his face smooth and unlined.
"Lieutenant Desoll, ser."
"Sit down. Lieutenant." The commander handed Trystin 
the worn briefing packet, but did not sit as Trystin eased 
into the scratched gray plastic chair. "You have just had 
your implant reactivated-is that not correct?" "Yes, ser."
Kurbiachi nodded. "In this session, you will be doing a 
standard recon run, through the Jerush system, looking for a 
rev drone or scout. The parameters are as accurate and as 
up-to-date as we can make them. In fact, this session is 
modeled after such a run. Yes, we do infiltrate rev systems, 
and they occasionally infiltrate ours. Space is quite large, 
remember."
In turn, Trystin nodded, trying to look alert, despite the 
distractions provided by the increased noise of his 
"improved" implant.
"This session is a review. Lieutenant, for very good 
reasons. First, you are going to have difficulty in adjusting 
to the greater data flow from your implant. You will be 
confused and trying to use both manual and implant input 
to control the corvette, and you may have difficulty 
learning how to tone back on your increased sensitivity. 
You can do that, you know, but it takes work and practice, 
and we haven't given you enough of that yet. Finally, the 
readouts and data flows will all be speeded up so that you 
experience the full impact of operating under dilation 
effect."
The commander half turned and took several steps 
toward the door, hands behind his back, before turning and 
walking back toward Trystin. "This simulator session is 
usually the most difficult for all pilots. Lieutenant," said 
Commander Kurbiachi. "That will not be because there is 
anything new, however." "Yes, ser." Trystin nodded.
"As I said, most pilots have great difficulty handling the 
volume of the data flows through the implant. I must 
remind you that for the next several sessions, you will only 
be receiving the tactical and basic-maintenance data. The 
actual mission is merely a flight from the Jerush Oort area 
on a recon runby. You will probably encounter rev 
patrollers, since they do investigate any EDI tracks within 
their system, as do we.
"Unlike most simulator sessions, on this one you may 
take as long as you wish on your setup. I would recommend 
that you do so." Kurbiachi nodded and bowed ever so 
slightly.
"Thank you, ser." Trystin bent and picked up his gear bag 
and followed Kurbiachi out into the simulator bay and the 
smell of plastic, ozone . . . and tension.
Kurbiachi merely nodded at simulator six, and Trystin 
climbed the ladder .easily. When he opened the simulator 
hatch, Trystin staggered, feeling the same overpowering 
flow of data that he had sensed in entering the cockpit of 
the Roosveldt. The signal intensity was lower, no doubt on 
purpose, and the amount of data flowing through the 
implant was less, but Trystin still felt as though the entire 
Maran Defense Net were attempting to take up residence in 
his skull-and what he experienced wasn't even the full 
scope of what was supposed to be routine for a pilot officer. 
He glanced at the empty noncom couch. He didn't even 
have to deal with the technical data that would normally be 
going through the tech boards.
He wiped his forehead. Kurbiachi had said he could take 
as much time as he needed.
First, he checked the hatch and the air system before 
sealing the cockpit and stowing his gear in the locker. Then 
he strapped in and began the checklist, fumbling because he 
was used to the manual toggles and studs, and not his 
implant.
"Precheck," he instructed the system through the implant.
"Full or abbreviated?" came the system query. "Full."
Trystin was deliberate, his directions through the implant 
considered and precisely triggered as he tried to get a more 
complete feel, although every rush of data seemed to bring 
another sweat to his body. His entire shipsuit felt soaked 
long before he signaled for switchover from "station" power 
to "ship" power. Just as in the Roosveldt, the moment of 
weightlessness twisted his guts before the half-grav of 
pseudoship-norm reasserted itself in the simulator cockpit.
"Coldrock one, station control. You are cleared for low-
thrust separation...."
"Beginning separation." Trystin demagnetized the 
holdtights, and, as Kurbiachi had predicted, found both his 
hands and implant toggling the repeller field. The screens 
twisted, indicating somehow Trystin had managed to 
separate at an angle and with a tumbling motion. With ship 
gravity centered in the hull, he didn't feel the tumbling, but 
the screen inputs and the data net confirmed his clumsiness.
Slowly he pulsed the field until he had the "corvette" on 
course line and stable. Theoretically, he could have tumbled 
for a long time without too much damage, before the 
oscillations created by the conflict between the minute but 
real solar and planetary fields began to build. But the inputs 
from the net would have given him a headache, and 
Kurbiachi definitely would have fried him for overstressing 
the simulator.
Don't think like it's a simulator, he told himself as he 
confirmed the thrust and course line. Think like it's a 
corvette. It is a corvette.
"Dust density is point zero six and rising," scripted the 
message from the exterior monitors.
Trystin inched up the shield power, noting the increased 
heat in the accumulators, then recalculated his path, trying 
for an arc above the dust line that generally centered in the 
ecliptic. "Outside system parameters." He tried again.
"Will require one hundred ten percent of system power."
While he could get the power from an accumulator 
dump, that wasn't a good idea, and he recomputed with 
lower thrust, knowing that the lower thrust would drag out 
the elapsed time.
"Dust density point zero five and dropping." As he 
recomputed again, Trystin smiled grimly, through the 
headache that was steadily worsening. It was going to be a 
long session/mission.
24
After adjusting the arm units to near-maximum resistance, 
Trystin stepped up on the inclined treadmill and began to 
jog, pumping his arms rhythmically against the resistance 
units.
Each minute ticked by slowly, ever so slowly, in the one 
point one gee section of the workout facility that he usually 
seemed to have to himself. After less than twenty minutes, 
his legs felt like lead, but he kept jogging. At forty minutes, 
his arms felt like they were ready to cramp into inert lead.
He slowed the machine to a quick walk an hour after he 
had started, and to a slower walk after another ten minutes. 
His exercise shirt and shorts were drenched, but there was 
no point in taking a shower-not yet, not until he cooled 
down more.
After walking slowly for another five minutes, he 
stepped off the equipment and into the reading-room 
section of the workout facility where there were four 
consoles, all of which seemed almost new. He pulled the 
sturdy chair over to the end console, the one closest to the 
overhead ventilator. If student pilots couldn't get enough 
time to exercise, the guidelines recommended as much time 
as possible in the higher-gee environment. Trystin tried to 
do both as much as possible. Unlike some student pilots, he 
had no trouble sleeping. Waking up, yes, but not sleeping.
He flipped the power switch, absently using the small towel 
to blot his forehead as he used the implant to interface with 
the station library. He began his daily search through the 
maintenance manuals to see what else he could find to 
follow up on the hints he had picked up from various 
instructors. All of them seemed so straightforward, but 
none of them were. Commander Folsom's suggestions 
about detecting accumulator problems had led him through 
reference after reference, and more than a few talks with 
senior noncoms, most of whom had just said something 
like, "I really can't say as there's any specific thing, ser. It's 
a feeling you get with experience."
Trystin didn't have the experience, and by the time he got 
it, it might be too late, and that had led to his ongoing 
search of engineering and maintenance manuals. Between 
Commander Folsom and Commander Eschbech, it seemed 
as though he'd read every engineering reference in the 
system, and he still couldn't answer half the questions they 
asked.
He wiped his forehead and took another deep breath. As he 
began to cool down, he wiped his forehead again before 
going back to the material on the screen. Then he glanced 
up and, through the glass, saw a trim but muscular figure in 
an exercise suit begin a warm-up routine in the next room. 
The woman's back was to him, but she looked somehow 
familiar. After a minute or so, since her face was away from 
Trystin and he couldn't figure out who it might be, he went 
back to the net and the library.
The engineering manual indicated that minute power 
surges often foreshadowed accumulator failure, but unless 
he installed a recording monitoring system on every ship 
how would that knowledge help? He needed a clue that was 
visual. What did power fluctuations affect? He couldn't find 
anything on that, but that led him down the line of tracking 
power flows-
"Exercising in the sitting position. Lieutenant?" asked 
Ulteena Freyer, sweat pouring down her forehead as she 
walked into the reading room.
"I already spent an hour on the treadmill and weights," 
Trystin snapped. 
"Touchy, aren't you?"
"Major, I apologize for any offense I may have caused. 
Certainly, none was intended. I may have been somewhat 
preoccupied with my work." 
"You are touchy."
Trystin repressed a sigh and offered a smile. "Only when 
I'm tired."
"I'm sorry, Trystin. I spoke out of turn. The other day I 
came in here and found every console taken, but not a one 
of them had even raised a sweat." "That's all right."
"What are you working on?" Ulteena took the console 
closest to the door.
"Engineering . . . sort of. Stuff on accumulators." 
"Hmmmm. . . is that new? I don't recall much on them. " 
She wiped her forehead with the small towel taken from the 
waistband of her exercise shorts. Like Trystin had been, she 
was soaked in sweat.
"Something that an instructor suggested I check out..." 
Trystin admitted. "I've been sandwiching it in."
"Then it's either Kurbiachi or Folsom." She wiped her 
forehead with the back of her forearm. "Folsom."
"That figures. He's a translation engineer. Kurbiachi gets 
you with sensors and nav equipment." "I seem to have had 
them both." "You're fortunate." She laughed, and the sound 
was actually musical. "That's assuming you survive." 
"Right."
"You will, and you'll probably appreciate them later." "I 
keep trying to hold that in mind. It doesn't always help, 
since they're always coming up with something else."
Ulteena laughed softly. "That's the problem with all of 
us. We've never time to think about the past, and we're 
always planning for the future. And since the future's 
always the future, we never live in the present."
Trystin paused. He'd never thought of Ulteena as 
philosophical. "I hadn't thought of it quite that way."
"Try it. You still have to prepare for what will happen, 
but it might help." Ulteena wiped her forehead. "If you'll 
pardon me, I do have to do some of that preparation 
myself."
"Of course." Trystin nodded as she turned to the console. 
He looked at her back for a moment, then wondered why he 
bothered. While she was friendly enough, sometimes 
surprisingly warm, they were headed for different ships, 
perhaps totally different parts of the Coalition.
Never live in the present . . . don't have time to remember 
the past . . . planning for the future . . . her words swirled in 
his mind. Then he wanted to laugh as he looked down. He 
didn't really have time to consider what she'd said-not if 
he wanted to avoid having Folsom and Kurbiachi or 
Commander Eschbech allover him.
Did the Service design it so no one had time to think, 
really think? He still hadn't found time to finish reading the 
handouts on Revenant theology, perhaps because he kept 
getting hung up on the whole question of why anyone 
would believe a prophet without any real physical evidence 
of a god.
He shrugged and flicked his console from accumulators 
to translation subsystems.
25
Trystin checked his armor and the seals on the helmet  
again, holding on to the railing inside the access tube. The 
short figure in armor arrowed down the tube toward him in 
the streaking bound that those experienced in min-gee 
affected. He caught the subcommander's insignia-not that 
any of the instructors were less than subcommanders with 
at least two complete ship tours-and the dark hair before 
he saw the woman's name-duValya. "You're Lieutenant 
Desoll?" She braked easily and stared at him, dark eyes 
matching dark hair, a face regular enough to be attractive, 
except for the penetrating intensity of the eyes. Why did all 
the attractive women have such perceptive eyes? Or was he 
only attracted to perceptive women? "Yes, ser."
"We've got number ten. Lieutenant. Armor ready?" "Yes, 
ser."
"We'll do the preflight first, and then I'll brief you after 
you've had a chance to familiarize yourself with the feel of 
the systems." "Yes, ser."
"Some pilots feel that you don't need to preflight the 
outside of a corvette, especially if you're the only one 
piloting it, every flight. That's probably true. On the 
average, what can happen in space? Then again, it's your 
life, and a half hour of time. Do you want to gamble your 
life against half a standard hour, especially when your 
translation error can run days?"
The subcommander's logic was sound, but all those half 
hours added up, and pretty soon they amounted to days, and 
he wouldn't always have days.
"Now, I know that all the little safety edges can add up, 
and there will be times that you feel you just don't have the 
time..."
Trystin repressed a groan. Did all of them read minds? ". . . 
so the best policy, I have found, is to do everything 
whenever it is at all possible. Then, when the mission 
comes when you really don't have time, you've laid the 
odds in your favor." Subcommander duValya bobbed her 
head, but her short thick hair didn't move. Trystin nodded.
"I know you know the preflight sequence, and you've 
practiced it on the exterior dummies in the simulator bay 
for at least the last six months, but it's different when you're 
weightless and floating around." Commander duValya 
cleared her throat. "You start with the lock seals, even 
before you head out. Then, once you're suited and sealed, 
you cycle the exterior side lock. I know it's part of the 
station and not the vette, but . . . it could be embarrassing, 
or worse, if the lock were to jam with you on the outside. 
Cycling generally prevents that. There's some loss of 
atmosphere, but given that you represent close to a billion 
creds, a little air is cheap insurance. . . ."
Trystin listened as duValya repeated, so close to word for 
word that she might have written them, the preflight 
manual's instructions. Maybe she had. All the instructors 
seemed to be experts on something-and everything. ". . . is 
that clear?" "Yes, ser."
"Fine. It's all yours. I'll watch. You can ask questions 
without penalty, this time, but if you forget something or 
have to ask a question later, I won't let you forget it. Now . . 
. you go out first."
Trystin sealed his suit, triggering his implant. "Comm 
check, Commander?" "Check, Lieutenant."
The training corvettes essentially floated in heavy 
reinforced composite docks off the spiderweb of access 
tubes and locks. Since Chevel Beta was a largish chunk of 
rock with minimal gravity, providing artificial gravity 
outside the station proper would have been a waste of 
power.
Remembering all the briefings, after he exited through 
the narrow lock, Trystin immediately clipped the retractable 
tether line to the recessed ring by the corvette's hatch.
Seemingly slumping in the ship cradle, the BCT-1O 
looked more like a partly deflated oval bladder made of 
metal than a ship.
"Good. Don't ever forget that tether clip. You can make a 
real mess of yourself if you have to use attitude jets. Here 
they have enough power for escape velocity." The 
commander's voice rang hollowly in the armor's speakers.
Slowly Trystin pulled himself across the corvette's hull, 
noting replacement plates, and the many signs of repairs, 
such as the scratches around the sensor bulges and the 
heavy layers of heatshield. As he had been instructed, he 
only did a visual inspection of the orientation jets and the 
mass thruster nozzles. He avoided even floating/bouncing 
behind the nozzles.
"Is there anytime you actually physically inspect the 
exterior of the thrusters?" he asked.
"Not unless you're an engineer and you've locked the 
ship and frozen the internal comm nets so that no one can 
play with the power. Even then, I wouldn't do it. The ECR 
of even stray boosted ions is enough to scatter you and your 
armor across a very large system. Besides, what would it 
tell you?"
Trystin nodded inside the helmet. Dumb question, but 
sometimes he did ask dumb questions, no matter how hard 
he tried.
After the preflight, they used the lock back into the 
access tube and then the ship's lock, still in full armor. 
Trystin released the mechanical holdtights, leaving the ship 
only held in place by the magnetic holdtights.
Once he confirmed that the ship's pressure was sound, he 
flicked on the heater switch and cracked his helmet. His 
breath steamed in the cold air, and he could hear the whine 
of the ventilators as they forced slowly warming air through 
the ship.
He unsuited and racked the armor. The commander 
racked hers in the second rack, the one used by the tech 
noncom in a standard corvette.
Trystin began the interior preflight by walking to the rear of 
the corvette and sliding open the lower-deck access panel.
"What happens if the panel jams?" asked the commander.
Trystin looked blank. He hadn't read or heard anything 
about jammed access panels. Then he looked at the half-
open panel. There were four heavy recessed hex sockets 
around the door. He peered underneath. "I don't know, ser. 
It looks as though you could lift the whole assembly if the 
hex nuts were removed."
DuValya smiled. "You get one for quick thinking, but 
that's about it. This isn't something that's on exams, but it 
happened to me once. Very embarrassing. I did just what 
you suggested. I even carry a hex socket." She pulled the 
socket wrench from her thigh pouch. "I suggest you get 
one. Not for this, though. If you have any gravity, the 
assembly will fall straight down on the converter. If you 
don't, it masses too much to move quickly and has a 
tendency to slide aft under pressure, where it will crimp or 
slice the supercon cables." Trystin winced.
"The best thing to do is call for overhaul, because any 
ship where the hatches are jamming is a mess. Of course, 
you can't do that in real life. So, what do you do?" Trystin 
waited.
"You leave it alone and use your handy hex socket to 
undo the vent-duct access cover here. It comes out right 
between the translation engine and the converter for the 
accumulators." She pointed to a plate on the deck forward 
of the access hatch. "Then you slice through the duct 
tubing-it's just plastic-and remove the access cover from 
the back on the other side. An old tech showed me that." 
She paused. "Go ahead. Lieutenant."
Trystin slid the access plate back and down into the 
grooves, then pulled himself down into the space below. 
The BCT-10 felt tired, even more tired than the worn 
simulators. Tired, and bigger, more real. The odor of heated 
and cooled plastic, of ozone cooked into walls and 
equipment, and the faintest odor of once-hot machinery and 
oil seeped into his nostrils. Although the main systems had 
virtually no moving parts, lots of the subsidiary systems 
did, like heating and ventilation, or the loaders for the 
single torp tube.
Trystin glanced around the power center, then began by 
inspecting the supercon lines, especially noting the line 
from the accumulator was dust-free.
The commander said nothing, just watched as he 
methodically went through all the steps of the internal 
preflight beginning with the aft power section and heading 
forward until they reached the cockpit.
"Go ahead. Strap in." Commander duValya stood beside 
the noncom's couch, rigged in the training corvettes to 
combine both override controls and technical boards.  
Trystin didn't see how the instructors managed the 
instructing, the overseeing, and the tech inputs. He'd been 
having enough trouble just piloting a simulator, and now he 
had to do it for real.
As Trystin strapped into the pilot's seat, the commander 
pulled out a data cube. "This is a typical mission cube, with 
all the information you'll need. It's the same information 
that you found in the simulator system, and the displays are 
the same, but, obviously, corvettes can't be hardwired into 
the simulator training bay.
"Now the one thing we don't do until your last training 
flight is to have you do a real translation. There's nothing 
special about translation, except the setup, and if we did 
many translations in training, we'd never get you trained, 
not without taking three times as long in elapsed Chevel 
time.
"In the real world, you may get a mission cube days in 
advance and have time to study it, or you may get it just 
before you strap in. We assume the worst-that you'll never 
get time." She handed him the cube. "You have fifteen 
minutes before separation."
Trystin slipped the cube into the reader, fumbling a bit in 
the nearly null-gee of the corvette and wishing his guts 
were a little more settled.
Then he went through the power-up sequence, step by 
step, relaxing when the half-gee of ship norm hit and his 
stomach settled.
After that, he studied the cube . . . and managed not to 
groan. In order to save fuel and extend the fusactor's range, 
for the entire mission, ship gee was to be at point two gees. 
He had to take the corvette to the inner Oort belt and find 
an abandoned rev hulk. The hulk was real, probably placed 
there for training purposes.
As he studied and began setting up the board and the 
computations, the commander strapped into the noncom 
seat. Unlike the ancient aircraft or ships or modern flitters, 
it made no difference where the commander sat, not since 
all navigation and observation data were relayed from the 
sensors and through the ship net.
"Ready, Lieutenant?" "Ready, ser." "Then let's get out of 
here."
"Beta Control, this is Hard Way ten. Requesting 
clearance for separation." Trystin called up the docking 
module into his mental screen, waiting for clearance to 
demagnetize the last holdtights.
"Hard Way ten, cleared for separation upon submission 
of mission profile."
Trystin grimaced. At least control was giving him a polite 
reminder. He scrambled through the profile assembly and 
zapped the profile through the net. "Control, this is Hard 
Way ten. Mission profile is filed with commnet, key Beta 
Charlie one zero three one four." "Hard Way ten, cleared 
for separation this time." Trystin felt like wiping his 
forehead, but didn't, instead demagnetizing the holdtights, 
and pulsing the orientation jets to separate the corvette from 
the docking cradle.
The nav signals poured into the representational screen 
before him and into the one in his head, creating a doubled 
image, before he scanned the power flow and the 
accumulators . Recalling Commander Folsom's advice, he 
let  the reactor output build rather than pumping power 
from the accumulators.
Through the direct-feeds, he could feel the BCT-1O 
lifting/floating/separating from Chevel Beta. He could also 
feel the dampness of his shipsuit, and he had barely begun.
26
"Why do we have to do another one of these?" As they 
walked toward the large lecture room, Jonnie Schicchi 
turned toward Trystin. "You're on top of things. Do you 
know?" 
They've scheduled four of these 'Cultural Ethics and Values' 
seminars. We've only had two so far," Trystin said, hoping 
that there weren't too many more handouts. He barely 
finished reading the last set, struggling through the selected 
excerpts from the Book of Toren.
"Both were boring," added Suzuki Yamidori, brushing 
short heavy hair back off her forehead, "mandatory or not."
Ahead of them Major Tekanawe stepped through the 
lecture-room doorway.
"Even the major has been at every one," added Schic-chi. 
"It must be even more boring for her." "She never lets it 
show," observed Suzuki. "She doesn't let much show," 
Trystin said. The three took the remaining chairs in the 
second row and waited. Trystin rubbed his nose, trying not 
to sneeze. His nose kept itching, reacting to something in 
the air, or the fine dust that even the most effective filters 
couldn't remove from a closed recycling system. The dust 
was worse in the lecture rooms, or maybe it just felt worse 
there.
At exactly 1030, a white-haired man, stocky but 
apparently solid, walked into the room and stopped in the 
open space before the dozen chairs. He wore a black tunic 
and trousers, without rank insignia or decorations. "Good 
morning. I'm Peter Warlock." He glanced around the lecture 
room at the dozen or so officers with an amused smile that 
quickly faded. "Although the seminar is on Cultural Ethics 
and Values, and even though you have already had two 
sessions. I'd like to start with my reasons why these 
seminars are necessary. There are two great commandments 
in warfare. The first and greatest commandment is to know 
thyself, and the second is like unto it. Know thine enemy." 
Warlock laughed easily. "I apologize for the antique 
rhetoric. Attribute it to my own antiquity. In these few 
seminars we have been trying to deal with the second great 
commandment-knowing the enemy. In the past, all too 
often people have fought wars through ignorance, through 
creating simplified stereotypes of their enemies, or even, in 
some twentieth- and twenty-first century-old-style 
calendar-conflicts, becoming so involved with trying to 
understand the enemy that they lost the motivation to fight."
Trystin tried to stifle a yawn. Like the others, this 
seminar promised to be long, and interesting as some of the 
material was, he was so tired that if he sat in a classroom 
too long he wanted to sleep.
"Too little understanding or too much ill-founded 
sympathy-it doesn't matter which-lead to the same 
problem, and that is reduced motivation and mechanical 
performance of arduous duties. One sure result of 
mechanical performance is death." Warlock paused.
"Now, as an ancient and now-obscure author said. It is 
far easier to mourn the dead than to protect the living.' 
What Levinson meant by this goes beyond the significance 
of the mere words . . ." Suzuki looked at Schicchi and rolled 
her eyes. "...it's a lot easier to say I'm sorry that a comrade 
died or a ship got totaled than to roll up your sleeves and 
work at understanding what makes the revs tick." "Who's 
he to say?" whispered Schicchi. The amused smile returned 
even as Warlock continued to speak.
". . . why do the revs let themselves be sent on their so-
called military missions? To be crowded into asteroid ships 
in cold storage for decades? Why did they pick the 
Coalition as the target for their so-called missions? In our 
terms, it doesn't make sense. But what about their terms? 
Why do they have virtually no crime on their home planets? 
And few police officers? A value system exists because it 
works. How does the Revenant system work? How does it 
control behavior? Whether you approve or not, you need to 
understand." Warlock's cold black eyes raked across the 
junior officers, and Trystin felt like shivering, without 
knowing exactly why. Did he really want to understand? 
Maybe it was better to adopt Quentar's philosophy that the 
only safe rev was a dead rev. Then . . . Quentar was dead. 
Trystin bit the inside of his cheek to try to remain alert. 
Beside him, Schicchi shifted his weight and yawned.

27
"All right. I want you to put the ship behind that rock-the 
nickel-iron one. Set it up so that you're
shielded from EDI detection from two six zero to 
zero eight zero off the outbound solar prime." 
Subcommander Folsom coughed, then added, "Then cut all 
thrust and attitude adjustments and shut down. The ship 
should stay in the envelope."
That left only a ton-degree latitude on each side of the 
too-small asteroid, and Trystin had to put the corvette 
behind the asteroid so it stayed, without constant course or 
attitude adjustments. After nearly six months of practice 
runs through the Chevel system, that sort of accuracy was 
supposed to be the norm, but on a full check-ride it was 
usually harder.
Trystin studied the asteroid-not much bigger than the 
BCT-15. Of course, that was the idea-to see how precise 
his piloting really was. Then he calculated the angles off the 
sides of the irregular rock.
For the training corvette to be shielded, according to the 
commander's specs, he'd have to bring it within four meters, 
sideways. And he'd have to do it gently, because too much 
thrust from attitude jets would either push the small asteroid 
away from the ship or result in a collision.
Trystin frowned, then nodded to himself, slowly feeding 
power to the thrusters and edging the ship around so that it 
lay barely "behind" the asteroid's orbit, not that anything 
but the most sensitive detectors would have shown such 
motion so far from the sun. Then he edged the corvette 
forward.
The detectors showed an eight-meter separation as the nose 
crept past the metallic mass. Trystin gave the outboard jets 
a puff, the tiniest of pulses, forcing himself to wait for a 
moment, then followed that with a quick decel pulse, so 
tiny that the instruments barely showed it. Seven meters of 
separation . . . six . . . five . .. Another millisecond pulse. 
Five . . . four and a half ...
Trystin waited, checking his fore and aft clearances, but 
the ship seemed stationary behind the asteroid. . . . four and 
a third . . .
Trystin decided against any further attempts, although he 
continued to check the separation, holding at a shade over 
four meters. The perspiration oozed across his forehead. 
"We're shielded, ser." "We are?" "Yes, ser."
Trystin could sense the commander's presence on the net, 
but he just sat and waited . . . and waited . . . and sweated . . 
. and waited ... . . . and waited.
"All right. Lieutenant. We could sit here for days, and we 
wouldn't move, it looks like. But I don't like that much 
nickel-iron that close. So pull us off to a more comfortable 
distance."
Again, checking the separation, Trystin eased the 
corvette to a position a good two hundred meters from the 
asteroid and checked the sensors. Nothing else registered. 
Trystin wiped his forehead and waited. Beep'.
He pulled up the warning, tracking it to the EDI and then 
the representational screen. A series of dashed lines 
appeared on the representational screen, confirmed by the 
EDI, but the dashes were spaced far differently from 
anything he'd seen and bore a reddish overlay. "Incoming 
ship, ser. I can't identify the type." A moment passed.
"That's a Farhkan, one of their fast couriers, I'd guess," 
the subcommander explained. "You haven't seen that track 
before?"
"No, ser."
"We see them now and again. They all look something 
like that." Folsom paused. "Don't mess with them. Rumor 
has it that they once just lifted a whole ship of Revenant 
high-muckety-mucks, examined them within a gram of 
their lives and let them go-after fusing all their torps." 
"Why?"
"I don't know. Lieutenant, and I'd recommend that you 
never get in a position to find out." The commander cleared 
his throat. "Now, an Ursinian track, since we're on the 
subject of alien EDI patterns-that looks more like a series 
of ovals, and they're very slow compared to the Farhkans."
"The Farhkan track has almost a red overlay," Trystin 
commented. "What about the Ursinians?" Trystin knew 
next to nothing about Ursinians except that they came from 
a sector even farther from Galactic Center than old Earth 
and that they resembled a cross between intelligent cats and 
small bears.
"You're a sensitive? That's interesting . . . well, I can't see 
it, but I've been told that an Ursinian EDI track holds a 
shade of maroon. Have you seen a real revvie track?" "No, 
ser. Just through perimeter sensors." "Supposedly, the 
revvie tracks shade to the blue, if you can see it. The Hyndji 
tracks are green, but fainter than ours, and Argenti tracks 
shade to the silver. The shades are a result of the harmonics 
in the drive tuning scales we use: It's a maintenance thing." 
Folsom cleared his throat. "Now, we're going to do a short 
recon run." He stretched his hand toward Trystin. "Here's 
another cube."
Trystin popped out the previous cube, the one that had 
the data for the outbound flight, stored it in the recessed 
rack, and slipped the new cube into the reader. The data 
poured through the net, and he had to frown because the 
recon run wasn't through the Chevel system, with a 
simulated translation, but through the Kaisar system. Kaisar 
wasn't inhabited, not by any life-form detected by man, not 
without water planets and nothing but hunks of molten rock 
or gas giants.
That meant a real translation.
He continued to scan the profile. "Do you want me to 
send a revised profile to Chevel Control?" "It might be nice, 
just in case we run into trouble." Trystin flushed, but 
compiled the profile, and zapped it out on ED standing 
wave.
Then he checked the ambient dust density-a shade over 
point four-before adding thrust outbound. If the 
attenuation remained standard, they would be clear of the 
fringe within ten minutes.
As they moved outward, he checked the screens for other 
debris-water comets, dark asteroids, but the screens 
remained blank. He studied the Kaisar profile, but it seemed 
straightforward enough-a high-speed pass by the outer gas 
giant with a full-scan sweep, and then a return and 
translation home. As Trystin began the translation power-
up, he wondered what else the commander had in mind.
As the power built, he ran through the mission profile. 
"Are you set up for translation. Lieutenant?" "Yes, ser."
"Then translate. This is for real. Translate us to the outer 
Oort range of Kaisar."
Trystin punched the translation stud and pulsed the 
initiation key through the net. Translation was about the 
only maneuver that took both physical action and neural 
command. In an emergency, the stud would work alone, but 
only if the internal net were off-line.
Darkness became light; noise became silence; and order 
flipped to chaos as the ship turned itself inside out. So did 
the ship's systems, and all the data streamed through Trystin 
inside out, meaningless gibberish, yet with the hint of 
something . . . something beyond chaos. Thud!
The sensors showed no overt change. The temperature 
outside the corvette was still only a handful of degrees 
above absolute zero. No stellar bodies registered within 
light-hours. But the EDI screen was blank, and the 
representational  screen showed a new solar system.
Trystin accessed the temporal comparators, then the 
representational comparison system, but the comparators 
registered first. "System matches Kaisar profile."
He adjusted the thrusters and eased the corvette on the 
course line toward Wilhelm, the outer gas giant, letting the 
acceleration build, bleeding off the artificial gravity and 
feeding the saved power into the acceleration. Shortly, the 
temporal compensators clicked in. "Translation error was 
five hours and twenty-four minutes." "Not too bad."
Trystin continued to scan the screens as the corvette 
swept in-system, noting that the temporal comparators 
began to jump as actual velocity entered the time-distortion 
curve.
He looked back to the tech seat, where Subcommander 
Folsom sat, eyes closed, apparently dozing. Trystin shook 
his head, then almost laughed. Why not? There wasn't much 
the commander could do, and he probably had his implant 
connected to the out-sensors and a dozen other warning 
inputs.
Trystin just wished he dared to take things that easily. He 
did take a long swallow from the Sustain bottle in the 
holder by his knee.
In time, he began to program the data sweeps of the big 
gas giant-Wilhelm. Why would anyone name a gas giant 
Wilhelm?
He took another swallow of Sustain and rubbed his 
forehead. Still a good standard hour on the corvette before 
they began the sweep. He didn't even try to figure the out-
of-envelope elapsed time.
Eventually, Wilhelm appeared large in not only the 
representational screens but in every other way.
The full-scan information poured through the sensors, 
leaving Trystin inundated with data on everything-just 
beginning with temperatures, natural EDI, magnetic fields. . 
. . And all the data were not just energy bits inscribed and 
recorded in the ship's data banks, but sensation and more 
ensation, to the point that Trystin's head ached. Beyond the 
standard, there was . . . something. . . .
With another gulp of Sustain and a deep breath, he forced 
his mind through the data. Feeling like he was mentally 
wading through a mass of numbers that sliced at him, he 
forced his concentration back toward the anomaly, the 
peaked and pulsed energy source. He frowned.
"Commander, there's what seems to be a locator beacon 
there." "Where?"
"Best I can make out, north latitude about thirty degrees, 
about eighty apparent on scan four." "Put it on my screen 
three." Trystin obliged.
"It is a locator beacon, and it's what you were supposed 
to find. Take us home." Folsom closed his eyes and leaned 
back in the tech/instructor couch again.
Trystin adjusted the course toward the nearest low-dust, 
low-ecliptic translation point. Nothing great, nothing 
spectacular-just find a locator beacon without being told. 
What if he hadn't? Would he have found himself back on 
the Maran perimeter line? Or driving transports or in-
system solar sails?
From the rear seat came the soft sound of snoring. Trystin 
watched the temporal envelopes curve up, wondering how 
much time they were jumping, but feeling too tired to really 
care. Seldom did the short missions around Chevel Beta 
involve time distortion beyond an hour or so.
Less than a subjective hour later, Trystin punched the 
translation stud for the second time and pulsed the initiation 
key through the net. Darkness again became light; noise 
became silence, and order flipped to chaos as the ship 
turned itself inside out. So did the ship's systems, and all the 
data streamed through Trystin once more, still with the hint 
of something beyond chaos. Thud!
The sensors showed no change. The temperature outside 
the corvette continued to register a handful of degrees 
above absolute zero, and no stellar bodies registered within 
ight-hours. The EDI screen was alive, mainly with the 
emissions of training corvettes.
Trystin again accessed the temporal comparators and the 
representational comparison system, and the system 
comparison registered first. "System matches Chevel 
profile."
"Good. Nice to know we got where we were supposed 
to."
Shortly, the temporal comparators clicked in. "Translation 
error was three hours and Fifty minutes. Total error of nine 
hours and fourteen minutes. Time-envelope dilation in the 
Kaisar system was eleven hours."
"So . . . this one flight jumped us forward in time, so to 
speak, a little more than a standard day. And the error was 
minimal. That's why we use Kaisar. Do you see why we 
don't do translations as a matter of course in training?" 
"Yes, ser."
"What's the power flow on the fusactor? Fuel reserves?" 
"Running eighty percent. Reserves are down to ten hours 
objective."
"Poor bucket's ready for overhaul." Folsom sighed. 
"Aren't we all, sooner or later. Don't answer that. It's not a 
question."
Trystin moistened his lips and kept watching the screens, 
cross-checking them with the implant data-feed. Was this 
really his last training flight? Had he made it? Or was he so 
bad that he was done-headed back to perimeter duty 
somewhere?
He hadn't done anything wrong, not that he knew. 
Finally, he toggled the comm band. "Beta Control, this is 
Hard Way one five. Request cradle assignment." "Hard 
Way one five, interrogative status." "Control, one five, 
status is green." "Tell them green beta," suggested the 
subcommander: "Control, this is one five. Status is green 
beta. Green beta." "Understand green beta." "That's 
affirmative." "Your cradle assignment is delta four."
"Understand delta four." "Stet, one five."
"Green beta," added Folsom conversationally, "means all 
right for short hops around the base. Fusactor output 
dropped off almost fifteen percent with the last translation, 
and you had it set up right, with optimal dust density on 
both ends. But I wouldn't want to take her out on another 
translation."
"Does that kind of drop-off happen often, or just before 
trouble?" asked Trystin.
"Nine times out of ten, it's before trouble, but not always. 
That's like everything else in this line of work. Nothing's 
absolute, and you have to go with the odds. The only thing 
that's absolute is death, and not even that, if you believe the 
revs." Folsom stretched again. "It's all yours until we're 
cradled. Try not to crash into anything. " He grinned, then 
leaned back and closed his eyes.
Of course, Trystin realized, he scarcely needed his eyes 
with his implant, not for monitoring the ship. Trystin kept 
on the net and the screens, occasionally wiping his 
forehead, making tiny corrections and easing the corvette 
toward Chevel Beta.
"Beta Control, this is Hard Way one five. Approaching 
cradles this time."
"Stet, one five. We have you. Cleared to delta four this 
time." "Stet, Control."
Trystin dropped the closure rate to meters per second, 
then meters per minute, finally easing the corvette into the 
apparently frail docking cradle. By the time he shut down 
the thrusters and attitude jets, his forehead and shipsuit 
were damp, for the first time in almost a dozen flights.
"Beta Control, Hard Way one five is cradled. Shutting 
down this time." "Stet, one five. Congratulations." 
Congratulations? Trystin wiped his forehead, and 
magnetized the holdfasts, then began the shutdown 
procedures. "We're cradled. Commander."
"Soft cradle. Nice touch."
"Thank you." Trystin continued methodically through the 
shutdown, ignoring the twisting in his guts when he flicked 
off the artificial gravity.
"By the way, what did you think of Marshal Warlock's talks 
on ethics?" Commander Folsom asked as he stood.
Trystin gathered up the mission data cubes and handed 
them back to the commander, trying not to swallow too 
hard. The stocky man had been Marshal Warlock, the hero 
of the Safryan Standoff?
"He doesn't like to announce himself, but he insists on 
giving some of the ethics lectures. What did you think?"
"Well . . . I understood the theory behind what he was 
saying, and I've read all the handouts." Trystin shook his 
head. "I keep having trouble understanding how intelligent 
people can swallow such crap about self-declared prophets. 
I mean, I know they do, but I can't make the connection 
between that kind of self-delusion and how understanding it 
makes us better pilots. Or whether it matters when you've 
got to stop a troid ship or even a tank assault on the Maran 
perimeter line."
"In short, you thought it was useless fertilizer?" 
Commander Folsom smiled.
"I didn't say that," Trystin said quietly, holding back a 
surge of anger. After all, he was one of the few who had 
actually read and studied the materials. "I just don't know 
how to apply it."
"Well, young fellow, if you're a top pilot, you've got a 
long career ahead of you. You might end up on the 
Planning Staff. Or as a perimeter commander. Or in 
Intelligence. You might even end up being an agent-don't 
look at me like that. You look like a lot of revs, and it's a lot 
easier to take someone with the right genes than to rebuild 
people who don't have them. And most Intelligence agents 
are former pilots, you know."
That was something Trystin didn't know, and he 
swallowed.
"If that happens, what Marshal Warlock said might come 
in handy," continued the commander. "Then it might ot. 
You might die young." Folsom paused. "You ever find out 
a way to "detect a stressed accumulator?"
"Ser?" Trystin wondered what stressed accumulators had 
to do with ethics.
"A stressed accumulator? I think we discussed this, didn't 
we?"
"Oh, yes, ser." Trystin cleared his throat. "I couldn't find 
any one foolproof way, but there are a couple of things I did 
find out. One was a check of the average system dust 
densities encountered. I didn't know this, but the 
maintenance system holds the records of all ambient 
conditions over the last ten missions. Ships with more than 
five missions out of ten with a dust density over point four 
five show a thirty-percent greater rate of accumulator 
problems." Folsom nodded. "Go on."
"Also, accumulator problems occur more often on ships 
with frequent short-jump translations. The only physical 
thing I could track down is that some of the techs say that if 
you start getting dust on the supercon line, you'll have 
problems." Trystin shrugged.
"Not bad," admitted Folsom. "You spent a lot of time 
tracking down information on one subsystem of your ship. 
You're going to be spending a career chasing and being 
chased by revs. Maybe a little more work on understanding 
the information you've picked up on the revs would be 
helpful in keeping your posterior intact." Folsom 
unstrapped from the rear seat. "You know. Marshal 
Warlock was one of the few survivors of the first wave at 
Safrya. He's one of the few to make a dozen successful 
recon runs through the Jerush and Orum systems. He's also 
one of the few experts on rev ethics and culture." Folsom 
paused. "Anyway, Lieutenant, it was a good run, and you 
should be pleased. You're basically a good pilot, and you 
might get to be really good someday."
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?
28
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.
29
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."
"Don't they give you detachment physicals?" Salya 
frowned.
"I volunteered for a follow-up study on young officers." 
Trystin offered a grin. "There was a pay bonus involved."
"Trust Trystin to follow the easy credits." Salya shook 
her head.
"It's not that bad. Just an additional physical every two 
years or so with a follow-up interview. Besides, Dad said 
I'd need all those credits if I were to become a pilot officer."
"The psychology people." Salya snorted. "I told them, 
'No, thank you.' I didn't want any of their notes in my files, 
not even for their money. Just be careful what you. tell 
them."
Trystin thought about his struggles with the ethical issues 
of theft. "I've tried to be careful." He picked up another 
cake.
"They're sneaky." Salya looked at the tray, then finally took 
another lemon square. "This is the last one for me."
"Who's counting?" Trystin grinned at his sister. "Feeling 
guilty? Or worried that someone might see a bulge in the 
midsection?" He watched Salya blush. She'd always 
blushed easily.
"She doesn't need to worry," said Nynca. "What about this 
major?" asked Trystin. "Morn and Dad had mentioned-"
"Oh, you mean Shinji? He's just a friend. He'd like it to 
be more."
"Shinji?" asked Nynca. "As in the legend of Shinji 
Takayama?"
"How did you know his last name?" 
"Just a guess."
Trystin could sense the sadness his mother masked with a 
quick smile, although he had no idea why a mere name 
would cause it. "What about him?"
"He's tail, but not so tall as you. Dark hair, of course, 
parashinto heritage, but he does have blue eyes." "They 
must be very blue," opined Nynca. Salya blushed again.
"And he's just a friend," said Trystin with a grin. "Trystin 
. . ." Salya cleared her throat and looked down at the table, 
then up, brushing back the short blond hair away from her 
face. "He's the head of the atmospheric transport section-
they do the upper-atmosphere sampling, run the drones, and 
occasionally they provide shuttle pilots. They're not deep-
space pilots, though." "Where's he from?"
"Perdya, but he's from Kaneohe, and he went to the 
Service Academy." Salya turned to Trystin. "What about 
your romantic life?"
"It's nonexistent. Has been since I left Mara." "I can't 
believe you haven't found someone-or they haven't found 
you."
"The only one who's found me is a major who gives me 
advice, and grief in equal doses, with an occasional smile." 
"You're intrigued, aren't you?"
Trystin frowned. "I think so. But she's also scary. 
Anticipates everything . . . way in advance."
"And like a typical man," laughed Salya, "you're worried 
about losing control." "I doubt I'd ever have it," Trystin 
admitted. "For men, that's even worse." Salya shook her 
head. "She probably even makes you think the deep 
thoughts, the ones you've always avoided. Like why you're 
even in the Service." "That's unfair," Trystin protested. 
"Probably, younger brother." Salya grinned. "Unfair... but 
true."
"Salya - . . I could start on how you devour men. . . ." "I'd 
rather you didn't. Let's talk about your major and why you 
refuse to be intrigued by her."
Elsin rose. "I think dinner's ready. Bring your tea with 
you." He picked up both pots and carried them toward the 
long black table in the dining area. Nynca stood and 
followed him.
Trystin took a last sip from his mug and looked at Salya, 
who had raised her eyebrows. "It's simple enough. She'll be 
running a corvette somewhere, and I don't even know 
where the Willis operates. With my luck, I won't see her 
again until I'm old and gray."
"I have my doubts about that. I can't imagine you being 
old and gray. And life is never simple." "Pilots often 
don't-"
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even hinted at it. You don't 
have to say it. We all know." Salya touched his arm, and he 
could see the dampness in the comer of her eyes. "Let's go 
eat." Trystin swallowed and followed his sister.
30
Trystin recovered his card from the surtrans reader, 
readjusted his beret, and stepped from the surtrans.
After crossing the covered stones of the platform, he 
walked up the wide stone steps to the main Service medical 
center on Perdya, just off radial three on the east side of 
Cambria. Beside the steps were stone flower boxes filled 
with rysya and trefils, each species about to bloom. Once 
inside, he headed for the information console. "Lieutenant 
Desoll, reporting for a follow-up physical." The civilian 
technician at the front console nodded politely. "What kind 
of physical. Major?"
"The Farhkan study." He laughed politely. "And while I 
wish to be a major. I'm still a lieutenant."
"I see. You're one of those. Let me check. What was your 
name?" "Desoll. D-E-S-O-L-L."
"Here we are. Go to the second floor, all the way to the 
rear on the south wing to Dr. Kynkara's office. Someone 
there will tell you where to go from there." "Thank you." 
"You're welcome. Major."
Trystin repressed the urge to correct her again and turned 
toward the wide ramp. On the way up, he passed two 
lieutenants, one walking stiffly with the measured gait of 
someone rehabbed from spine damage. Another casualty 
from Mara? Or somewhere else? Before Trystin got to the 
far end of the south wing, he reached another technician at 
another console.
"Ser?" The dark-haired woman looked up at him, 
waiting, her slightly slanted eyes skeptical.
"Lieutenant Desoll. I'm here for the Farhkan follow-up 
study."
"Follow me, ser." Without another word, she took off 
down a side corridor and around two corners until they 
reached four cubicles. Three had open doors. Inside each 
was a diagnostic console. "I'm sure you're familiar with 
these." She looked at him. "Your ID, ser?" Trystin handed it 
over.
She swiped it through the scanner, and the console ready 
light winked green. Then she handed it back.
"Just disrobe to your underwear, and let the console take 
its measurements and samples. When the restraints loosen, 
you can get dressed. Go to gamma three-that's at the end 
of the corridor-and take a seat outside Dr. Kynkara's 
office. They'll find you there."
"Thank you." Trystin nodded, but the technician was 
gone. He disrobed, winced as the cold console enfolded 
him, and waited as the equipment measured and probed. 
When he could, he dressed and walked to the end of the 
corridor, where four plastic chairs lined the wall outside a 
closed door with the name Kynkara on it.
Somehow, the directions he'd received in the lobby didn't 
match where the doctor's office was, but he'd managed. He 
sat in the gray plastic chair and waited . . . and waited . . . 
and stood and walked around . . . and waited.
According to his implant, he waited nearly an hour 
before the doctor, a gray-haired woman, arrived with a 
Farhkan in tow. This Farhkan-as had the first one he had 
met-wore shimmering gray fatigues. Red eyes were set in 
the iron-gray hair of the square face, with longer and darker 
hair covering the top of the skull. Was this one the same, or 
did they all look alike?
"Lieutenant Desoll? We apologize, but Dr. Ghere was 
delayed. Oh, I'm Isabel Kynkara."
"I understand." Trystin nodded, inhaling slowly and 
taking in the vaguely familiar odor, the mixed scents of an 
unfamiliar flower, a muskiness, and cleanliness. "I believe I 
have met Dr. Ghere once before." "That is correct."
Again, Trystin was surprised by the feeling of the words 
scrolling through his mental screen.
Isabel Kynkara fiddled with the entry plate on her door, 
then stood back. "I'm just here to facilitate things. I'll be in 
the next office, the one that says 'Staff,' waiting for Major 
Gresham and Lieutenant Ohiri."
"Thank you." Trystin wondered why he was thanking 
her, but gestured for the Farhkan to enter the office.
Ghere entered without speaking, and Trystin flicked on 
the interior lights, although the window-overlooking the 
med center gardens-really supplied enough light.
As Trystin closed the door, he had the feeling of the 
same silence as the last time he had met with the Farhkan, 
but with his enhanced implant he could sense more clearly 
the total block on communications that settled upon the 
room. How did the Farhkans manage it? And why did it 
matter, if they only wished to talk philosophy?
Ghere settled into the chair behind the desk; Trystin took 
the plastic seat before it.
"You thanked the doctor because you would like to make 
her comfortable, even if it was a form of a lie." "Don't you 
engage in such niceties?" "Not if the niceties involve 
untruths. I admit to being a thief, but not a liar." A hint of 
amusement followed the words.
Trystin nodded, not exactly surprised that the 
conversation had gone back to theft. The Farhkan appeared 
persistent, and that bothered Trystin. "Have you thought 
about theft recently, Lieutenant?" "Not until I realized I 
would be speaking to you. At least, not recently. I did think 
about it after our last conversation." "What did you 
conclude?"
Trystin pursed his lips. "I suspect theft, in the broadest 
sense, must occur in all intelligent species, at least if the 
species is to survive."
"An interesting speculation. Perhaps . . . I would have to 
consider that at greater length. What about you? Are you a 
thief?"
Trystin did not answer. Ghere bothered him. In some 
ways, the doctor felt alien, in others, all too human. "I have 
upset you. Why is this so?" "You're both alien and too 
familiar." "That is true. You do not like to lie, do you?" 
"No," Trystin admitted. "Do you know why you dislike 
lying?" "Not really, except it feels wrong." "So . . . you live 
in a society that requires theft, and you refuse to admit you 
are a thief. You live in a society that encourages lying and 
avoid it. Is not living in a society where theft is necessary 
but refusing to admit it not a lie? Are you not a liar?" "I try 
not to be."                      "Are you a thief?"
"I thought we had agreed that intelligence, by nature, 
requires a form of theft."
"I do not recall agreeing exactly to that concept. Are you 
a thief?"
"In your terms. I'm not sure what you mean by theft," 
Trystin said slowly.
"Let us lay that aside for a moment. There is an old 
saying. Force creates good."
"I don't recall that." Trystin paused, licked his lips. 
"Might makes right?"
"Is there a difference between good and right?" "I'm not 
convinced that what people think is good is always right." 
"Would you explain?" "Many people feel that what they 
believe in is good. A poor man would say that all people 
should be rich, but the Great Die-off showed that any world 
has a limit. It is right not to destroy a world's ecology-" 
Trystin stopped, realizing that he was uncomfortable 
talking about destroying ecologies when, in effect, 
planoforming was destroying one ecology to replace it with 
another-and even in his terms, that was theft. "You are 
upset again."
Trystin said nothing. Anything he said would get him in 
deeper.
"I think that is enough. Lieutenant. I would request you 
think some more about theft. And about whether any good 
is absolute." Ghere stood. "Of course it's not."
"Then why do you humans persist in trying to impose 
such absolutes on others, even using force to do so? And 
why do you persist in refusing to identify yourself in terms 
of absolutes while trying to persuade others to accept those 
absolutes?" "We're human." "Is that good?" Ghere stood.
Trystin could feel the comm screen-or whatever it 
was-vanish. Ghere nodded.
Finally, Trystin turned to open the door and to get Dr. 
Kynkara, wanting to leave, but knowing that the questions 
the Farhkan raised wouldn't vanish, not for a time, if ever, 
and that bothered him, too.
Later, as he walked out of the medical center, he tried not 
to shake his head. He still didn't understand what the 
Farhkans wanted. Maybe he never would. They might be 
roughly human-looking, but that didn't mean that they 
thought like human beings.
They clearly wanted something. The question was what, 
and Trystin didn't even know where to begin to seek the 
answer-or whether he should, or would have the time. He 
had the feeling that before long surviving was going to 
become difficult again. Ulteena had said something about 
living in the present, and perhaps he should, at least while 
Salya and his parents and he were all together.
He kept walking toward the surtrans station, his thoughts 
swirling together.

31
Trystin stood at the chest-high barrier, leaning forward,  his 
arms resting on the golden logs polished
smooth by craft, time, weather, and other arms. The 
wind whipped through his regulation-short hair, swooping 
up off the water and past the lockout on the edge of the 
Cliffs. Behind Trystin the Cliffs rose even higher, to nearly 
three thousand meters, but the jagged tops were lost in the 
clouds created by the moist air coming off the dark green 
waters of the Palien Sea.
Five hundred meters below the sheer drop-off, the waves 
crashed against the basalt walls, sending fine spray halfway 
up the Cliffs. In regular lines, the waves marched in and 
shattered themselves against the jagged rocks.
While cultivation and home-building and gardens had 
softened much of the land over more than eight centuries, 
nearly a thousand years of young and rough waters had not 
blunted the sharp edges of the Cliffs, although trees did 
poke from odd crevasses above the reach of the slightly 
salty sea.
"I never get tired of watching the sea." Trystin's words 
barely carried over the rushing of the wind and the crashing 
of the waves below. "It's always relaxing."
"It must be something in the blood." Salya brushed her 
hair, not that much longer than Trystin's, off her forehead. 
"Not from Mother." They both laughed.
"Does Shinji like the ocean?" Trystin paused. "He must, 
if he's from Kaneohe."
"He does talk about the time when there will be oceans 
on Helconya." "That's going to be a long time." "You have 
to have dreams."
Trystin nodded. "I suppose so. You're lucky to have the 
same ones."
"They're not quite the same," she said wryly. "Oh. That's 
why he's still mostly a friend?" "Something like that." Salya 
straightened. "If you want to have time before dinner to 
stop by the market and see if they have carnot nuts, we'd 
better get back to the car."
"All right." Trystin watched one more line of waves 
crest, white running along the tips, then break over the 
jagged needles at the base of the Cliffs. He straightened and 
turned, almost running into a Park officer, who stood in the 
middle of the stone walkway that led back up to the parking 
area. The dark-eyed officer's right hand rested on the butt of 
the holstered shocker.
"I see you were enjoying the view. It is rather 
spectacular, not something that someone sees on just any 
planet." The Park officer paused before continuing. "Might 
I ask where you are from?" "Cambria," Trystin answered. 
Salya's face blanked.
"Cambria is a rather large place these days. Almost 
anyone could claim to have come from there."
"Cedar Gardens, Cedar Lane, on Sundance Boulevard off 
Horodyski Lane. I grew up there, and my parents still live 
there."
"Cedar Gardens does not sound like a real address, 
although that would only be my humble perception."
"I'm sorry. Officer. That is the address." Trystin slowly 
took out his wallet and offered both his Service 
identification and his vehicle license to the Park officer.
"Hmmm . . . I would be most curious as to where you got 
these." The words of the black-haired and dark-skinned 
officer remained even and polite.
Trystin stared at the man, then nodded politely. "I 
received my first vehicle license at the constabulary on 
Hyroki Avenue eight years ago. The service identification 
was just issued on Chevel Beta last month when I got my 
pilot's wings. I'm on home leave." "Your . . . friend . . . is 
also rather tall." "My sister? Yes, she is. Siblings do tend to 
resemble each other."
The Park officer handed Trystin's license and Service ID 
back to him, turning to Salya. "If I might trouble you. . ."
Salya, still blank-faced, dug her Service ID from the 
pocket of her shorts and handed it to the officer.
"Desoll-even the same name. Well, I suppose you 
would have the same name if you were brother and sister." 
After studying the ID for a time, and comparing the holo to 
Salya, he handed it back. "Thank you." "You're so 
welcome. Officer," Trystin said politely. The Park officer 
stared at him. Trystin met the gaze, refusing to waver. 
Finally, the officer looked away and stepped back.
Trystin nodded again, even as he stepped up his system 
into high-reflex, unarmed-combat mode, his ears intent on 
any sound as he and Salya walked up the steps and along 
the walk to the parking area. There, Trystin turned back, but 
the Park officer stood at the top of the steps, still looking 
toward them.
"Your sarcasm probably wasn't such a good idea." Salya 
opened the door on her side of the electrocar.
"Probably not, but his whole attitude bothered me. His 
job is to protect the ecology, not to run around harassing 
people."
"You looked about ready to kill him." "I should have gone 
into combat mode." "It wouldn't have done any good," 
Salya pointed out. "He's the type who's convinced that 
anyone who is tall, blond, and blue-eyed must be a rev. 
Besides, then he would have tried to use the shocker, and 
you would have hurt him or made him lose face. Where 
would that have gotten you?"
"In restraints, no doubt, and out of the Service. "Trystin 
shook his head. "But it bothers me." He shifted his weight 
in the small car, and checked the safety harness before 
pulling out of the lot.
"It bothers me too, but what can yon do with people like 
that? You can't kill them, and nothing less will change their 
minds."
How was the Park service officer any different from the 
rev officer he'd questioned years before? Trystin was half-
surprised that the thought crossed his mind. They both had 
fixed perceptions independent of contrary reality. His eyes 
checked the mirror. "They're following us, two of them in 
an official Car," Trystin observed. "I think we'd better head 
straight home."
"This is really absurd. Why are they after us? You can't 
counterfeit a Service ID."
"It's because we look like revs, but the Service ID should 
have stopped that. You can't be an officer and be a rev. The 
screens are too deep." "Prejudice isn't always rational." 
"Great."
Trystin continued to watch the Park officers all the way 
into Cambria. He drove the electrocar straight into the 
garage, triggering the door while he was still on Cedar 
Lane.
After they left the garage, he stepped up to the wrought-
iron railing atop the stone wall and executed a stiff 
parashinto bow-twice- in the direction of the dark green 
official car, before turning toward the house. "That was 
childish," said Salya. "I feel childish. I've spent the last 
three years doing the bidding of the Service. I've been 
attacked, shot, wounded, and damned near lost my leg, and 
some silly little Park officer is convinced that I'm a rev 
spy-as if the revs would ever be stupid enough to send a 
spy who looked like I do." "There's a lot of hatred 
growing." They walked silently along the path and up 
toward the house.
Elsin opened the door before they reached it. "We didn't 
expect you back so soon."
"We were sort of chased back. Some throwback 
pseudosamurai decided we had to be revs. He wasn't 
impressed with my vehicle license or my Service ID. So 
they followed us home."
Elsin frowned. "That does seem odd." He stepped back, 
and the two walked into the foyer.
"It didn't happen when I was with Shinji the other day, and 
he's almost as tall as you are." Salya pursed her lips.
"I suspect Shinji is somewhat darker than I am," Trystin 
said wryly.
"You think it's coming to that? I hope not." Salya looked 
across the gardens toward Cedar Lane, but the green 
electrocar had disappeared. "So do I," answered Elsin, but 
he frowned.

32
A juvenile heliobird whirred across the darkening garden, 
his wings a blur as he swooped for the nest
in the corner pine. The faint whirring of insects 
almost drowned out the underlying static of Trystin's 
implant. Although he had damped down the receptivity to 
nil, somehow he was still aware of the background noise, 
even away from the Service and its systems and nets.
"Do you really understand what being a pilot means?" 
asked Salya. "Probably not," Trystin answered. "Why did 
you accept the offer?" "I've always wanted to be one."
"I know." Salya's voice was low, and she leaned back on 
the bench. "You made models. You read books. You even 
bought the pilot simulator for your console and installed ' "a 
secret drive."
"How did you know that?" Trystin looked at his sister in 
surprise.
"Who helped you with basic console programming? 
Besides, I was testing some ideas Father taught me about 
cracking systems."
Trystin spread his hands. "Between the two of you no 
system would be safe."
"Not from Father, except he's so ethical he'd never look."
"As opposed to nosy older sisters?" Salya offered a faint 
grin before asking, "Is being a pilot what you thought it 
would be?"
"Better. I feel like I'm doing something. When I was on 
the line on Mara, we just waited and took what the revs 
handed us. I was lucky, and I made it through. A lot of 
perimeter officers didn't. The official line is that things are 
improving-some commander told me that. But things still 
keep getting worse. No one seems to want to act. I asked 
about that, and the commander who was debriefing me 
nearly took off my head." He paused. "It wasn't that bad, 
but I felt like it was. She said that a planet was a damned 
big place, and that we didn't have the resources." "We 
don't."
"If we don't have the resources. . . we lost almost all the 
plains stations. Only two of us survived their minitanks." 
Salya moistened her lips. "You didn't tell us about that." 
"So I got a commendation. I survived, and most didn't." 
"There's nothing on the news about those kinds of losses."
"I'm not surprised. Before that, when the revs wiped out 
five stations on the western line, I was called down for 
using a data pulse to find out." Salya sighed.    
Trystin turned on the bench to face her. "That doesn't 
surprise you, does it? Not much, anyway."
"It doesn't surprise me, Trystin. It doesn't surprise me 
much at all after that incident at the Cliffs. But it bothers 
What sort of people are we becoming?"
"We've always been thieves. Now, we're becoming liars 
as well?"
"You've done some thinking, haven't you?" Trystin 
offered a short laugh. "I've had my thinking prodded." "You 
still want to be a pilot?"
Trystin shrugged. "You still want to be a xenobiologist?" 
"Fair enough." Salya stretched, then added, "You know . . 
. anytime you translate could be the last time you see 
Mother and Father."
"I know. That's true every time you travel between here 
and Helconya, and it would be true even if I stayed a 
perimeter officer."
"But the probability goes up with each translation, and 
pilots make a lot more translations."
I've thought about it. That part wasn't easy. Father and I 
talked about it. He even helped me set up a trust." "He 
would." "Yeah."
"Dad was right. You do have a restless spirit." "I still like to 
come home," Trystin reminded her. "And I miss the 
gardens."
"Not enough. Someday, you'll come home, still young, 
and we'll all be gone." After a moment, she added, "We'll 
make sure it's here for you. We all would want that." 
Trystin swallowed.
"I'll miss you." Her hand touched his gently. 
"I'll miss you."
They sat side by side in the growing twilight, the insects 
twittering, the evening corning down like a purple shade, 
while the heliobirds settled into the pines for the night. The 
heavy scent of roses dropped into the twilit garden and 
almost made Trystin forget the faint static of the implant- 
almost.

33

Trystin waited in the bay for the Willis, his bags stacked 
neatly beside him. He was glad to escape the drudgery of 
junior operations duty officer for
Perdya station-much more than glad. "Who are you 
waiting for. Lieutenant?" asked the tech
standing by the lock control panel. "The Willis." "This is 
the place." The noncom glanced at Trystin and
his bags. "She's a cruiser, not a transport." "I 
know."
The tech's eyes flicked to the wings on Trystin's uniform. 
"New pilot officer?" Trystin nodded, then asked, "You 
know anything about her?" "CO'S Major Sasaki. He's pretty 
senior. They say he's related to the armaments people." "He 
could be. Anything's possible, but Sasaki's a pretty
common name."
"You haven't met the major." The tech shook his head. A 
dull thud, followed by a second thud, echoed through
the station frame. Shortly, the green light flickered above
the lock tube. "Little rough," announced the tech, "like 
always, but
she's here." His fingers danced across the lock console. 
Trystin could sense the locking-system data flows
through his implant, and with more time, could probably
have tapped them, but there was no point in it. Instead, he
waited for the clunking of the mechanical holdtights. A row 
of green lights flashed across the console. "All set. Ready, 
Lieutenant?" Trystin hoisted his bags and followed the tech 
down the lock tube, heavy frost on its permaplast sides. His 
breath steamed.
The noncom checked the seals and exterior holdtights 
again before pulsing the entry clearance. With a hiss, the 
cruiser's door slid open.
"Ah, it's you, Liendrelli." Standing in the lock was a 
woman with dark mahogany hair in the uniform of a senior 
tech, a belted stunner in place.
"Who else would it be? Everyone else goes to the other 
side of the station when you people dock."
The ship's tech glanced beyond Liendrelli to Trystin. 
"Lieutenant Desoll. Major Doniger will be pleased to see 
you, ser. I'm Keiko Muralto, ship's senior tech." "Pleased to 
meet you. Tech Muralto." "Keiko, please, ser." She finished 
checking the lock seals) and ensuring that the emergency 
closure lanes were free. "You can set your gear in the 
locker here for a while. Welcome aboard." Then she turned 
to Liendrelli. "We're low on organonutrient-we take the 
alpha class-and just about everything else."      ' "You 
cruiser types . . ."
"Don't complain, Liendrelli. The captain wants us out as 
soon as possible after Major Doniger's replacement shows, 
and since he's here . . ." "All right, Muralto. We'll get on it." 
Keiko Muralto smiled sweetly at Liendrelli. Trystin decided 
he wanted the tech on his side. "You're certain putting my 
gear here won't be a problem?"
"Not at all. Just set it in the alcove there." She stepped 
back and pressed a stud. "Captain, Lieutenant Desoll is 
here." "Send him forward, Keiko."
Trystin carefully stacked his gear in the space, keeping only 
the thin case with his orders, data cubes, and records. "Yes, 
ser."
The tech gestured toward the passageway heading 
forward. "I'm sure you can find your way, ser. I need to 
pound on Liendrelli some more." "Give me a break, 
Muralto," protested the station tech.
Trystin smiled and stepped through the area that 
functioned as a quarterdeck, half nodding at the familiar 
scents of plastic, ozone. Sustain, and human beings.
The forward passage was empty, and he found himself 
stepping through the hatch to the cruiser's cockpit, where a 
small officer stood, waiting.
"Lieutenant Desoll, Major." Taking into account the 
name and the apparent parashinto background of Major 
Sasaki, Trystin offered a slight bow to the Captain of the 
Willis.
"So you're the new second? You look more like a rev 
than most revs I've seen." Major Sasaki brushed the black 
hair that was on the long side of the Service-recommended 
length back off his forehead and offered a boyish grin that 
emphasized his sparkling white teeth. "My family helped 
found Cambria, ser." "I'm sure. Don't worry about it. It's 
what you do that counts, not how you look." Major Sasaki 
glanced around the cockpit. "I wanted you to meet Andrya 
before she left, but when she heard you were already here, 
she went back to get her stuff." "I left my gear with your 
senior tech." "Don't worry. Just put your stuff in the mess 
until Andrya clears out. She won't be that long." Major 
Sasaki gestured toward the Willis's aft section.
"Your senior tech mentioned that the second was a 
major?"
"She was just promoted, and the Service doesn't like 
wasting two majors on the same ship these days."
Trystin noted the faintest edge to the words, but said 
nothing as he heard steps heading toward the cockpit. "Here 
she is. Trystin, this is Andrya." The stocky major with short 
and frizzy brown hair extended a hand, took Trystin's with a 
firm grip and shook it. "I'm Andrya Doniger." She glanced 
toward the commanding officer. "Don't let James here get 
the better of you. He's bright; he's a good tactician; he 
understands Service politics; and he's a second-rate pilot 
with first-rate connections. And yes, he's from those 
Sasakis." She smiled at Major Sasaki.
Trystin felt as though the ship had been dropped right 
out from underneath him. "It's nice to meet you. Where 
are you headed?"
"Me? I'm getting one of the new cruisers-the Tozmi. 
Smaller than the Willis, but faster, more torps. Very 
deadly." She looked at the three bulging kit bags. "I need to 
be going. They're holding the Adams for me. I managed to 
pull a few strings. No sense in waiting another week for the 
Morgenthal. The station CO would have too good an idea 
of what to load on me. Good luck to you. Lieutenant."
With a quick nod she hoisted the bags. "It's been 
interesting, James. If you want to make commander, 
though, let him do the delicate piloting." "If he's as good as 
you think . . . why not?" Trystin swallowed a smile. What a 
pair! The Doniger family had been in the ecological 
hierarchy of the Coalition as far back as the history texts 
ran, and the Sasakis had evolved from using metalworking 
to bury nuclear wastes on old Earth into becoming the 
premier arms producers of the Coalition.
And now he had to take orders from Major James Sasaki.
"Let's go have something to eat." Sasaki smiled his broad 
and boyish smile. "They don't tell you about it, but there's a 
small restaurant on the lower level that has some real 
seafood-if you know enough to ask."
Sasaki's eyes glazed over momentarily, and Trystin could 
feel the net link. "Liam? The new second and I have to go 
stationside for a couple of hours. You've got it. Keiko's on 
the deck."
The major's eyes unglazed. "Liam's weapons and comm. 
He's a former senior tech, and he can be duty when we're 
docked. Otherwise, it's you when I'm not around or have to 
sleep. Contrary to rumor, CO's do sleep."' He smiled again. 
"Let's go. I'm ready for some decent food." Trystin 
followed the major out to the quarterdeck.
"Keiko, Trystin and I have some things to do station-side. 
Liam's got the duty until we get back."
"While you're gone, I'll have the lieutenant's gear put in 
his stateroom." Keiko smiled pleasantly. "Have a good 
meal. Captain." "I'm sure we will."
"I can do that when I get back," Trystin protested. "Don't 
worry about it, ser."
Trystin tried not to shake his head as he walked beside 
Major Sasaki back out the lock tube he had entered what 
seemed only moments before.
The major led him through a maze of corridors Trystin 
had never seen in his two weeks on the station.
The restaurant lay behind a bronze-colored plastic door 
panel bearing the name Le Tank. Trystin frowned, but 
followed Sasaki inside, to find eight small tables with real 
linen cloths upon them. A single table was occupied, by a 
woman wearing a single marshal's four-pointed star.
"Major!" A rotund woman in white bounced across the 
floor.
"Vivienne." Sasaki bowed. "This is my new pilot officer, 
Trystin Desoll. Trystin, Vivienne LeClerc. This is her 
domain."
"Welcome back, James." The dry voice came from the 
marshal at the corner table.
"Thank you, Marshal Toboru." James Sasaki bowed. "Don't 
mind me. By the way, your father is looking well. I saw 
him last month . . . and your brother." The marshal returned 
her attention to the soup in the gold-trimmed white 
porcelain bowl before her.
Vivienne led them to the table in the corner farthest from 
the marshal.
"I'd like anything that's fresh from the tank," requested 
Major Sasaki. "And then whatever your special is." 
Vivienne nodded and looked at Trystin. "What are my 
choices?"
"For appetizers, the raw fresh seafood is either clams 
casino or octosquid today. We also have slizirki 
mushrooms, sauteed, and fresh greens."
"The mushrooms, please."
"The specials are soft-shelled spotted crabs or broiled 
young silver trout amandine."
"I'll have the crabs." The major added, "Don't worry, 
Trystin. This is my treat. You'll earn it later." "Thank you," 
said Trystin. "I'll have the crabs also." With a nod, Vivienne 
stepped back, only to return with two crystal goblets and a 
bottle. "The Villa Tozza is the only white right now." 
Sasaki shrugged.
Trystin just watched as the woman poured half-glasses 
for each of them and left the bottle in the holder.
"Not bad, although I still think the Mondiabli would have 
been better."
Trystin sipped the wine, enjoying the slightly nutty, 
slightly fruity scent as much as the taste. "You like wine, 
don't you?" asked Sasaki. "When I don't have to be on 
duty." "How do you know you won't be?" The major 
laughed and offered the boyish grin again.
"I don't, but you aren't likely to just hand the ship to me."
Vivienne set one of the gold-rimmed porcelain plates, 
filled with sliced white circular objects, in front of the 
captain, and a second, filled with steaming browned and 
buttery mushrooms, in front of Trystin.
"Where are you from, Trystin?" Sasaki used the silver 
seafood fork to pick up one of the white slices and began to 
chew.
"Cambria, Academy district. " Trystin took a second sip 
of the Villa Tozza. Even the background hiss of his implant 
seemed muted.
"Are your family academics? That's an expensive place 
to live." Another swallow of the white food followed.
"Actually, my great-great-grandfather built the house and 
donated the land to the Academy."
"It must have been difficult, especially in the early 
years." Trystin repressed the urge to strangle his superior 
officer. "My father worries that there's more prejudice now 
than there ever has been." "How is the octosquid. Major?" 
asked Vivienne. "Good. Very good. My congratulations." 
"Thank you. It did take some doing. I appreciate your help."
"It wasn't much." Sasaki frowned. "The slizirkis look 
good. Could I have just a few?" "Certainly. Most certainly."
While the two talked, Trystin had several bites of the 
slizirki mushrooms, which carried a crispness, a warmth, a 
tanginess, and an unidentifiable flavor. "I take it they are 
good?"
"Very," answered Trystin. "How did you find this 
place?"
"I didn't. I helped Vivienne get started. It's good to have 
someplace decent to eat that's not planetside." Sasaki 
refilled his glass then looked back at Trystin. "I take it you 
come from a large family."
"No. I have one sister. She's Service, too. A senior 
lieutenant in charge of a biological modification section on 
the Helconya project."
"What about your parents?" Sasaki chewed more of the 
raw octosquid. "Not bad for a tank animal. Almost like the 
real thing."
"My mother was a ships' systems engineer. After she 
retired a few years ago, she got a second doctorate in music. 
She teaches at the university. My father's an independent 
integrator." "Job-shop stuff?"
"Actually," Trystin said, "he's been designing integrated 
regional sewage and disposal systems for stage three 
planoforming projects."
"One of the big boys, then. Interesting. Quiet, longtime 
anglo family. Well-off, cultured, and very highly educated. 
Probably not many of you left."
Vivienne slipped a small plate of the slizirki mushrooms 
onto the table. "Thank you." Sasaki chewed one slowly. 
"Very good."
Vivienne smiled, nodded, and backed away. Trystin ate 
several bites more before taking another sip of wine.
"Why did you choose to go Service?" "I always wanted to 
be a pilot. I spent a tour on Mara-perimeter officer-before 
I went to Chevel Beta."
"These days, most pilots do. It's a good idea. You test 
your warriors first, sort of like the old Shintos . . ." Sasaki 
let his words trail off as Marshal Toboru paused by the 
table.
"Don't try to corrupt him too fast, James." She offered a 
smile and a pat on the shoulder before she slipped out of the 
restaurant.
The major took a long swallow from his glass and refilled 
it.
Vivienne removed the empty plates. "So many of our 
problems with the revs date back to antiquity, even before 
the Great Die-off. If the old Shintos had won the second 
global war, or whatever they called it, then the anglo 
forerunners of the revs couldn't have built their power base 
and amassed the fortunes that they took to Orum. And that 
would have meant that the white neo-Mahmets...:"
Trystin held in a sigh. It was likely to be a long tour. "Do 
you want any more wine?" "Not yet, thank you."
"It's good. Not great, but good . . . anyway, as I was 
saying, all of those problems relate to the economic 
relationship between the Shintos and the angles . . ."
Trystin nodded, hoping the main course would come 
soon, even as he pushed out of his mind the thought that the 
meal might be costing the equivalent of a week's pay- or 
more. Instead, he took another, very small, sip of the Villa 
Tozza. It was good, but he had the feeling that everything 
associated with James Sasaki had a high price.

34
Trystin put the last of his uniforms into place in the locker 
beside his bunk, then refolded the two bags into small 
oblongs that he tucked into the back corner before he closed 
the locker door.
He'd had to wash and wipe out the locker first, getting rid 
of a residue of powder. He'd also wiped the dust off the 
console screen. Clearly, Major Doniger hadn't been the 
neatest of people. She had left what appeared to be a 
complete and updated set of hard-copy manuals on the 
Willis, though, with paper slips inserted throughout. Trystin 
walked over to the console and picked up the top manual, 
opening it to one of the slips. ". .. peak power limitations of 
the F4-A(R) fusactor. .." A single paragraph was 
highlighted. Trystin read it, and was surprised to learn that 
each of the twin fusactors could actually deliver one 
hundred ten percent of load for five minutes without 
damage-or one hundred twenty percent for two minutes. 
Would he ever need to use that knowledge? He frowned, 
deciding that it might not be a bad idea to study the 
manuals, and to start with the noted sections.
Major Doniger might have been personally messy, but 
she had essentially told him that the captain was a lousy 
shiphandler, and the manuals laid out on the narrow space 
next to the console conveyed another message-that the 
captain might not be any great expert on systems, either.
Trystin took a deep breath, feeling the ship's net around 
him. For the moment, he was the duty officer, and he hoped 
nothing happened. While he supposed he should have been 
up front, with the net it didn't matter where he was, and he 
wanted to get settled as quickly as possible. There was a rap 
on the door.
"Come in."
Keiko Muralto stood in the doorway. "Yes, Tech-Keiko?" 
he corrected himself. The tech carried two flat volumes in 
her hands. "Before she left. Major Doniger asked me to get 
duplicate copies of these for you."
Trystin looked at the two thin volumes. "What are they?"
"This is the manual for the translation system, and this 
one is the programming layout for the ship's infonet."
Trystin shook his head and pointed to the manuals beside 
the console. "She left me quite a stack already." He took the 
two. "Looks like I've got a lot of studying to do." "Yes, 
ser." Keiko's face was almost blank. On impulse, Trystin 
kicked up his reflexes and hearing, before asking, "Do you 
think it's very important for me to learn all this as fast as I 
can?"
"Yes," came the subvocalized response. "You would 
know best, ser."
"There's a lot I don't know, Keiko. I'm still a rather junior 
pilot. Which one of these"-he gestured-"would be the 
best place to start?"
"Infonet." Keiko paused. "You could start anywhere, 
ser."
"I'll have to learn it all, anyway." " . . soon. . ." The tech 
waited, then answered clearly, "I suspect that it's something 
all pilots are expected to learn."
Trystin caught the glint in the tech's eye. "You've worked 
with a lot of junior officers Off the perimeter lines, haven't 
you?" "Yes, ser."
"Well Trystin said casually, "I appreciate having all of 
the manuals, and I'll work through them as quickly as I can. 
Sometimes, you almost have to read between the lines to 
figure out what's important." "I would imagine so, ser."
"I appreciate it. "Trystin didn't have to fake the warmth. 
"Thank you, ser." Keiko paused once more, then added,
"The captain will be introducing Lieutenant Akibono to you 
once they get back."
"Akibono? Oh, is he the weapons/nav officer? Liam?" ". . 
. watch it. . ." "Yes, ser."
"It'll be good to get the names and faces straight." Trystin 
nodded. "Do we have time for you to introduce me to the 
rest of the techs?"
"Yes, ser." Keiko Muralto smiled for the first time. Trystin 
tried not to swallow, wondering exactly what kind of mess 
he'd stepped into. "Let's do it."
He followed the senior tech out of his stateroom, number 
two, predictably, and aft. The first technician he met was a 
young, broad-shouldered and brown-haired man.
"Lieutenant Desoll, this is Tech Albertini. Albertini, this 
is our new pilot officer. Lieutenant Desoll." "Pleased to 
meet you, ser." "I'm pleased to meet you, Albertini." -After 
that, he was introduced to two other technicians- Muriami 
and Reilli. Trystin and Keiko then headed forward.
"Albertini is new on board. He's barely been here a 
month. He handles low-level maintenance. Muriami- she's 
a wonder on individual components, but has trouble with 
systems. Reilli is pretty much the weapons tech." "And you 
do everything," suggested Trystin. "I try."
As they reached the quarterdeck, Trystin heard feet in the 
lock tube, and he dropped his reflexes back to normal, 
trying to slow his breathing.
"Must be the captain. He was up in station operations," 
suggested Keiko.
Major James Sasaki stepped through the open lock and 
tucked his beret into his belt. A squarish officer followed 
him, dark-skinned and black-eyed, with the muscles of a 
power lifter.
"Ah, I was going to look for you, Trystin." He paused. 
"This is Liam Akibono. He's the best weapons/navigation 
officer in the fleet. He's also a damned good supply 
officer."
Liam offered a bow.
Trystin returned the bow, but with a shade less 
inclination. A ghost of a frown flicked across James 
Sasaki's face. Had Trystin revealed too much of the early 
martial arts training he had received with and from his 
father?
"We're headed back to your old stomping grounds, 
Trystin-back to Parvati system," announced the captain. 
"The revs are really pushing there, and the Planning Staff 
has decided to beef up the patrols off the outer orbit control 
platform. We'll hit Mara first, though. We've got some 
dispatches." "When do we leave?" asked Trystin. "About 
ten hours. That's enough time for you to get some sleep, and 
to spend some time in the cockpit familiarizing yourself 
with the feel of the ship. Andrya reminded me that early 
familiarization was important. The systems aren't that 
different, but there are a few things you should know." He 
shook his head. "Quite a person, that woman. Quite a 
person." Liam only raised his eyebrows.
"Do you have your gear stowed?" James refocused on 
Trystin.
"Yes, ser. I had Tech Muralto introduce me to the rest of 
the crew, and I was starting to go over some of the system 
manuals."
"Good. Do whatever you need for the next hour or so. 
Then come to my stateroom, and we'll go over the ops plan, 
and after that we'll go through a fam routine in the cockpit." 
"Yes, ser."
Major Sasaki turned to Liam. "As soon as we're loaded, 
let me have the mass plan. See if we could squeeze a few 
more torps on board." "Yes, ser." Liam turned and headed 
aft. James Sasaki's eyes flicked to Keiko Muralto. "Did you 
find the problem with sensor three?"
"There's a flaw in the command module, and that's a 
solid matrix. Tech support is trying to find us one." "Who's 
in charge of tech support?"
"That's Commander Bulari, ser." "Who's his boss?" 
"Marshal Toboni, I think."
"You'll get your matrix, Keiko." James Sasaki smiled and 
turned toward the cockpit.
Keiko raised her eyebrows, and Trystin felt a chill go 
down his back. He followed the captain as far as his own 
stateroom, where he stepped inside and closed the door 
behind him.
He picked up the infonet manual and began to read, 
noting that, once again, a few paragraphs were highlighted. 
He stopped reading in sequence-he wouldn't have time to 
get through all the manuals before he was supposed to meet 
with the captain-and scanned through the highlighted 
sections.
He swallowed and read through them again. He should 
have known, and in some ways it was predictable. A 
complete ship's net worked both ways. Anything that could 
monitor all the occurrences within the ship could and did 
record everything. Everything. So why had Keiko Muralto 
subvocally insisted that he know that from the beginning?
He nodded slowly. James Sasaki was political-very 
political.
Trystin recalled the smile on James's face when he had 
promised Keiko the replacement module for the scanner. 
Anything that Trystin said-had he said too much at 
dinner?-would be recorded, recalled, and used, if possible.
Andrya had managed, but she came from power and 
position. Trystin only had faster reflexes and better 
shiphandling ability-and the knowledge. Still, a junior 
Major Doniger had certainly been open about assessing 
Major Sasaki's piloting abilities-or lack of abilities. So 
that wasn't any secret, and part of Trystin's unspoken duties 
was to ensure the Willis didn't get into any embarrassing 
shiphandling situations.
Clearly, another part of the game was not to let on that he 
knew about James Sasaki's political maneuverings, even 
within the ship-to appear even younger and more na?ve 
than he was. But why had Keiko warned him about the 
infonet's  capabilities?
He nodded again. Because if James had trouble getting a 
handle on Trystin, he might be kept in check? Or was there 
something more?
Trystin took a deep breath and kept reading, feeling as 
though he had far too much to learn in far too little time, 
and far too many questions.
His eyes crossed the other small pile of paper, the 
handouts on the Revenants that Commander Folsom had 
suggested he study. When would he have time for that? He 
sighed. It didn't help that he knew Folsom had been right, 
not when plodding through revvie theology was as 
attractive as digging his way out of a Maran dust pit.

35
Thud! Following translation, as the Willis settled into the
sub-Oort, dust-free zone, James Sasaki leaned back 
in the command couch. "You've got it. Lieutenant. Take us 
to Mara."
Trystin understood. The run into Mara should be easy, 
and he needed greater familiarity with the ship and its 
systems.
He scanned all the screens, from the representational to 
the maintenance boards, then went back to the 
representational screen. At the system fringe was the 
faintest trace of an incoming ship-too far to locate 
accurately. It had to be a troid, because no Coalition ship 
would be in real space that far beyond Kali-the outer 
planet of the Parvati  system. For future reference, he noted 
the sector-orange-and added the observation to the 
transit report to be filed with Mara operations when the 
Willis locked there.
"Keiko-send someone up with a couple of teas." James 
shifted his weight and closed his eyes again.
Trystin let his consciousness drop into the power system, 
trying to trace the odd pulsation he'd noted from the 
beginning, almost as though the accumulators were 
hiccuping power.
For a moment, he split power from the fusactor, running 
one thruster off the fusactor and the other off the 
accumulator. Little peaks appeared in the thrust output from 
the accumulator-powered thruster, then the thrust dropped 
off as the accumulator load bled down. Trystin restored 
normal operations. He wanted to check the accumulators 
more, but not millions of kays from anywhere. "How much 
envelope distortion, ser?" "As much as you please. There's 
no difference to Mara control, and we don't get as tired."
Trystin cranked up the thrusters-slowly, in order not to 
put additional strain on the accumulators.
"Your teas. Captain, Lieutenant." Albertini stood in the 
hatchway, a cup in each hand. James took his cup silently.
"Thank you." Trystin sipped the tea slowly. The heat 
seemed to help a throat that seemed slightly raw, but for a 
moment his senses scrambled, and the scent of tea, the 
feeling of its heat, and the flow of data from the net twisted 
together. He shook his head, and concentrated on the 
screens, especially the representative screen.
He had to be more tired than he thought. That was when 
sensory scrambling occurred. Then he checked the 
comparators.
"Translation error was one standard day, seven hours and 
thirty-one minutes. Captain. Estimate another three-hour 
loss from envelope effect."
"Not too bad." James sipped his tea, his eyes slightly 
glazed.
Trystin rechecked their progress. "Estimate seven hours 
to Mara orbit control." The captain nodded. For the next 
four hours, Trystin guided the Willis, spending as much 
time investigating infonet readouts and maintenance 
records as he did navigating, noting that the captain 
apparently did not care that the distortion envelope reached 
fifty percent. Maybe that was why he looked so young.
Two hours out from Mara, Trystin began deceleration. 
James said nothing, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
When the Willis dropped out of the time-distortion 
envelope, Trystin pulsed the orbit station.
"Mara Orbit Control, this is Iron Mace two, approaching 
zone this time." "Iron Mace two, squawk four." 
"Squawking."
"Mace two, we have you. Proceed to gamma three for 
docking. I say again gamma three. Cleared for low-thrust 
approach to gamma three." "Control, cutting to low thrust 
this time." The station appeared on both the representational 
screen and the unadjusted optical presentation. Trystin 
checked his closure and flicked in another set of 
deceleration pulses.
"Control, Iron Mace two approaching gamma three this 
time."
The captain opened his eyes and stretched, watching as 
Trystin eased the Willis toward the docking portal.
Once the cruiser was within a half kay, James nodded. 
"I'll take the con." "You have the con, ser."
Trystin kept his face impassive as James corrected and 
overcorrected and finally humped-gently-the ship into 
place.
"Whew!" The captain wiped his damp forehead. Trystin 
magnetized the holdtights, and signaled Keiko to extend the 
mechanical holdtights for the station crew.
"Stand by for power changeover. Stand by for power 
changeover."
Trystin welcomed the full grav, tired as he was. Once the 
standby checklist was complete, he looked at James. "Now 
what?"
Liam Akibono appeared in the hatchway as Trystin finished 
speaking.
"We'll be here for just a few days, until we can get 
resupplied. Then we'll be spending the next year, maybe 
longer, chasing revs from Parvati outer orbit station." 
"That's a long way from anywhere," pointed out Liam. "It's 
where things are happening." "Yes, ser."
"As Hantariki wrote, 'the sky is brighter for the storm.' 
Remember that." "About the dispatches . . ." began Liam. 
"I'll take the dispatches," James announced. "I need to stop 
by and see Commander Maldonado anyway, and Liam's 
going to try to get us some of the newer high-drive torps."
"So I've got the ship?" Trystin asked. "You'll do fine." 
James flashed his boyish grin and picked up the dispatch 
cases. "I'll be a while." "Ser?" "Yes?"
"Is there a good restaurant here?" Liam raised his eyebrows, 
but James laughed. "Not yet. Not yet."
After the captain and the weapons officer left, Trystin 
accessed the maintenance records through his implant. 
From what he could tell, the accumulators had not been 
replaced or had major maintenance at any time in the last 
three years, although they had been inspected in detail at 
the five-year (ship objective) overhaul. He wanted to 
discuss them with Keiko first. Trystin stood and walked 
back to the quarterdeck where Tech Muriami stood, 
wearing the watch stunner. Mara orbit control smelled the 
same-even to the faint odor of plastic and weedgrass, 
though Trystin couldn't imagine how weedgrass ended up 
in an orbit station.
"How you doing, ser?" The woman continued to watch 
the lock tube.
"Fine, Muriami. How about you?" Trystin inspected the 
tracks for the emergency seals.
"They're clear. I always check them first thing." Trystin 
sniffed. It hadn't been his imagination. The station 
atmosphere still smelled like weedgrass. "Smells funny, 
doesn't it?"
"It's weedgrass. Used to get into everything. Always 
made my nose run."
"You were a perimeter officer, weren't you?" 
Trystin nodded. "Ever kill any revs?" He nodded 
again. "How many?" "Enough."
"Ever get a commendation?" 
Trystin nodded reluctantly.
"My brother's a perimeter tech. He says not many 
officers get commendations. That true?"
"I don't know." He added absently, "I only know of one 
other officer who did."                          . "Who was he?"
"She. Major Ulteena Freyer. She's the CO of the 
Yamamoto-corvette somewhere." "Must be a tough 
woman." "She is. Doesn't look that way, though." "Like 
you." "Me? I'm not tough."
Muriami laughed. "Service wouldn't send spring flowers 
here. The captain'd eat them alive." "The captain?" Trystin 
grinned. So did Muriami. "Do you know where Tech 
Muralto is?" "Up in station maintenance."
"When she gets back, would you tell her that I need to 
talk with her?" "Yes, ser."
With a nod, Trystin turned and headed for his stateroom, 
his implant still tuned to the ship's net and status board. 
After a second thought, he paused by the mess for a cup of 
the strong green tea, which he carried into his room. Setting 
the tea by the console, he sat down in the


plastic chair and opened the fusactor manual. He had to start 
somewhere.
When he got too bored, he'd go down to the tiny exercise 
room behind the mess-or go back to studying Revenant 
culture. While he understood why the economics worked, 
he still couldn't figure why people bought into it. Maybe he 
never would. Maybe Quentar was right-but Quentar was 
dead. He began to read the fusactor manual.
36
"Tradition. It's important." The captain set his empty cup on 
the narrow mess table.
"Yes." Trystin tried not to yawn as he stretched and got up 
to pour another cup of tea from the samovar. "Pour me 
some, would you?"
Trystin picked up James's cup and refilled it, setting it in 
front of the captain. In the corner, Albertini, the junior tech, 
sipped instant cafe. Trystin wrinkled his nose at the raw 
odor. He'd never liked cafe. After refilling his own mug 
with the strong green tea, he sat down across from the 
captain.
The Willis was cinched up to the ready lock, on standby in 
case any revvie scouts or ships should appear. For the last 
two weeks, after leaving Mara, the Willis had been rotated 
through standby duty on Parvati station, but the system had 
been quiet. Standby meant the crew could be anywhere 
aboard, so long as the captain and the second were on the 
link.
"Tradition," repeated the major. "Even words have a 
tradition." He paused. "Have you ever heard Moritaki?" 
"No. " Trystin took a long sip of the plain green tea, not 
nearly so good as what his father brewed, but better than 
Sustain or cafe. Cling!
Trystin jolted alert in his seat. So did James. Albertini, not 
direct-linked, saw the reaction and mumbled, "Oh, frig . . . 
trouble . . ."
"Iron Mace two, badboy at your zero two zero, elevation 
amber, eighty light-mins. Incoming at plus four." The 
direct-feed comm shivered through both pilots.
"Control, Iron Mace two. Powering up this time," 
announced James.
Trystin emptied his cup and racked it, then scurried 
forward and mentally called up the checklist.
"Prepare for separation. Prepare for separation." James's 
voice blared through the speakers.
They both strapped into their couches, and Trystin 
continued running through the short checklist while James 
linked the data from control into the ship's data banks. 
"We're ready for changeover," Trystin reported. "Stand by 
for power changeover." "Standing by," Trystin affirmed. 
"Ready for changeover," acknowledged Keiko from the 
duty tech station behind Trystin.
The lights flickered; the ventilators' hum stopped, then 
resumed; and the gravity dropped to point five, ship 
standard. Trystin's stomach twisted, and he proceeded 
through the rest of the checklist, using the mental screens, 
occasionally cross-checking the manual screens before him.
He could still remember the first time he had sensed the 
full pilot data load, and how it had threatened to drown him. 
His lips curled momentarily. "Ready to separate, ser," he 
reported. James nodded, his eyes half-glazed with his 
concentration on the data and nav plots.
"Outer Control, demagnetizing this time." After the 
acknowledgment from James, Trystin sent the report.
"Iron Mace two, understand demagnetizing. Cleared for 
separation this time. Maintain low thrust for three." "Stet, 
Control. Will maintain low thrust for three."
Trystin relayed the instructions to James, trying to ignore 
the sweat heading up on the major's forehead. "Iron Mace 
two, separating this time . . ." On the representational screen 
the amber point that was the Willis began to move away 
from the red square that represented the outer orbit station. 
"You have the con. Lieutenant." "I have it, ser. "Trystin 
smoothed out the power flows, trying to rest the 
accumulators and slowly boosting the flow from the 
fusactor.
"Steady on zero two zero, green-until we're clear of the 
dust."
Trystin kept boosting power to the thrusters, noting that 
the rev's image on the representational screen was as much 
blue as white. On the full-system and representational 
screens, the Willis seemed to creep away from Parvati outer 
orbit control, but quickly on the visual screen as orbit 
control vanished into the darkness. Parvati herself was no 
more than an extraordinarily bright star.
The revvie ship was inbound toward outer orbit control, 
angled from the innermost point of the Oort cloud, as if the 
pilot had been trying to use debris and cometary masses of 
the cloud as a screen. "To oppose something is to maintain 
it," James intoned. "Is that traditional, ser?"
"No. LeGuin, anglo preimmortal writer who understood 
culture."
Trystin tried not to frown. Was the captain being 
deliberately obscure? Finally, he asked, "What's being 
maintained by what opposition?"
"Outer orbit control. We created it as a staging point to 
hit the troid ships before they get too far in-system. They 
build up forces to take it out, and that means, we have to 
add more forces to keep it. "
That made sense-in an odd way: Trystin refocused his 
scan on the orange sector of the representational screen, 
increasing the scale exaggeration. As he kept watching, the 
rev's previously constant bearing began to shift.
"Badboy's edging toward the red. Looks like he's going to 
line into Krishna."
"Could he use a slingshot mag-warp to get head-to-
head?"
Trystin hadn't even thought of that, and he recomputed. 
After a moment, he answered. "Probability is above point 
eight."
Trystin should have thought of it. On a high-speed head-
to-head, the rev had an improved chance because his cross 
section was smaller and open for a shorter period of time. 
The added speed of the maneuver might cancel the shield-
strength advantage possessed by the Willis.
The two dots on the screen crept closer and closer to each 
other and Kubera-the outer gas giant-and its scattered 
moons and dust envelope. The rev dropped lower. 
"Recommend going into the plus, ser." "Go ahead, 
Lieutenant. You have the con." Trystin began to ease the 
Willis above the absolute plane of the ecliptic, trading away 
closure for position, but still maintaining the cruiser 
between orbit control and the rev. If the rev did slingshot, 
his low position was going to haunt him afterward.
Trystin hesitated, then triggered the restraints warning. "All 
personnel take restraints. All personnel take restraints."
The time-dilation envelope had a nasty side effect- 
partly countered by reflex step-up-which affected two 
ships with high, but differing absolute speeds. Although 
nontranslation speeds were limited to around point nine 
lights for any ship, experienced elapsed time shrank more 
quickly on the ship farther into the time-dilation envelope, 
effectively giving the pilot less time to react. James looked 
at Trystin and nodded, but said nothing. The lieutenant 
continued to track the incoming rev as the Willis steadily 
narrowed the distance, approaching both Krishna and 
Sithra, the gas giant's big fourth moon, nearly a third the 
size of Mara. "Lot of power for a rev," observed James. 
"We're seeing what they did twenty years ago, and I'm not 
sure I want to know what's twenty years ahead." James 
arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Once the rev grazed 
Krishna, all Trystin could get were confused signals from 
all the screens. Then two quick-dotted lines-torps-
appeared on the representational screen, streaming toward 
the Willis. ' CLING! CLING!
Trystin bled off all power from the gravs and nonessential 
systems, feeding it into the thrusters as he twisted the 
cruiser into an impossibly tight turn to angle in front of the 
fourth moon of Krishna.
The turn ran to nearly three gees, a lot for a deep-space 
ship, with James and Trystin pressed into their couches.
"Shields going up!" snapped Trystin, the words following 
his actions.
All the input from the sensors blanked, and, of the screens 
relaying exterior information, only the representational 
screen continued to function, but its "data" was based only 
on estimated updates. The smallest of shivers rocked the 
cruiser. Trystin waited for another two minutes before 
lowering the shields.
The rev had used the slingshot effect-to accelerate 
translation torps even faster than normal and to change his 
course back toward sector green without killing his speed.
Somehow Trystin had slipped the Willis through a tighter 
turn, while not losing too much speed, and the cruiser was 
actually nearer the rev than before. "Good reactions," said 
James. "He's running for Kali."
Trystin and the captain watched as two blips on the 
screen seemed to converge on the small ice planet.
"We've got him." Trystin watched the lock-in click, even 
as the rev slid toward Kali, his path as close as he could 
make it without generating a blister field. Even outer 
planets had some atmosphere.
Another series of torps, two and then another two, flared 
from the rev, but not toward the Willis. The four torps ran 
toward Yama-the small ice-and-rock moon of the outer 
planet.
Trystin frowned. The revvie corvette would barely be 
shielded by the planet before the torps impacted.
James froze, but Trystin could feel the captain's presence 
on the nav side of the net, demanding a series of 
calculations.
"Lieutenant!" snapped James. "Full three-gee turn red, 
two seven zero."
Crazy! The captain had lost it, but Trystin triggered the 
alarms and restraints again, and slammed the ship into the 
turn without a protest. As he did, he continued to track the 
rev, watching as the corvette swung low and angled 
insystem. Pressed back into his seat, he calculated another 
vector, and nodded.
Rather than speak, he threw the request through the net at 
the captain. "Again?" came the response.
Trystin broke down the request, showing how the Willis 
could use the free-dust area above the ecliptic to gain the 
angle on the rev, especially once the corvette hit the Trojan 
points off Shiva, since the rev's maneuver had forced him 
above the ecliptic as well. "You're cleared."
Absently, Trystin scanned Yama. Most of the small ice-
and-rock moon wasn't there. Even under the gee load, his 
stomach lurched. The rev had basically used his torps to 
throw a screen of ice and rock across the Willis's approach. 
At the acceleration Trystin had piled on, either the screens 
would have shredded or the accumulators blown, or both.
No . . . the captain hadn't lost it, and the rev had been 
clever, but not clever enough. .
The Willis continued to gain on the rev, and Trystin 
grinned. He had the angle, and no matter which way the rev 
went, any course change worked to the advantage of the 
Willis. If the rev stayed above the ecliptic with the Willis, it 
would be only a matter of minutes before the Willis got EDI 
lock-on. If the rev dropped toward the center of the system 
plane, the dust would slow him faster than the Willis. The 
EDI track faded into a point. "He shut down all his 
systems'" Trystin increased his sensitivity and strained the 
ship's systems, mumbling. He could barely sense the rev, 
but he doubted that the torps' energy sensors could. That 
meant firing the torps literally to a point and hoping the 
absolute heat sensors could find the revvie corvette. "Fire 
one." He pulsed out the First torp. After adjusting the signal 
again, he initiated the second. "Fire two."
All in all, it took Trystin five torps to neutralize the rev. 
By the fifth he was sweating, and his shipsuit was soaked, 
and a rapidly cooling mist of metal, vapor, and synthetics 
was dissipating and leaving the screen clear.
"Captain?" came Keiko's voice. "Are we clear to lift 
restraints?"
Trystin blushed. "Clear to lift restraints. Rev neutralized."
"Did you need five torps, ser?" That came over the net 
from Akibono. James looked at Trystin. "This rev was 
rather good," Trystin said. "Very good," added James, "but 
not good enough." Trystin wiped his forehead. He tried not 
to imagine being in a silent, shut-down ship hoping 
someone would miss.
"I'll take the con, Lieutenant." "You have the con, ser." 
"Could we have some tea up here?" "It will be a few 
minutes, ser. The samovar wasn't as restrained as we were."
The boyish grin crossed James's face. "That's fine. Water or 
anything will be fine."
"I think we'll be able to do tea, once we mop up." 
"Casualties of war," observed the captain. Trystin wiped his 
forehead again, before leaning back.
In less than ten minutes, Albertini arrived with two cups of 
tea.
"Wild ride, ser." He looked at Trystin. "I'll try to 
make it smoother in the future." "That was fun, 
ser."
Trystin took his tea after the captain did, sipping it 
quickly, and burning his tongue. How had they gotten it that 
hot that quickly? Fun?
He took a deep breath and sat back, trying to relax. "It's 
different, isn't it?" asked James, after perhaps a half hour 
had passed silently as the Willis headed back to Parvati  
outer orbit control. "Yes."
The captain pointed to the EDI screen. "There. It looks so 
quiet, and unless something like that last bit happens, it is. 
Most of the time, it's a matter of angles, a matter of power, 
and a few torps, and one ship or the other's neutralized. 
That's it."
Trystin looked at the visual EDI, not the mental screen. 
The EDI still showed the blue-tinged blips of the incoming 
asteroid ship, well beyond the patrol fringe, well beyond 
accurate detector position. Every time the Willis crossed the 
orange sector, the EDI showed the incoming ship, and 
reported the data to SysCon. Nothing changed. "Why don't 
we refuel and go get it?" asked Trystin. "Get what?" "The 
troid."
James raised his bushy black eyebrows. "How? We don't 
even have a decent vector. It's still a tenth of a light out 
there, and the potential translation error is enough that we 
could end up chasing it all over the sky." Trystin frowned. 
There had to be a way. James laughed. "You youngsters are 
all the same. If you can see it, you can hunt it down." The 
boyish grin faded. "Look . . . I know I'm not the greatest 
shiphandler, but shiphandling isn't all there is to being a 
pilot-or a marshal. How big is that troid-if it's the 
standard revvie operation?" "Probably. . . what?. . . no more 
than two kays across?"
"Why can we detect it?" "Because it's using a ramscoop-
powered fusactor with
thrusters. They register on the EDI." "At between a tenth 
and a fifth of a light, what's the
probable margin for error-not translation error, but jump
error?" "It could be a couple of light-days, maybe more."
Trystin was beginning to see where James was heading.
"How far would we have to go into the distortion 
envelope after we translated?" "Pretty far . . . and that takes 
a lot of fuel, plus system
strain. . . and the translation error could be a week, maybe
two, each way." "Exactly-and while we're blundering 
around out there,
what's likely to be happening back here?" Trystin sighed. 
"And," continued James inexorably, "what are the
chances of one cruiser against a troid ship?" 
"About one in four."
"That's why we wait until they come to us." James wasn't 
stupid-just clumsy with shiphandling. "Outer Control, this 
is Iron Mace two, confirming bad-boy neutralization. 
Badboy neutralization." "Mace two. Control. We confirm 
neutralization. . . .
Gave you a run there. Yama won't ever be the same." 
"What's a little ice here or there?" quipped James. "Better 
you than us, two. Cleared to epsilon three." "Mace two, 
commencing approach to epsilon three."
James nodded and turned to Trystin. "They'll probably
pull up the Sebastopol. You take the con for a while."
Trystin rechecked the accumulators. The power hiccuping 
on the outbound side was still faint, but stronger. "Ser . . . 
the hiccuping off the accumulators is stronger,
not a lot, but stronger."
"Record it. Have Keiko run it by the station logistics 
engineer, through the maintenance system, and you put a
note in the ops report."
"The log engineer will just say it's normal, but it's not." "I 
know that." James smiled. "It takes time."
Trystin nodded.
"Patience is like tradition. They're important," announced 
James.
"Yes." Trystin struggled to listen, while still computing 
the course line to bring the Willis to rest in berth epsilon 
three of the outer belt defense station. Parvati was so far 
away that the screen bore the legend "SCALE DISTORTED." 
"Have you ever heard Moritaki?" "No. I can't say I have." 
Trystin had never even heard of Moritaki, except when the 
captain had brought up the name before they had scrambled.
"Very old. He wrote in old Shinto-eight centuries 
before the Die-off. Very beautiful."
"What did he write?" Trystin pulsed the thrusters again, 
dropping the closure rate to meters per minute. "I had to 
memorize some of his verse as a boy." Trystin waited. 
Sooner or later, James would get there, but never in direct 
fashion. The captain spoke the words softly.
"A falling petal
drops upward, back to the branch. It's a butterfly."
"I've seen some butterflies like that." Trystin adjusted the 
approach again. "How about this?"
"The morning glory-
another thing that will never be my friend."
James paused before adding, "That was Basho." "You know 
him?" Trystin asked. James laughed. " He died fifteen 
hundred years ago. Tradition. It's important."
"What's a morning glory?" Trystin wanted to keep James 
talking. Things seemed to go better when the major was the 
center of attention.
"A flower. A blue flower. It opened at dawn, and it 
folded up in the full light of day. None of them survived the 
Die-off." James looked bleakly at the screens.
Trystin swallowed, wondering at the captain's sudden 
change of mood. "Iron Mace two, closure is green." Trystin 
nodded and pulsed back, "Stet, Control. Holding green."
"Do you want the con, ser?" Trystin asked. "You're doing 
fine. Take her in." "Yes, ser." Trystin shifted his weight in 
his couch. "Mace two, cleared to dock. Maintain low 
thrust." "Control, this is two, beginning final approach. 
"Trystin moistened his lips and pulsed the thrusters again.
The Willis crept in toward the wall of metal and 
composite-slowly, slowly, until, with a faint clank, she 
slipped into place.
Trystin magnetized the holdtights. "We have lock-on. 
Apply mechanical holdtights and prepare for power 
changeover." He began the shutdown list, and the items and 
replies went back and forth over the net, silently, between 
him and the captain. "Accumulators..." "... discharged." 
"Fusactor..." ". . . stand by." "Compensators..." "... open." 
Trystin nodded. "Senior Tech . . . power changeover." 
"Changeover, ser."
As the full grav of orbit control pressed Trystin into his 
couch, he realized just how tired he was. "Whew . - ."
"You're not done yet. Lieutenant. We have to go up to 
ops and debrief."
"Yes, ser." Trystin dragged himself out of the couch. "After 
that, you get to go and talk to the maintenance people about 
the accumulators, not logistics-Keiko will handle that-
but Commander Frenkel's assistant. Lieutenant what's-his-
name." "Isuki. But he won't do anything." "I know. But 
make sure you talk to him, and talk to his tech assistants. 
That's so everyone knows that you've been there, and give 
him a hard copy of the note from the ops report." "I don't 
have-" "Make one. I'll wait."
Trystin sent the command over the net and wiped his 
face, then pulled his beret from his belt and walked back to 
the tech room where the printer waited for him. Behind him, 
James smiled.
37
The Sebastopol, the Willis, and the Mishima formed a rough 
arc-as shown by the representational screen. At the center 
of the arc was the blue pulsing sphere that was the revvie 
troid.
In front of the Coalition cruisers were nearly a dozen fast 
corvettes, matched by nearly as many Revenant scouts that 
led and protected the troid.
"I told you we'd get a chance at that troid," pointed out 
James. "Are you still interested in taking it on alone?"
Trystin studied the EDI tracks on the screen, noting the 
bearing from the Willis and the closure rate-nearly half a 
light. He'd never seen anything that big move so fast- not 
as close as the troid was. The revvie scouts and the 
corvettes moved closer-only centimeters apart on the 
physical screen in front of Trystin-but those centimeters 
still represented nearly ten light-minutes. "What the mother 
is that?" asked Albertini as he handed the cup of tea to the 
captain, his eyes on the pulsing blue ball in the visual 
screen. .
"Is that your first troid up close?" James took the mug of 
green tea.
"Yes, ser. " Albertini extended the second cup to Trystin, 
but the tech's eyes were still on the screen.
Trystin took the cup, and a quick sip before setting it in 
the holder by his right hand.
". . . the friggin' revs . . . how long those corpsies been 
chilled?" the tech whispered.
"Now, now, they're just on a mission for the Prophet." 
James set his tea down.
"Twenty years, give or take a few," answered Trystin. 
"You'd better get back and strapped in," suggested James. 
"Yes, ser."
On the screen the green-shaded points of light-the 
Coalition ships-moved toward the blue-shaded points of 
light.
The Coalition corvettes were higher-powered, with 
heavier shields, and somewhat less maneuverable. The revs 
accelerated faster and formed into a wedge, close enough 
that they merged on the screen, possibly close enough that 
their shields overlapped.
The wedge arrowed toward the forward arc of the 
Coalition corvettes.
Nothing happened as the ships drew closer. Then a series 
of green-dashed lines flickered from the Coalition formation 
toward the lead revvie scout.
The torpedoes intersected the arrowhead, and two points 
of light flashed, but the remaining revvie scouts 
reconfigured into two smaller wedges and split apart, 
sending their own torps out. A Coalition corvette went up. 
Concentration of firepower-that was the game. Another 
Coalition corvette vanished-just vanished- from the 
screen. So did a revvie scout. A blue-dashed torp course 
line flared from the right revvie arrow toward the trailing 
corvette on the left flank of the Coalition formation.
Trystin watched, and it appeared that the corvette never 
saw the torp. The ship just flashed into red, then 
disappeared from the screen. How could a pilot not sense a 
potential lock-on?
The Coalition corvettes let loose another barrage of 
coordinated torps, then peeled away from the oncoming 
revs in a circular sweep that seemed designed to bring all 
the corvettes back onto the left revvie wedge a few light-
minutes in-system.
The right arrow of revvie scouts swept toward the 
cruisers. The left arrow of revvie scouts swept across where 
the vanished corvette had been.
Abruptly, a blue point of light appeared-behind the 
revvie wedge-released three torps in rapid succession, and 
then accelerated into a sweeping left turn.
Two more torps flew, and blue and green lights merged, 
before another pinlight of sun flashed across the screen.
Two revvie scouts went up in light to the torps of the 
destroyed but previously "vanished" corvette, and the 
Coalition corvettes converged on the weakened left wedge, 
with torp lines crisscrossing on the screen.
A single revvie scout remained, apparently left alone, as 
the remaining six corvettes accelerated on a stern chase 
after the four revvie scouts that closed on the cruisers. "Full 
shields," ordered James.
Feeling the captain's control of the torps, Trystin waited 
as the Willis and the revs closed on each other.
Another series of torps flared from the Coalition 
corvettes, and more revvie scouts vanished, leaving two 
revvie scouts headed toward the cruisers. "Fire one!"
Trystin felt the command through the system, rather than 
heard the words. "Two! Three! Four!" Four torps that 
quickly? Trystin watched as the torps impacted one right 
after the other on the shields on the lead rev-and the scout 
flared into dust.
Absently, Trystin realized that the remaining rev scout 
from the other wedge had surprised another corvette with 
what seemed like a suicide dash. Both scout and corvette 
flashed into nearly pure energy.
The remaining scout pounded toward the Sebastopol, 
somehow avoiding the First torp from the cruiser, and the 
second, and launching its own torp.
The Sebastopol's shields flared amber, and stayed amber, 
but the rev went up in energy with two more torps from the 
remaining three corvettes..
Trystin wiped his forehead, then computed closure rates. 
The Willis remained three light-mins out from the rev- an 
enormous absolute distance, and a very short time to 
closure.
"Iron Mace two, this is Sledge Control. Coordinate dump 
follows. Coordinate dump follows."
"Sledge Control, Mace two, standing by for coordinate 
dump. Standing by this time." James nodded to Trystin.
The coordinate dump was just that-a blast of data-with 
detailed coordinates outlining the two target points on the 
troid. In too many places, even the heavy troid-killer torps 
would slam into the nickel-iron without much impact-or 
not enough to disrupt the course or mission of the troid.
Trystin reviewed the dump, then plugged the coordinates 
into the targeting parameters. "Target points established, 
ser." "Stet, Lieutenant."
Ghostlike images flared from the troid, more than a 
dozen, and then another wave of revvie scouts rose from the 
hidden locks of the troid, only five in all, but only the three 
corvettes remained in front of the cruisers.
Trystin nodded to himself, knowing that the ghostlike 
paraglider wings were on their way to Mara, and, with their 
radar-transparent silhouettes, by the time the battle around 
the troid was over, system control would be lucky to Find 
half of the paragliders, if that.
"Holding back scouts to keep us from going after the 
gliders," James said quietly, then asked, "Interrogative time 
to launch point."
Trystin ran the comps again, letting the figures spin 
through him and across the circuit to the captain.
"They'll be here before we're there. " The captain paused, 
then added, "Weapons, stand by on torp changeover. Bad-
boys incoming."
"Standing by. Captain." Liam's voice sounded tinny on 
the net, the result of converting vocal vibrations to 
neuroelectrical pulse.
"Lieutenant, you have the con. Get us to the launch point 
in one piece, and take as many of them as you can along the 
way. Standard torps will fire at twice normal rate."
Trystin noted that the captain neither closed his eyes nor 
relaxed.
"Yes, ser. I have the con. Torps will fire at twice normal 
rate." Immediately, Trystin began bleeding back the power 
flow to the thrusters slightly, cutting acceleration levels by 
five percent. He checked the accumulators again, but the 
hiccuping, while reduced, still occurred. Why could the -
Willis fire torps at twice the standard rate? That could wait 
for later.
Trystin triggered the restraints warning. "All personnel 
take restraints. All personnel take restraints." "Shit..."
It might have been Albertini's voice, but Trystin ignored 
it, and dropped the shields to half-power while lifting the 
Willis above the past battle plane. He boosted the power 
flow to the accumulators, until they registered at a hundred 
percent, then slowly eased up acceleration.
Two of the revvie scouts veered from their centerline 
toward the Willis. Trystin kept the cruiser lifting for another 
minute, then dropped the nose back to a direct vector 
toward the troid, although it would take a while to 
overcome the rising vector-which was fine. He didn't have 
to worry-about drag-not that much in space. Trystin kept 
studying the revvie scouts, watching . . .'
With the first flicker in their EDI envelope, he acted. 
"Full restraints!" "Shit..."
Even before Albertini had finished swearing, Trystin had 
poured all the stored accumulator power into the thrusters 
and dumped the nose even more, hoping his calculations 
were correct. Scouts didn't have beefed-up thrusters and 
accumulators. He also dumped the artificial grav and poured 
that power into acceleration.
The acceleration pushed him into the couch, and he let it, 
watching as the torps flared toward the Willis. "Fire one!" 
"Fire two!"
He paused, checking the incoming lines. 
"Fire three!"
Out of time, he dropped off enough power to bounce up 
full shields, and the "gravity" in the cabin slumped to a 
shade over normal, but it was pure acceleration effect.
"Shields! Desensitize!" he announced after the fact, as the 
Willis powered toward the troid, and as Trystin calculated 
the wave fronts, then lifted desensitivity, ready to reimpose 
it.
There were no torps. There were also no revvie scouts 
near the Willis, although one scout seemed to be fleeing the 
Mishima, and the two others did not register on the screens.
"Approaching launch point in one minute ship time," 
Trystin announced.
"Stet. Time for the big ones." The captain pulsed back to 
Liam. "Put the regular torps on standby and drop in the 
reds."
"Loading red one and two at this time. Captain. Three 
and four standing by."
The red torps-the troid busters-required both the action 
of the weapons officer and the pilot in command, unlike 
ship-to-ship torps. The weapons officers also underwent 
rather intensive screening, Trystin understood. After the 
experiences following the Die-off, the Coalition had a fetish 
about nuclear and nucleonic antimatter weapons.
"Let me know when they're ready. Weapons." "Stet, ser."
On the screen, the Willis moved closer to the large 
pulsing blip that was the revvie troid. "Point five," Trystin 
announced. "I have the con. Lieutenant." "You have it, ser."
"Red one is ready." Liam's voice was tinny and calm. 
"Ignite red one," ordered James. "Red one is go," 
responded Liam. "Red two!" "Red two is go."
Trystin swallowed and waited for the reload, which took 
longer with the reds.
James appeared calm, then pulsed the command. "Red 
three!" "Red three is go?" "Red four!" "Red four is go." 
"Changeover to standard torps." "Changing over this time." 
"Shields!"
"Shield in place. Captain," Trystin responded. 
"Desensitize." "Desensitized."
Trystin could feel the pressure as James turned the Willis 
until she accelerated away from the troid, to eliminate the 
possibility of a collision with large objects resulting from 
the fragmentation of the troid, since the ship was traveling 
faster than the troid. Still, the path taken by the troid would 
have to be monitored, since flying through the planned troid 
course line would be dangerous for the next few days. After 
that, it wouldn't matter.
Trystin glanced around. With the screens dead, and all 
external contacts cut, the cockpit felt more like a coffin, 
except for the gentle hissing of the recycling system and the 
holo displays of the internal status of the Willis. He wiped 
his forehead, and his eyes flicked toward the blank red-
tinged boxes where the rest of the visual screen displays 
should be, then triggered the implant simulation through the 
representational screen, which showed the dotted course 
line of the huge torpedoes as they closed on the revvie 
asteroid ship.
At the moment of projected impact, nothing happened, 
except the dotted line on the display vanished. Trystin 
waited for the Willis to shiver . . . for something . . . but 
nothing occurred.
"Calculate," he direct-fed, asking the mainframe for 
wave-front clearance.                             •
"Wave front has passed, assuming all input parameters 
are accurate." The words scripted across his mental screen, 
"Let's wait a moment," suggested the captain. Trystin 
couldn't argue with that. Wave fronts didn't always follow 
the calculations, and who knew what else might have been 
in the troid?
Shortly, James nodded and ordered, "Remove 
desensitizing." "Receiving input."
The representational screen showed almost the same view 
as before-the outer planets, orbit control station- but only 
a faint luminescent haze marked the spot where nine 
superaccelerated torps had met the five-kay-diameter 
asteroid and translated a great deal of mass into nearly pure 
energy.
Two blue-dashed trails appeared on the screen, heading 
toward the Willis, nearly head-to-head. "Shit . . ." mumbled 
Trystin.
"You have the con. Lieutenant. You have eighteen torps 
left. Use what you need." James's voice was cool.
"I have the con." Trystin calculated-two minutes to their 
torp range. The hell with it.
He dropped the Willis into a marginal-gee acceleration, at 
a slight angle to the oncoming scouts. "Shit . . . now what?"
Ignoring the comment from one of the techs, who 
probably felt as though his or her stomach were about to 
depart, he waited until the first flicker of the EDI, then 
slammed full power into the thrusters, turning the ship into
the oncoming torps. 
"Fire one! Fire two!"
He waited only until the tubes were reloaded. "Fire three 
Fire four!" Then the shields went full up, and he waited, 
watching,
without desensitizing for a moment. "Control, Weapons. 
Loader on tube two is jammed.
Tube one will fire at twice normal rate." "Stet, Weapons." 
More sweat poured down Trystin's
face, and he wiped the dampness away from his eyes.
After another moment, Trystin dropped the shields 
momentarily-firing through shields was usually fatal. 
"Fire one!" He waited. "Fire two!" He raised the shields - . . 
and waited, conscious that the
hiccuping from the accumulators was becoming a stutter. 
The accumulators began to grab for power, and Trystin
dropped them off-line. The acceleration dropped to point 
seven, all the fusactors could maintain. Trystin held his 
breath, releasing it as two and then four
torps flared past the Willis. The right rev flared into energy. 
Dropping shields, Trystin fired another torp, hoping
another wouldn't be necessary. It wasn't. After a moment, 
he wiped his forehead. "Rather effective. Lieutenant." 
Trystin wiped his forehead again. His shipsuit was
soaked. "Thank you, ser."
"Clear to lift restraints," the captain announced. Trystin 
flushed. That was something he always forgot. Liam 
Akibono stood in the cockpit hatch. He had a
bruise on his forehead. "Sorry," Trystin apologized, with a 
quick look at the
weapons officer. His senses went back to the screens, but
the system seemed clear. From what he could tell, only two
corvettes, the Mishima, and the Willis were left from the
original Coalition strike force. "Don't be. I'd rather be 
battered than dead." Liam looked at the captain. "The 
number one new loader needs a lot of work. The second 
one might last another mission. Maybe."
"There's another set at the station. See if you can get them 
installed. The company's getting its field test." James 
grinned wryly. "We have a few other repairs to take care of. 
So we're not going anywhere soon."
The weapons officer glanced at the screens. "Those revs 
are crazy. Head-to-head?"
Crazy? Trystin thought not, but offered nothing, knowing 
James was watching.
"I don't think so, Liam," said James. "One could almost 
respect them for doing the honorable thing."
Trystin shivered. Honor was cold comfort, sometimes, 
and the captain's words bothered him. So did the red 
telltales. "Captain, accumulators are shot. So are the right 
rear sensors." He wondered how and when that had 
happened. "Take us home. Lieutenant." "Yes, ser."
"If we have a samovar left, Keiko, could you send 
someone up with some tea?"
"It might take a moment, ser, while we put it back 
together."
Running on fifty-percent power, with no accumulators, 
the Willis limped back toward Parvati outer orbit control.
James sipped green tea, hair unmussed, apparently 
unruffled.
Trystin also sipped tea, but his hair stood on end, and he 
smelled like he'd been working out on the high-gee 
treadmill for days. He tried not to shiver in the damp ship-
suit, after he finally docked the Willis firmly in place at lock 
epsilon four,
He wiped his forehead again. He was still sweating more 
than an hour after the last torp had fired.
"Let's get to the debriefing. Lieutenant. After that, I'll be 
gone for a while," announced James. "You did file that last 
report on the accumulators, didn't you?"
"Yes, ser. I've filed one after every mission.  Isuki doesn't 
ever want to see my face again." "Good." James offered a 
smile, not the boyish one. Trystin raised his eyebrows.
"After the ops debriefing, I'll be seeing Senior Marshal 
Kovalik. So I might be a while. You need to get back here 
and relieve Liam. He'll have to work fast to get the loaders 
replaced and to get us resupplied."
"Yes, ser." Trystin had an idea what Major James Sasaki 
was about to do with the commander of the outer orbit 
control station, and he was just as glad he wasn't going to be 
around. Commander Frenkel might not be around much 
longer, either.
The torp loaders were another question. Trystin wondered 
what else lay hidden on the Willis.

38
". . . As cultures advance in knowledge and power, the 
conflict between reason and faith becomes apparently 
greater. Not only have people attained through technology 
the powers of old gods to cast thunderbolts or to heal or to 
destroy, but they have exercised those powers, and they 
know that divinity is not required. They can determine that 
sufficient power determines destiny.                        .
"The problem with technology is that it rewards the able 
while also empowering those who are less able. A man who 
cannot fathom a computer or an infonet can destroy those 
who can, and who have been rewarded for their skills.
"Yet, if each individual obtains and wields the power 
within his or her scope, few individuals will survive. By 
placing power in a greater being, a deity, in some force. 
greater than the individual, or even into a belief that the 
community is greater than the individual, an individual is 
expressing a faith in the need for an entity greater than mere 
personal ambition or appetite. That faith . . . allows the 
individual to refrain from exercising power, yet it also 
places such an individual at the mercy of those without such 
faith.
"While it can be and has been argued that all people are 
created equal, genetics and environmental analyses have 
verified that such equality ceases at birth, perhaps even 
earlier.
"With unequal power and unequal ability the lot of 
humanity, religion has sought to establish a common ground 
by subsuming all to a mightier god, yet reason and 
technology have conspired to communicate that no such 
god exists-or that such a god does not interfere-and that 
some form of might makes right. And no god has, in recent 
historical times, destroyed the side with the bigger 
battalions and mightier technology.
"So. . . how can a rational individual confront the 
problem of power? In the same way that all the faithful have 
throughout history-by sharing a set of ideals and a spirit of 
community more highly valued than individual application 
of power....
"One of the cries of the true believer is that there are 
moral absolutes that can only be set forth by a deity. Yet if 
life is sacred, as many deities have proclaimed, how can a 
deity command people to kill in his name, as most deities 
have done? How can we even exist, since we must 
consume, in the natural state, some other organism, and that 
means killing? Likewise, if life is not sacred, then the 
injunction to be fruitful and multiply is a military command, 
not a deistic one....
The Eco-Tech Dialogues 
Prologue

39
"Prepare for power changeover." "Standing 
by for changeover."
Trystin tensed slightly as the lights flickered and the 
gravity dropped to point five, but over the years his guts had 
learned to flip around a lot less with the switch from station 
normal gravity to ship grav.
The humming hiss of the ventilators stopped, then picked 
up, and Trystin proceeded with the checklist, running down 
the mental screens called up through the implant, only 
occasionally cross-checking the manual screens before him 
to ensure that the manual controls still worked-or that his 
implant wasn't malfunctioning. "Ready to separate, ser," 
Trystin added. "Stet."
"Outer Control, demagnetizing this time." James flashed 
Trystin the boyish grin after reporting to station control.
"Iron Mace two, understand demagnetizing. Cleared for 
separation this time. Maintain low thrust for three."
"Iron Mace two, separating this time. Will maintain low 
thrust for three." Sweat still beaded up on the captain's 
forehead.
The representational screen depicted the separation as the 
amber point that was the Willis began to move away from 
the red square of the station. "You have the con. 
Lieutenant." "I have it, ser." Trystin monitored the power 
flows, trying to check the new accumulators while phasing 
in power from the fusactor. The sooner the accumulators 
were carrying a full load the happier he'd be. "Steady on 
zero one five, red," ordered James.
"Stet."
Neither spoke as Trystin eased the Willis away from 
already distant Parvati and toward the pulsing blue globe on 
the representational screen. "Weapons, loader status?"
"The new loaders and fixes seem to be holding. Captain."
Trystin nodded to himself. Once again, contacts helped. 
James had managed to get the new high-speed loaders 
installed on the Willis. That just might have been because 
they were Sasaki loaders. Now they had the first upgrades, 
since the initial version had had a tendency toward 
jamming-not exactly wonderful in combat.
"Let's hope so." James's voice was calm, as if testing new 
systems in combat were expected of him.
Trystin pursed his lips. For James, such tests were-part 
of the parashinto honor concept. Trystin was still 
discovering how complicated the man was. "Sledge team, 
this is Sledge Control. Datadump follows." After the net 
picked up the data burst and arrayed it, both Trystin and 
James sat silently, using their implants to scan and digest 
the information and the plans sent from the Tokugawa and 
Marshal Guteyama. "Too complex," James finally 
announced. Trystin nodded, and the Willis accelerated 
toward the orbit of Krishna.
"This is deadly. . . and boring," reflected James into the 
near silence of the cockpit.
"Boring?" How could anything that could kill you be 
boring?
"The revs send a troid and scouts. The scouts and troid 
want to destroy our defenses and take over the system so 
they can raise more little revs to take over other systems. 
We go out and kill them, and they kill some of us, and we 
destroy the troid. Then we build more ships and train more 
people, and they send another troid, and we do it again. For 
us, it's even more predictable. A few hours of stress and 
excitement and then more days or months of waiting. All 
very predictable. All very boring."
Trystin tried not to frown. Was James testing him again? 
"Is there some way we could get out of the pattern?"
"If you-or I-could find it. I'm sure Headquarters 
would like to know. We can't squander resources the way 
they can in trying to attack their systems, and they don't 
seem inclined to stop attacking ours. Somehow, you'd 
have to shake their faith to its foundations, and I don't see 
that happening." James laughed. "Or we'd have to 
change, and that's about as likely as the revs giving up 
their faith."
That wasn't likely, thought Trystin, not after what he'd 
seen of the revs on Mara. And what could the Eco-Tech 
Coalition change? It wasn't as though the Coalition 
wanted anything that belonged to the revs.
Still, he couldn't think of any other logical response to 
James's declaration that war was essentially boring. But 
he wasn't sure that he'd call anything where he could get 
killed boring. The weeks or months of waiting between 
troids were boring-except for the occasional long-range 
rev scouts. He shook his head and concentrated on 
integrating the data and the ops plan.
Nearly a standard hour passed before the representational  
screen showed the six cruisers forming a semicircle  . to 
face the oncoming troid. In the two center positions were 
the Tokugawa and the Mishima. The Willis was at the left 
end, the Muir at the right. At the right middle position was 
the lzanagi, while the Morrigan held down the left middle 
position. Twenty fast corvettes, split into five groups of four 
with overlapping shields, moved ahead of the cruisers and 
toward the troid. Fifteen revvie scouts comprised five 
triplets that sped toward the corvettes.
Abruptly, the revvie triplet groups split-each of the 
five accelerating into a curving course designed to arch 
over the oncoming corvettes.
As they accelerated, the ports on the troid opened, 
launching, and spewing forth in rapid succession, 
paraglider after paraglider.
"Shit . . ." mumbled Trystin. As usual, by the time the 
Coalition ships were free, the paragliders would be cold 
and inert, drifting at high speeds toward Mara, ready 
within days, or at the most, weeks, to emerge from their  
cocoons and assault the perimeter lines. Space was just 
too big to find all of the paragliders, and ships could 
cruise within kays of one of them and not even spot it 
because there were no energy emissions, no reflections, 
and almost no heat radiation.
Data bursts flared across the net, and Trystin responded, 
driving the Willis in toward the Tokugawa. He was too 
busy to shake his head, but that was his feeling, between 
the troid, the scouts, and the paragliders.
The central quad of corvettes intercepted the middle 
revvie triplet, and torps flared. The corvettes' overlapped 
shields held; those of the revs did not, and four converted 
to energy, leaving a single rev, screens pulsing amber, 
curving outward before vanishing from the screen.
Trystin noted the location of the vanished rev, but could 
detect no energy radiation as he eased the Willis closer to 
the Morrigan, until their screens flicked across each other.
Two groups of the revvie scouts joined in an attempt to 
wedge between two other corvette quads, doubling shields 
and arrowing toward the far side of the cruiser line, straight 
toward the Muir, which was joining shields with the 
lzanagi.
The remaining two revvie groups combined and drove 
toward the Willis and Morrigan. In turn, one of the 
Coalition corvette groups peeled down to intercept the revs 
headed toward the Willis.
The three corvettes remaining from the first attack and 
the other quad headed to intercept the triplets aimed at the 
Muir and lzanagi.
Trystin waited, since any torp he fired might well home 
on the energy emissions of one of the corvettes before it 
could seek out a scout. Space was so big that without 
energy-searching or a very precise location, no single torp 
would likely hit anything.
Three of the revvie scouts heading toward the Willis 
veered toward the intercepting corvettes; the other three 
toward the Morrigan. Torps began to flash, and the 
representational screen was filled with blue- and green-
tinged energy dashes. Two scouts flared into energy, as did 
one corvette, and then another.
Another scout went up, and then there were two scouts 
between the corvettes and the Morrigan.
Trystin calculated, and pulsed his commands across the 
net. "Fire one! Two!"
Both torps were aimed at the revvie scout closest to the 
Morrigan. Two torps from the Morrigan followed.
Trystin turned the Willis into a head-on-head course, and, 
once the tubes were reloaded, fired two more torps, this 
time at the trailing rev, followed by two more salvos of two 
each.
Again, the Morrow lagged in releasing torps. Two revvie 
torps flared against the Morrigan's shields' but, though they 
pulsed amber, the shields held.
Those of the revs did not, and the scouts vanished into 
dust and energy.
The troid ship lumbered on, and one of the corvettes, 
apparently trying to avoid something, veered toward the 
troid. A flash of energy jabbed outward from the mass of 
nickel-iron, and the corvette vanished.
Trystin got the readouts, even as he kept the Willis 
turning.
"Modified thruster-they've got enough power on the 
troid to handle that sort of deviltry," said James.
A thruster that could deliver enough punch to blow a 
corvette's screens at four hundred kays?
The two groups of cruisers edged forward as the troid 
inexorably bore down on them.
"Approaching launch point in one minute ship time," 
Trystin announced.
"Stet." James pulsed back to Liam. "Regular torps on 
standby; load and arm the reds."
"Loading red one, and two, at this time. Captain. Three 
and four standing by."
On the screen, while the Willis seemed to move toward 
the large pulsing blip that was the revvie troid, the actual 
data showed the asteroid ship was the one doing most of the 
moving. "Point Five," Trystin announced. "I have the con."' 
"You have it, ser."
"Red one is ready." Liam's voice was tinny and calm. 
"Ignite red one."
"Red one is go," responded Liam. 
"Red two!" "Red two is go."
Again, there was the pause for reloading. "Red 
three!" "Red three is go!" "Red four!" "Red four 
is go." "Changeover to standard torps." 
"Changing over this time." "Shields!"
"Shield in place. Captain," Trystin responded. 
"Desensitize." "Desensitized."
Although the ship grav remained, Trystin could sense the 
stresses as the Willis turned and accelerated away from the 
troid. The cockpit remained a ventilated coffin, and Trystin 
focused on the implant's simulation of the troid-busters' 
course line toward the rev.
"Calculate," he direct-fed, asking the mainframe for 
wave-front clearance after the moment of impact had 
passed.
"Wave front has passed." The words flicked across his 
mental screen.
Trystin waited for a time before announcing, "Plus three 
after impact."
"Remove desensitizing. You have the con. Lieutenant." 
"Receiving input. I have the con." The screen showed ten 
corvettes boxing in the last two revvie scouts near the orbit 
of Kali-and a faint point of energy inside the screens of 
the Tokugawa. Trystin triggered the implant-too late. 
EEEEEEEeeeeee...
The eruption of white energy that had been the Tokugawa 
blasted across all wavelinks and shivered right through 
Trystin. For a moment his thoughts froze, and his nerves 
burned, even down to his fingertips.
The rev that had dropped off the screen had just stayed 
put, totally shut down, hoping for a shot from inside a ship's 
screens. And he'd gotten it.
The revvie scout went up in energy at the impact of three 
torps from the Mishima and the Muir.
"Guess we'll have a new marshal." James shook his head.
Trystin tried not to frown, instead scanning the screens. 
No revvie scouts remained, and only warm chunks of 
fragmented nickel-iron registered on the cruiser's screens.
"Sledge team, this is Sledge Control Alternate, return to 
base. Return to base."
Trystin eased the Willis into a thirty-degree turn and 
backed off the thrusters, automatically checking the 
accumulators. They were fine, no roughness or hiccuping or 
roughness in power transfers in either direction. He nodded 
to himself.
"That was better," announced James. "It helps to have a 
few more ships." "This time."
"They've got a twenty-year lag," the captain added. "I 
thought that when I was down on the perimeter, too." "You 
think they'll keep escalating the amount of force they throw 
at us?"
"One way or another." Trystin rechecked the 
accumulators as he spoke. The power flows remained 
smooth. He eased the thrusters back even farther, since the 
Willis was the last cruiser in the formation, and there would 
be an approach bottleneck anyway.
"Iron Mace two, this is Sledge Control Alternate, 
interrogative status."
Trystin flicked across the maintenance boards. Outside of 
two marginal sensors, the Willis was in relatively good 
shape-except for having only eight torps left. Logistics 
was not letting Liam overstock torps, one Major Sasaki or 
not, not after the rather hurried and unpleasant departure of 
Commander Frenkel. The Willis now got everything it 
rated-immediately-but not one thing extra.
Trystin pulsed the status information to James. "Green, 
ser, except for sensors and torps."
"Sledge Control, Mace two here. Status is green beta- 
armament."
"Stet, Mace two. Interrogative status upon resupply." 
"Sledge Control, this is Iron Mace two. Anticipate status 
will be green upon resupply." "Thank you, two." Trystin 
looked at the captain.
"They're trying to figure out the standby duty rotations. 
Probably all that went up with the Tokugawa. "
Trystin wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. 
Why was it he sweated so much and James, except when 
piloting in and out of locking status, seemed so cool?
After waiting for the other cruisers to complete their 
approaches, the Willis crept in toward outer orbit control, 
slipping up beside the wall of metal and composite- 
slowly, slowly, until, with a faint clunk, she melded with the 
station.
"We have lock-on. Apply mechanical holdtights and 
prepare for power changeover." After magnetizing the 
holdtights, Trystin called up the shutdown list. 
"Accumulators..." "... discharged." "Fusactor..." 
"...standby." "Compensators..." "... open."
Trystin cleared his throat of the dust that never quite 
seemed to leave the ship, no matter how scrupulous the 
cleanup.
"Senior tech . . . power changeover." 
"Changeover, ser."
As the full grav of orbit control pressed Trystin into his 
couch, he took a deep breath.
"Time to go up to ops and debrief. It should be short this 
time."
Trystin slowly pried himself and his damp shipsuit out of 
the couch.
40
Trystin's boots whispered on the heavy plastic of the 
locking tube. He glanced back past the automatic locks that 
would close if the pressure dropped, but the lower corridor 
was almost empty, except for a young tech headed back to 
the Mishima.
Trystin wiped his forehead, still warm, even though he'd  
had a cool-down and a shower after his exercise in the outer 
orbit station's high-gee workout room. At times, he wasn't 
sure whether the downtime of two to six months between 
troids was better or the busy times when the revs were 
attacking. He didn't run the risk of getting killed in 
downtimes, just being bored. The outer orbit station's 
facilities were limited, and strained by the force buildup, 
and James had a tendency to philosophize too much about 
the old Shinto times.
Since Mara inner orbit control hadn't ever been built to 
support large numbers of Service craft, most ships had to 
dock at Parvati outer orbit control, although they were all 
rotated through Mara orbit station for relief.
Trystin sniffed. The corridor, like all station corridors, 
smelled faintly of plastic, metal, and ozone, with an 
underscent of oil. He paused at the lock as Muriami, 
wearing the duty stunner, stepped toward him.
"Lieutenant?" asked Tech Muriami. "The captain was 
asking for you earlier. He's in his stateroom." The tech's 
careful tone alerted Trystin. "Did he say what he wanted?"
"No, ser." "Thank you, Muriami."
Trystin carried his exercise bag to his stateroom and 
dumped it next to the console. Pretty soon, he'd have to do 
more laundry, and that was a pain. He went back into the 
passageway, closing his door.
The captain leaned out of his stateroom. "Trystin . . . 
need to talk a moment." A lock of short black hair fell 
across his face, and he slowly pushed it back. "Yes. ser."
James left the door open. He was sitting in the plastic 
chair with the purple cushion on it when Trystin closed the 
stateroom door.
"Sit down." The captain gestured at the chair on the other 
side of the small circular plastic table anchored to the deck. 
A half-empty glass bottle rested on the table, and James 
held a glass in which two fingers of an amber liquid 
remained.
Trystin sat. His eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle and 
the label.
"Scotch. Actual Cambrian Scotch. Not . . . so good as the 
old Earth kind, but that's gone . . . damned Immortals." 
James took another swallow from the glass, then poured 
another three fingers into the glass. "Yes . . . I'm drunk, 
soused, stoned, fried, shroomed-you name it. Wouldn't 
you be?" He looked owlishly at Trystin. "Only reason I'm 
alive is you. You know how that feels?" "I wouldn't say 
that."
"I would. In fact . . . I did." James fingered the glass. 
"Damned fine pilot you are. . . ought to be a major. You'll 
make it . . . but you won't make subcommander. Know 
why?" Trystin waited.
"Because you look like a friggin' rev, and nobody wants a 
commander who looks like a rev. . . . It's going to get 
worse," James emphasized, overannunciating, pausing 
between each word. "They have people in their belts 
smelting-belts. . . smelts, nice rhyme-mining, building. 
They got people everywhere. And they all produce. What 
do we have? We had technology and honor, but they got 
technology now, and honor is not enough." He paused and 
looked at Trystin. "You got honor, but it's not enough." "I'd 
like to think so." James snorted. "You don't drink, do you?" 
"Wine, ser." "Sit down."
"I am sitting." Trystin was glad the ship was in stand-
down. Then, being in stand-down was probably why James 
had the bottle. Where had he gotten Scotch at three hundred 
creds a bottle? Of course, three hundred creds probably 
meant nothing to a Sasaki. "Do you drink?" "Wine."
"You drink wine. So you're not a dyed-in-the-blood 
Revenant, and you drink tea, and they don't. How about 
cafe?" "I don't like the taste."
"Good man. .Tastes like boiled revvie boots, even if they 
don't drink it." "Ever tried sake?" "Once. I like wine better."
James took another quick swallow. Trystin waited. "You 
believe in revealed truths, Trystin? Like the revs believe 
that every so often the Prophet will return? Jesus, then 
Brigger or Younger, whatever his name was, and then 
Toren?"
"They believe it," Trystin said slowly. "Personally, I have 
a hard time believing in a God that has to use prophets to 
deliver his word."
"So do I. Honor, that's what's important. You got honor, 
Trystin. Look like a friggin' rev, but you got honor. . . ." He 
picked up the bottle. "I'll be fine. We're on stand-down. 
Another two months before that next troid arrives. Plenty of 
time to get sober." He poured more into the glass. "Get out 
of here, and let me drink."
Trystin closed the door behind him, after a look back at 
the dark-haired major holding the two-thirds empty bottle. 
He paused in the narrow corridor.
Did the captain drink just because of the stresses? Or the 
isolation? Captains were isolated. And James, because he 
was a Sasaki, was more isolated than most. Who could a 
Sasaki trust as a pilot officer? A Doniger, with equal 
prestige and position? A Desoll, of old stiff-necked anglo 
heritage? If he were James, would he trust Trystin? How 
would he cope with the isolation, the looks, the implications 
that he only had the triple bars because of his name?
Trystin frowned. They were all isolated, when you got 
right down to it. In a strange way, the connection of the 
system nets and implants isolated Service officers more 
than their ancient predecessors. Allowing instant data 
access reduced the need for contact, and the politeness and 
formality of the whole Eco-Tech culture made personal 
contacts so superficially smooth that most people didn't 
even see the isolation. At least Trystin hadn't, not with his 
having to worry about survival on one level or another.
He shook his head. Had anything really changed since 
he'd left Mara? He was still waiting and trying to stop revs, 
except the stakes were higher. Still waiting and reacting-
and knowing it wasn't enough, because too many of the 
damned paragliders still got through. No wonder James 
drank.
And as for the drinking . . . anyone but a Sasaki or a 
Doniger or a Mishima would be in trouble. . . but who was 
about to accuse the captain? And why?
Trystin walked past his stateroom and up to the near-dead 
cockpit, calling up the visual screen, so he could look out at 
the cold, cold stars, and out into the darkness beyond the 
unseen Kali where the seemingly endless line of Revenant 
troid ships continued to bear down on Parvati. 

41
Trystin squared the ship on its troid-buster course. I have 
the con. Lieutenant."
"You have it, ser."
"Red one is ready." Liam's voice-tinny as always-
reported through the net and both pilots' implants. "Ignite 
red one." The captain's voice was cold. "Red one is go." 
"Red two." "Red two is go."
The wait for reloading was shorter, but still perceptible. 
"Red three." "Red three is go!" "Red four." "Red four is 
go." "Changeover to standard torps." "Changing over this 
time." "Desensitize." "Desensitized."
"Full shields. Get us clear. Lieutenant." "Shield in place. 
Captain. I have it." Trystin rechecked, and dropped ship's 
grav to point two while throwing the extra power into the 
shields, and dropping the ship's nose almost straight down, 
while torquing up power from the fusactor and the 
accumulators, letting the fusactor rise to one-hundred-ten-
percent output for almost a standard minute before dropping 
output to just shy of max. Scattered telltales began to flash 
amber. Trystin shut down the ventilation system and shifted 
the last of the power for gravs into the thrusters.
With what he'd done, the internal simulation of the ship's 
position was almost useless, and he ignored the simulated 
position on the representational screen, waiting until he felt 
the wave front had passed.
Trystin swallowed. With the screens essentially dead, the 
ship's ventilation off, and the grav system bypassed to throw 
power to the thrusters, the cockpit was again a stuffy coffin, 
except that the steady acceleration pinned the crew in place.
He moistened his dry lips, his eyes flickering toward the 
blank red-tinged visual screens. Finally, he said, "Removing 
desensitizing." "Receiving input."
Three blue-tinged blips continued to close on the Willis, 
but all that was left of the troid was a debris cone shrouded 
in an energy haze.
This time, the damned troid had carried almost four dozen 
of the scouts, and they'd shredded most of the Coalition 
corvettes.
Trystin calculated, and recalculated. The Willis's shields 
were strong enough for perhaps two simultaneous torps- 
once.
With the three scouts coming, and no one close enough to 
help-only the Mishima, the lzanagi, and the Morrigan had 
reached the launch point-Trystin was on his own. "Fire 
one? Two!"
He didn't expect too much from the torps, except that the 
scouts would have to raise full shields, and that meant a 
slight loss of acceleration.
Then he cut the thrusters, and slewed the ship sideways-
at a right angle to the course line-with the attitude jets.
Even before the cruiser was reoriented, he loosed two more 
torps, these at the flanking scouts, followed by two more. 
Then he pulsed the thrusters once at full power, and shut 
down all external radiation from the ship. Without shields, 
the Willis veered slowly away from her previous course 
line, but her primary vector remained along the high-accel 
route set by Trystin after the red torp launch. Trystin 
watched the positions of the rev scouts, hoping their energy 
detectors had locked on the thruster pulse.
The blue-tinged blips drew nearer, nearer. Trystin kept 
calculating, his breath coming faster, faster than he wanted, 
but there was no way the Willis could stand off three of the 
beefed-up revvie scouts at once, not just with screens and 
torps.
"Close . . ." James's words came through the net, as if he 
were whispering. "Need them to be close . . . real close." As 
the scouts probed, screaming toward the cruiser that had 
"vanished" off the energy-detection screens, Trystin 
released two torps, forced one hundred twenty percent of 
fusactor output and full accumulator loads through the 
thrusters for thirty seconds, then dropped the fusactor to 
normal, released two more torps, and jammed the shields to 
full with three-quarter max acceleration. "Shit..."
A dull thud followed the exclamation. Trystin ignored the 
possibly injured tech and checked the screens. Unless the 
revs were playing dead, and Trystin didn't care so long as 
they didn't combine to chase the Willis, the ploy had 
worked. The thrusters had sliced through one rev, and that 
was certain, because the detectors showed hot metal. It 
looked like a torp had gotten the second, and the third was 
making a wide turn, trying to escape the Willis.
Trystin sighed and lowered the shields to half-power, 
while cranking up the thrusters, and heading into a stern 
chase.
The rev began to slow, fractionally. 
Trystin shook his head.
Instead of closing beyond max torp range, he began to 
fire torps, one after the other, in pulsed intervals. The rev 
flared into energy after the seventh torp. Trystin eased the 
ship into a long arc back toward outer orbit control. As 
usual, as the attack had progressed, the damned troid had 
spewed forth its cargo of radar-transparent paragliders and 
their shielded and deadly cargoes destined to create more 
havoc for the hard-pressed Maran perimeter troops.
There might not be any scouts or troid left, but there had 
been more than thirty, at Trystin's rough and quick count, of 
the ghostly gliders sent forth. He hoped the patrols off Mara 
could pick up most of them.
"Iron Mace two, this is Sledge Control. Interrogative 
status."
"Status is green beta-armaments and propulsion." The 
accumulators were hiccuping, and Trystin didn't blame 
them after all the different power demands he'd thrown on 
the equipment. "Understand green beta." "That's 
affirmative." "Stet, Mace two." "Accumulators?" asked the 
captain. "Yes, ser."
"I'll take her in. You've been through it." "You 
have it, ser."
Trystin wasn't damp, but soaking wet, and he pulsed the 
tech station. "Is there any tea or water or anything intact in 
the mess?"
"Not much, ser. We're working on it." In the background, he 
heard Albertini muttering. ". . . after that, he wants tea?"
"After that, you're alive," snapped Keiko at the junior 
tech. "We'll send something forward, ser," she replied to 
Trystin.
Trystin took a deep breath. He didn't like what he was 
doing to the ship, or the crew, but it seemed as though every 
troid attack required more from him.
He leaned back in the couch. How much more could he 
give? How many more new angles could he try without 
turning the Willis into scrap metal or ionized gas? Keiko 
handed him a cup of Sustain. "Sorry, ser." "That's all right. 
Thank you." She turned to James. "Captain?" "I'm fine."
Trystin sipped the Sustain slowly, hoping it wouldn't hit 
his stomach with too much of a jolt. "Iron Mace two, 
closure is green."
"Stet, Control. Holding green," answered James, brushing 
limp black hair off his forehead, almost as damp as 
Trystin's.
"Mace two, cleared to dock. Maintain low thrust." "Control, 
this is two, beginning final approach." The Willis crept in 
toward the wall of metal and composite-slowly, slowly. 
Thud!
Trystin winced as the Willis clunked up against the outer 
orbit control station.
"Relax, Trystin. That's less than you just put the old lady 
through." James flashed a boyish grin. "With all the stuff 
the revs are throwing at us, I need some practice 
somewhere."
James magnetized the holdtights. "Lock-on. Apply 
mechanical holdtights and prepare for power changeover." 
He began the shutdown list, and the items and replies went 
back and forth over the net, silently, between the captain 
and Trystin. "Accumulators..." "...discharged."
After the captain announced power changeover, and the 
full grav of orbit control pressed Trystin into his couch, he 
just sat there for a time while the techs ensured full docking.
He'd thought twenty-percent losses per battle had been bad 
enough, but this time . , . what? Three cruisers left of eight, 
and a handful of corvettes. So far, there had only been a 
troid ship every four standard months, or there-abouts-two 
since his near-disastrous first troid encounter, and now they 
were back to where he'd started, except that .the Coalition 
was losing even more ships.
Finally, he stood, picked up the mug, and walked back to 
the mess where Albertini stared at a dented samovar. "Ser, 
what do you have against the samovar?"
"Nothing." Trystin grinned. "I like tea. But the revs don't, 
I guess." "They're crazy, all of them." Standing in the 
corner, Liam Akibono took a deep swallow of double-
strength Sustain.
Trystin winced at the thought of what that much Sustain 
would do to his guts. "You don't agree?"
"I don't see how your guts stay in place with that much 
Sustain."
"What about the revs? Better if we could use hellburners 
on all their planets. We don't want their real estate. Why 
can't they leave us alone? They're crazy, that's for sure."
"They can't be totally crazy. Otherwise they wouldn't 
have been so much of a threat for so long." Trystin blotted 
his forehead.
"You ever met any?" Liam took another pull of Sustain. "I 
had to interrogate some of them when I was on the 
perimeter. Some were just like those in the corvettes, ready 
to throw anything away to kill me. Some were very 
thoughtful and analytical-those were the officers." Trystin 
set his cup in the rack and wiped his forehead. He'd need a 
shower after the debrief, and it was going to be long, that he 
knew.
"So . . . the revs have a lot of idealistically crazy cannon 
fodder led by analytical and thoughtful officers?" asked 
Keiko as she reracked a chair in the mess-cabin corner.
Trystin shrugged. "That's what I saw. I also saw a lot of 
new equipment and tactics."
"Someone has to be giving it to them. They're not that 
smart. No one who believes in all that crap their Prophet 
spouted can be that smart." Liam refilled his mug with more 
Sustain.
"Lieutenant Desoll, to the quarterdeck, please. Lieutenant 
Akibono, you have the ship."
Trystin got the message on the link a second or so be-. 
fore it hit the speakers. "Time to go. You have it." Trystin 
grabbed his beret. "Yes, ser," answered Liam.
Trystin met James at the quarterdeck. The captain even 
looked slightly frazzled as they walked toward the station 
ops center. 
"I couldn't help but hear Liam's comments about the 
revs," the captain said slowly. "Do you think we have 
traitors?"
Trystin took a deep breath. "I guess anything possible, 
but. . . I remember talking with a senior commander after 
the first big revvie assault on Mara, and she pointed out that 
a lot of the technology in the new rev tanks was better than 
what we had. . . ."
"I wonder if it's being funneled to them first?" mused 
James.
"It wouldn't seem likely. Those tanks were designed 
before I was born. They sat on a troid ship for more than 
twenty years. How could anyone sit on technology that long 
without it leaking out?" Trystin forced a laugh. "Unless half 
the Coalition leadership were in on it?"
"Maybe they are. Maybe they are. Then again, maybe we 
just think that technology is that old."
Trystin pursed his lips. "I don't see how they could 
translate to a troid ship. It's hard enough to hit a whole 
stellar system. And the number of translations they'd have 
to make would show on the sensitive EDIs."
"Maybe." James shook his head. "Maybe. What about the 
damned Farhkans? They could be in on it?"
"They could," Trystin agreed. "But we've gotten better 
translation stuff from them, stuff the revs don't have." 
"They've got to have an angle," mused James. They 
probably did, Trystin reflected, but it wasn't technology, 
and that bothered him-because . . . what was more 
important than technology?
They pulled themselves up the grav tubes to beta deck 
and continued onward toward the debriefing room.
Two techs stood in the corridor. The one with the toolbox 
gestured, and Trystin absently cranked up his hearing 
sensitivity. "Those two - . . the devils ... captain, he's a 
Sasaki. Commander Frenkel shorted him. . . sent Frenkel to 
run the rev camp on south island. . . the other. . . stand a 
ship on end . . . and laugh . . ."
Trystin lost the words as they turned into the debriefing 
room. Him, laughing about what he did to the Willis? As if 
he had any choice. He looked around and swallowed. 
Twelve pilots, six from the cruisers, and six corvette 
pilots-out of more than nearly forty that had been at the 
prestrike briefing.
They called him a devil? For doing what he had to in 
order to stay alive? He tried not to think about it . . . but 
couldn't there be a better way?
How? It was taking everything the Coalition had to hold 
the revs to what seemed to be a stalemate-at least that 
was what he saw from the Willis. The real situation might 
be worse than that, if people with connections like James 
were talking about traitors. Or Farhkan interference.
"How do you like being a devil?" asked James quietly as 
he eased into one of the briefing-room chairs.
"Oh . . " Trystin paused. "Better a live devil than a dead 
angel, I guess . . . though I wonder sometimes." "So do 1." 
They sat waiting for Commander Atsugi


42
A good third of the telltales in front of Trystin winked 
amber, and the net crackled under the system overloads. He 
calculated the vectors to the oncoming revs and triggered 
the torp releases. "Fire one?" "Fire two!"
"Both loaders jammed, ser!" That was the response from 
weapons.
The oncoming revvie corvettes, five blue blips, shields 
locked tight together, loomed nearer in the representational  
screen, closing to less than a fraction of a light-minute.
The single torp from the Willis flashed harmlessly against 
the joined screens.
His guts jumped up in his throat as Trystin dumped all 
the power maintaining the ship's grav into the shields. The 
accumulators began to hiccup, and power surges created 
static across the net, as more of the telltales flashed amber, 
then red.
The ventilators' hissing died away, and the odor of 
burning insulation seeped from the ducts.
None of the other Coalition ships were close enough to 
blunt the revvie attack, and Trystin yanked the ship's nose 
almost straight up, then jammed on max overload power 
from the fusactor and the accumulators. The fusactor lined 
out at one hundred twenty percent.
The rest of the telltales began to switch from amber to 
red, a movement that began to cascade across the board in 
front of Trystin.
Even with the ventilation system down and all the power 
shifted into the thrusters, the blue blips closed in on the 
Willis. The accumulators gave a last hiccuping surge, and 
crashed.
Abruptly, Trystin shut down all external radiation and 
applied full desensitization.
Cramp! The ship actually shuddered with the torp 
explosion, not a direct hit, but close enough, and a faint 
hissing grew into a low roar, and what felt like a wind swept 
across the cockpit.
The telltales gleamed red, those that remained 
operational. Then the cockpit boards began to blank out. 
The emergency lights on the left side of the cockpit flashed, 
then went black.                              
Crump! With the near-impact of another torp, the Willis 
shuddered.
Trystin's ears popped as the atmosphere poured out of the 
Willis. He unstrapped and clawed his way, weightless, 
through the air toward the armor rack, feeling his eyes bulge 
as he did, trying to keep his mouth shut.
All the lights failed, and the entire cockpit went black. 
Trystin groped for the armor behind the pilot's couch, trying 
to hold on to the couch against the air loss that threatened to 
rip him out of the cockpit, feeling his skin bulge, his closed 
eyes close to popping from his face, the air seeping from his 
nose, and vacuum burning down his nasal passages-
He bolted upright in his bunk, gasping, sweat pouring down 
his face, his underwear as soaked as after an engagement.
He tried to laugh-the dream had been an engagement, a 
brutal one-but with the dryness in his throat, all that 
occurred was a rasping cough.
Slowly, slowly, he swung his bare feet onto the cold 
metal deck and lowered his head into his hands. "Frig . . . 
frig . . ." he muttered to himself. Like all violent nightmares, 
it had felt so real: His heart was still pounding, his mouth 
dry. Even his eyes felt like they had been vacuum-burned.
Why now? What did it mean? That his subconscious was 
telling him that he was running out of time and tricks?
How long could he keep pulling new tactics out of his 
ass? How long could he push the Willis to the edge of the 
envelope before systems failed in a catastrophic cascade? 
Just like the one he had experienced in the nightmare. For a 
time, he just held his head. At that moment, the whole 
damned war seemed so futile. Both sides just kept 
escalating, yet what could he do? There was no doubt that 
the revs wouldn't stop, even if the Coalition surrendered 
Mara and half-or all-of its planoformed real estate.
He took a long shuddering breath, and stood in the 
darkness, walking in a small circle in his cabin, letting the 
air from the ventilators dry him and his soaked underwear. 
Tomorrow he'd be all right. He would be. Tomorrow. He 
kept walking in tight circles, trying not to think about the 
dream. It had only been a dream. A dream. Just a dream.

43
As the Willis slipped up to Mara orbit station, Trystin 
scanned the representational screen again,
still amazed at the numbers of EDI traces. Nearly a 
dozen corvettes crisscrossed the orbit of Mara, trying to 
track down inbound paragliders. According to the official 
reports, the paraglider neutralization ratio was seventy 
percent.
Trystin snorted. Seventy percent of the verified troid 
launches, but he'd seen the official paraglider counts, and 
those counts were half what he'd seen-and he'd been there 
when the rev gliders had spewed forth from the troids.
Nearly a year and a half earlier, when he and the Willis 
had arrived from Perdya, the standard force had been three 
cruisers and a dozen corvettes at outer orbit control. Now, 
outer orbit control was twice its former size, and host to 
nearly three times the number of ships. And nearly three 
times as many corvettes patrolled Mara as part of the 
stepped-up effort to try to stop the assault gliders.
The greater numbers allowed use of interlinked shields 
and multiple formations, and the newer longer-range torps 
had helped even more, but not enough. Each troid ship had 
more and more scouts, and the revvie scouts were now 
nearly as big and as fast as the Coalition corvettes-and 
they carried more torps.
A red-tinged pulse clung to the screen representation of 
the orbit station itself-just a single red pulse. "There's a 
Farhkan ship docked here, ser." "They dock here every so 
often, the insidious aliens." Trystin reflected. The Farhkan 
that had interviewed him in Klyseen would have had to use 
the orbit station, but he hadn't seemed insidious. Persistent, 
but not insidious.
"Iron Mace two, cleared into gamma three." "Stet, 
Control, approaching gamma three this time." Trystin 
pulsed the thrusters ever so slightly and then trimmed the 
ship with the attitude jets. The clunk was barely perceptible. 
"Very neat . . . as usual." James stretched. Trystin 
magnetized the holdtights, and they went through the 
shutdown checklist.
After the power changeover, Keiko's voice came through 
the speakers. "Lieutenant? There's a tech here with 
something official for you." James looked at Trystin. 
Trystin looked back and shrugged. "Don't tell me they're 
detaching you. I know SysCon's short of pilots, but . . . it is 
a little early."
Trystin could understand James's concerns. The captain 
had the tactical and political savvy, but not the instinctive 
and reactive abilities. They made a good team. Without a 
second as good as Trystin, the Willis could have been 
another energy-conversion statistic. Without some of 
James's insight, Trystin would have gotten himself backed 
into situations from which extrication would have been 
difficult, if not impossible. But he still had nightmares. . . 
and they were getting more frequent. Trystin unstrapped 
and walked aft to the quarterdeck. "Lieutenant Desoll?" The 
harried-looking tech thrust a folder at Trystin. "This is for 
you, ser." Then the tech, with several other folders under his 
arm, was gone.
Keiko and Liam, who had appeared from nowhere, 
watched as he opened the envelope folder.
He read, and then he laughed, shaking his head. "I have 
to go get a special physical in the station's medical center. 
That's all." He knew why the Farhkan ship was docked 
there, probably making the annual or biennial trip, or 
whatever rounds the Farhkan doctors needed to make. 
"We're still stuck with him," James said with a smile. "What 
can I say?" He frowned. "This says 'soonest,' and I'd better 
hurry." He headed back toward his stateroom.
"The Farhkan study?" asked James. Trystin stopped. 
"Yes."
"That came after my time. How do you see them?" Trystin 
paused. "Strange. Not what you expect. Somehow too alien 
and too human all at the same time."
"Insidious. They've got their own agenda, and we'd be 
better off without it, but we need their help."
"I'd like to know what they really want," Trystin 
admitted.
"So would half of Service HQ, but we need the 
technology, and they parcel it out in return for seemingly 
useless information. Insidious. . . worse than the revs." 
James shook his head, then added, "I may be out when you 
get back. Liam needs to check with logistics. He's still 
having problems with the loaders. So touch base with him. 
All right?" "We'll work something out."
After a quick shower, Trystin pulled on his informal 
greens, rather than a shipsuit, and headed for the med 
center.
The station still reeked of plastic and weedgrass-oily 
weedgrass-and of too many people.
When Trystin walked into the med center, buried down 
on the fifth level, and checked in, a familiar face greeted 
him.
"Sit down, Trystin. It'll be a while." Major Ulteena Freyer 
smiled ironically at him.
Trystin sat down. "I didn't know you were here-in 
Parvati  system, I mean."
"I haven't been here long. I'm the new CO of the 
Mishima." "Congratulations."
"I'm not sure about that. You've been getting pounded 
pretty heavily." "Where were you?"
"Safrya. They got a bunch of troids, but the lag time 
meant-" "Lag time?" "Safyra took less time to planoform 
than Mara has.
The early projections were just the opposite."
Trystin nodded, finally understanding. The Revenants 
usually targeted the planets where real estate was closest to 
habitable, but Mara had lagged, and Safyra had proved far 
easier, due to more frozen CO2 and buried water than 
discovered in the initial survey. But the revvie troid ship 
attacks had been planned thirty to fifty years earlier, right 
after the Harmony mess.
"Of course, that doesn't always hold true. Look at the 
mess that just happened in the Helconya system." "What 
mess?" Trystin's voice sharpened. "You haven't heard? 
They sent a big troid through there. I guess we managed to 
hold them off, but some of their scouts actually attacked the 
planoforming orbit stations before they were destroyed. 
Someone from your group- Tekanawe-a major, I think, 
spearheaded the counterattack. She got the Star. 
Posthumously."
Trystin shook his head. That was all he could do. How 
could he find out about Salya? "Are you all right?"
"Damned revs . . ."He pursed his lips. How could he find 
out? "Is there any way to find out more?"
Ulteena shook her head. "I don't think so. I had a cousin 
there, but no one would tell me anything. What's the 
matter?"
"My sister was in charge of one of the biological air-
spore projects."
"I'm sorry." Ulteena looked at him, her dark eyes 
showing concern. "She could be just fine. They told me the 
stations survived, and if they did-"
"Some of the people did." Trystin moistened his lips. "I 
hope so. I hope so." "You're close to her." Trystin nodded.
"I'm sorry. You might try the admin office. Sometimes, 
they know-transfers and the like."
"Thanks. It's a thought." Trystin licked his lips. Salya- 
how could he find out? They looked up as a technician 
appeared.
"Lieutenant Matsumi?" A stocky officer got up and 
followed the tech. "Sometimes . . . sometimes, I'd just like 
to smash them all." Trystin forced his fists to unclench.
"Force works-to a degree. If the other side survives, 
though, it can make things worse," observed Ulteena.
"I could destroy Wystuh and everything on the continent, 
perhaps life on all of Orum." Ulteena nodded.
"Don't humor me. It's simple enough. Take the largest 
translation ship available and accelerate it to the max with 
subtranslation drives-beefed-up versions of what we use 
for torps. Then aim it at Orum." Trystin wiped his forehead.
"What would stop them from doing the same thing?" 
"Theoretically, nothing. Except the revs need living space 
more than we do. Right now, we're fighting on their terms, 
where every person we lose hurts us more than the 
thousands they lose."
"The planning staff won't buy that sort of destruction." 
"What kind would they prefer?" asked Trystin. "You're also 
proposing using a bigger hammer. They could decide to use 
an even bigger one-like running troid ships into planets, 
and where would that leave any of us?"
"About as dead as we're going to be if this war continues 
the way it is." "It isn't that bad."
"No? How about this?" Trystin deepened his voice and 
quoted, " 'Ye shall consume all the people which the Lord 
thy God shall deliver unto thee; thine eyes shall have no 
pity upon them ...' That's from their friggin' Book of Toren. 
"
"You are cynical, Trystin. You've got that open, trusting 
face, but . . . a lot more goes on than most people see." 
Ulteena half laughed, half frowned. "Maybe that's why . . ." 
"Why what?" he asked belatedly. "Nothing." She smiled, an 
expression half wry, half warm. "It won't be long before you 
get the third bar. Promotions are stepping up."
"More casualties. It makes sense." Ulteena lowered her 
voice, and Trystin had to kick in intensified hearing. "There 
are more and more battles where Coalition ships are 
unaccounted for." "So?"
"There's a rumor. If you slew the ship and apply power 
just as you translate-it increases the translation error 
severalfold, maybe more." "Pilots are doing that?"
"It's better than waiting for a torp spread you won't 
survive, isn't it?" "But that means you'd have to climb-" 
"If you get a chance, keep your eyes open, Trystin. You'll 
see what I mean." Ulteena shifted her weight in the plastic 
chair as a tech approached. "Major Freyer?"
"Take care, Trystin." Her hand brushed his almost 
casually, except for the pressure of her fingers on his skin, 
and she was gone, following the med tech.
The warmth of her touch lingered, and he wanted to 
shake his head. What was she saying? In how many ways? 
One moment she was almost approachable, and in the next 
she was talking about pilots translating to escape being 
torched. Certainly, that made a sort of sense. Even 
Commander  Folsom had pointed out that returning to fight 
was better than being fried. But stretching out translation 
effect to avoid returning to combat immediately-or at all?
Was Ulteena telling him that the whole war was useless, 
to escape with his skin if he could? He took a deep breath. 
Was it that bad? He tried to consider it-rationally, as his 
father would have said. Both sides were putting more effort 
and material into the war, and all that seemed to be 
happening was that more people were being killed and more 
material being lost. Could the Coalition do anything any 
differently? He snorted. How would he know? Those on the 
front lines knew little enough about the big picture and had 
too many concerns about staying alive. All too soon, the 
tech was back.
"Lieutenant Desoll?"
He did not see Ulteena as he headed for the diagnostic 
console, nor as he later waited for his interview.
A squat dark-haired doctor reclaimed him from the 
narrow plastic chair outside two adjoining offices in the 
corner of the medical bay, where the odor of disinfectant 
warred with weedgrass, plastic, and ozone. Trystin's nose 
itched, but he did not rub it as he rose and followed the 
woman.
"Lieutenant Desoll, I'm Dr. Suniki  .''The Service 
physician nodded her head toward the Farhkan. "This is Dr. 
Naille Jhule."
"Greetings, Lieutenant." Again, Trystin could feel the 
words scripting through his implant. "Greetings."
This Farhkan was different from Ghere, even if the green 
tusks and red eyes were the same.
"You know the drill. Lieutenant. I'll be in the next 
office." Suruki shut the door.
The comm block dropped around the room as Trystin 
settled into one chair and the Farhkan into the other.
The alien's tongue flickered, not quite touching the green 
crystalline teeth. "Are all human cultures composed of 
thieves. Lieutenant?"
Trystin took a deep breath. Why did all the Farhkans 
focus on theft and ethics? "As I told Dr. Ghere, I suspect 
that all intelligent cultures must practice theft in some basic 
degree in order to survive." "Are you a thief?"
"As I also told Dr. Ghere, the way that question is 
phrased bothers me. Yes, I have taken others' lives so that I, 
or others, might live. I suppose that could be termed theft, 
but I don't know that that makes me a thief." "Is it the word 
or the idea that bothers you the most?" Trystin shrugged. 
"I've pretty much admitted that the term 'thief bothers me."
"If you do not admit you are a thief, does that not make 
you a liar?" Trystin swallowed. More ethics. "That assumes 
that I accept your definition . . . and the values behind that 
definition."
The Farhkan did not respond immediately. Trystin 
waited.
"Should values change from species to species?" "They do. 
Whether they should is another question." "Should your 
species and mine have different interpretations of what 
values are the most important?" "I suspect we do." "But 
should we?" Trystin frowned.
"Should you and the cultural group you call the 
Revenants have different interpretations of what values are 
the most important?" "We do. Some of them are very 
different." "Should you? Are there absolute universal 
values?" "Some say so."
"I would ask that you reflect upon those questions." The 
Farhkan rose and waited for Trystin to stand.
"All right." Trystin bowed slightly and opened the door, 
stopping to knock at the adjoining door. "We're finished, 
Doctor."
"Thank you." Dr. Suruki opened the door and smiled. 
"Thank you. Lieutenant."
Trystin walked back out into the main med-center area, 
then into the corridor, wondering why the Farhkans were 
asking about value differences between the Eco-Techs and 
the Revenants. That implied they had studied both 
cultures-but for what purpose? James was right; 
something insidious was going on, but the Coalition was 
afraid to look too deeply, and that meant even more trouble. 
Even Ulteena had hinted at that. "Trystin?"
He looked up. Ulteena Freyer, standing alone in Service 
greens as station and other ship personnel passed, gestured.
"Yes?" He walked toward her. "I wanted to say good-bye. 
You look disturbed. I hope you're not taking the Farhkans 
too seriously."
"How can I not take them seriously?" He forced a laugh. 
"They keep asking these questions that pilots shouldn't 
consider." Her forehead crinkled.
He could see the fine lines running from the corners of 
her eyes, and wanted to reach out, but his hand never left 
his side.
"They ask you questions?" she finally asked, as if each 
word were a struggle. "Usually about ethics. What about 
you?" "Mathematics. That was my doctorate. They ask 
about the applicability of certain . . . parameters." Trystin 
found him self moistening his lips. "I have to go. I'm 
already late to report." Her hand touched his shoulder for a 
moment, and dropped away as she smiled briefly. "Good 
luck. I mean it." "Same to you."
He watched her brisk stride for a moment until she 
disappeared around the curve in the corridor. She had 
seemed almost human. He snorted-more than human-
like a real live woman, or was he imagining that?
Finally, he turned and started up to admin. He needed to 
find out about Salya before he headed back to the Willis to 
relieve Liam. If they'd tell him anything . . . And Liam 
could wait. So could his questions about the Farhkans, at 
least until he was back on the. ship.
44
The Willis slewed as Trystin recomputed the red torp launch 
to compensate for a multiple-thrust
vector created by his efforts to avoid the seemingly 
endless lines of revvie scouts. "Take her in, Trystin," James 
ordered. "Weapons, the lieutenant has the con. Follow his 
commands." "Stet, ser."
"Commence torp changeover," Trystin ordered. 
"Commencing changeover."
A single revvie torp flared against the Willis's screens, 
and Trystin punched up the thrusters to one hundred ten 
percent for twenty seconds as soon as the rev's torp energy 
flared away.
"Red one is ready." Liam's tinny voice reported through 
the net and both pilots' implants.
Trystin juggled the multiple inputs of the three scouts 
converging on the Willis, recorrected the course line, and 
swallowed. At least there weren't five of them all at once- 
this time. His forehead was streaming sweat, and he 
automatically wiped the dampness away on the back of his 
shipsuit's sleeve. "Red one go!" His voice was ragged. "Red 
one is go." "Red two." "Red two is go."
Trystin kicked in more thrust for another quick pulse as 
the loaders set up the next two red torps. "Red three." "Red 
three is go!" "Red four." "Red four is go." "Changeover to 
standard torps." "Changing over this time."
Even before Liam acknowledged the changeover, Trystin 
was twisting the ship into a head-to-head with the lead 
scout, using his implant, and feeling the lines of figures 
flowing through him, like powered arrows. His stomach 
was in his throat, unsurprisingly, since the ship had been on 
minimum internal gee for most of the engagement.
Even with the possible sensor overload, he couldn't 
afford to desensitize, not with three revs nearly on top of 
them, not for more than a moment or two at least. To get 
close enough to the troid had meant letting the revvie scouts 
cover the escape positions, and there was no way the Willis 
would survive running through the debris caused by the 
troid's explosion. "Changeover complete," Liam reported. 
"Fire one! Two!" Trystin snapped the direct-feed commands 
into the system.
As the tubes reloaded, Trystin shifted full power to the 
left thruster momentarily, then recomputed on the nearly 
head-to-head course with the first revvie scout. He wished 
the Willis had greater simultaneous torp-fire capability, like 
the new cruisers. Stop wishing! Idiot! He pursed his lips. 
"Fire one! Two!"
Two more torps pounded out toward the rev that blocked 
the Willis.
Less than two seconds to red-torp impact! "Desensitizing!" 
he snapped, ignoring the check-crosscheck procedure, 
shutting down the sensors. Then he dropped the thrusters 
off-line and fed the excess fusactor output into the ship's 
shields, letting the Willis run toward the rev blindly.
Ten seconds after computed impact, he barked, 
"Removing desensitizing." "Receiving input."
The beefed-up shields flared with another torp impact, 
and the amber telltales flared on the capacity board.
Trystin ignored the amber warnings, just as he ignored the 
nightmares and the might-have-beens and the what-ifs. 
"Fire one! Two!"
The representational screen showed that the revvie troid 
ship had not fragmented totally, but split into two, no, three, 
large chunks.
Finally, after six torps, and two that seemed to impact, 
the one revvie scout flared.
Two more blue-dashed trails continued to converge on 
the Willis, and Trystin lowered the shields to normal and 
powered the cruiser into a three-gee turn. He could almost 
feel the plates creaking as the ship centered head-on-head 
on the next rev. While head-on-head was a hard torp shot, 
the position gave the Willis the greatest shield advantage 
and the smallest target exposure, and with the cruiser's 
multiple-torp firing capability, a greater opportunity for 
potting a scout.
Theoretically, the shields would brush aside a scout, but 
Trystin didn't ever want to try that. Besides, the shields 
wouldn't stop a pair of torps that impacted simultaneously at 
the same point, and that was exactly what a revvie pilot 
should try in those circumstances. "Fire one! Two!"
Trystin rechecked and torqued up power from the 
fusactor  and the accumulators, letting the fusactor rise to 
one hundred ten percent output for almost a standard minute 
before dropping output to just shy of max.
As more scattered telltales began to flash amber, Trystin 
shut down the ventilation system and, as soon as the tubes 
reloaded, loosed two more torps.
The system redlined him a message that he was down to 
four torps. He swallowed, breathing against the gee load 
and trying to ignore the sudden stuffiness of the cabin. He 
moistened his dry lips.
In the screens, he could see two scouts hammering at the 
Mishima, with another pair working toward the lzanagi. The 
Morrigan was already dust and expanding energy. But the 
Campbell was free and sliding out to support the lzanagi. 
"Fire one! Two!!"
Although the rev raised full shields, they weren't enough, 
and Trystin permitted himself a tight smile, until he realized 
that the third scout was tailchasing, and that was the Willis' 
weakest shield point.
He calculated, though the data took nanoseconds, then 
cut the thrusters, and used the attitude jets to flip the Willis 
end over end. Another full blast on the thrusters, and then 
he diverted the power to the shields. They flared amber as 
the rev's torp impacted. Flared amber, but held, as the rev 
flashed toward the Willis. "Fire one! Two!" Trystin flipped 
the ship again, ignoring his own nausea and a retching 
sound from aft, and put full power on the thrusters.
The combination of the thrusters' energy flow and the 
torps was sufficient, and entropy was increased with the 
scattered fragments of another revvie scout.
Trystin scanned the screens, noting that heavy green-
tinged dashes ran from the Campbell's screen image toward 
the fragments of the troid. All three troid killers impacted, 
and this time the fragments were of suitably infinitesimal 
size.
Continuing to power the thrusters, Trystin pushed the 
Willis toward the Mishima.
One of the rev scouts flared away from the other cruiser. 
Trystin calculated and grinned. "Fire one! Two!"
The dashes representing the last two torps streaked across 
the screen toward the broadside exposure of the fleeing 
revvie scout.
"No torps remaining. No torps remaining!" the system 
redlined at Trystin.
The revvie scout vanished from the screen with the twin 
torp impact. "How...?"
"Shield malfunction. That was probably why he broke off 
the attack." Trystin answered the captain's unfinished 
question as he continued to scan the system.
Two corvettes and the Willis, the Mishima, and the 
Campbell-those were all that remained.
Trystin nodded as his senses verified that the Mishima- 
and Ulteena-had made it. He hoped the next troid was a 
long time coming-a very long time-as he eased back on 
the thrusters.
"Sledge team, this is Sledge Control Alternate, return to 
base this time."
Trystin looked at James as the captain broadcast. He 
hadn't realized that James was the senior officer remaining. 
Trystin wasn't sure that James had known it either until he'd 
taken stock of the casualties. Trystin wiped his forehead 
again. He'd need to do more laundry once they returned to 
outer orbit control. This one had been almost as bad as his 
recurring nightmare.
The accumulators were hiccuping again, and the shields 
were still running in the amber, and most of the sensors 
were operating at reduced efficiencies. He couldn't mentally 
sum up the smaller amber warnings.
At least the most sensitive EDI screens showed no troids 
in range, and that meant a few months' respite-maybe 
more.
The crew and the ship all needed it. So 
did Trystin.
Maybe he could find out about Salya . . . except no one 
knew, or would say. Maybe he could make more sense out 
of a war that got bigger and never changed. Maybe he could 
understand what the Farhkans wanted. Maybe . . . he shook 
his head. Across the cockpit, James frowned.
45
Trystin eased the Willis into the docking slot. The recon run 
had shown no troids and no revs-the
marshal occasionally sent out the cruisers to take 
advantage of their longer-range EDI detection capabilities. 
"Magnetize holdtights."
By the time he and the captain had finished the checklist, 
through the implant and the ship's net, Trystin could sense 
that Muriami had fastened the mechanical holdtights. 
"Power changeover." "Standing by for changeover."
Once full station gravity hit the cruiser, Trystin 
unstrapped and sat up. "Captain?" came from the 
quarterdeck.
"Yes?" answered James.
"Dispatch case for Lieutenant Desoll," Albertini 
announced. "They had it waiting. One for you too. Captain."
Trystin forced himself to walk slowly back to the 
quarterdeck.
Albertini extended the case toward him. Trystin wiped his 
forehead again with the back of his shipsuit's sleeve before 
he took the case and opened it. The first sheet of paper was 
simple.
Effective the first of sixta-eighteen days away-he was 
Major Trystin Desoll.
The second sheaf comprised hard-copy orders. He began 
to read.
"Congratulations, Trystin." James flashed his boyish grin. 
"I'd guess it's your promotion to major and orders to your 
own command." "Maybe . . . I did get promoted." "When, 
ser?" asked Muriami.
"One sixta." Trystin continued to read, focusing on the 
key words.
The captain slowly opened his case. Like Trystin, he 
frowned.
After a moment. Tech Muriami finally asked, "Captain, 
ser . . . if it wouldn't be too much trouble . . . could someone 
tell us what's happening?" Trystin looked at the orders 
again. ". . . on or about 15 septem 796 . . . report to Medical 
Center, Cambria, for Farhkan f/up study. . . . Upon 
completion of home leave, no later than 32 septem, report 
SER-COM . . . FFA . . ."
Another Farhkan physical, not that he minded that much . 
. . and then some staff assignment at Service Command? 
Relatively junior majors didn't get staff assignments these 
days-those were for screenpushers or incompetents. Had 
he screwed up somewhere that he didn't know?
James Sasaki frowned, then smiled. "What is it, ser? 
If I might ask?" Trystin added.
"There were four sets of orders. Yours-and 
congratulations again-your replacement's, mine, 
and my replacement's." "What?"
"They're phased. You go first, and you're actually being 
replaced by my replacement for a month or so, and then 
your eventual replacement comes, and I go." "That's a little 
odd, isn't it?"
"Not really. You're being groomed for Something, 
Trystin, but for what I couldn't tell you." James frowned 
again, and Trystin wondered whether he were just trying to 
cheer Trystin up. "Someone wanted you to be familiar with 
larger ship operations first."
"Where are you going, ser?" Trystin wondered if the 
major had finally gotten his promotion, but didn't want to 
ask. "Strat U." James grinned. "Does that-?"
"Absolutely. I can put on the triangles immediately." 
"That merits two sets of congratulations." "Ser?" pleaded 
Muriami.
James flashed a boyish grin. "My promotion was 
effective fourteen days ago. So I can put on the triangles 
now. Lieutenant Desoll will put on the third bar in eighteen 
days. Sometime in the next month. Major Watachi will 
report, and he will take Major Desoll's place while he gets 
familiar with the ship. Then around the first of octem, a 
Lieutenant Valada will report, and I will leave. Is that 
clear?"
"Mostly," said Albertini. "We got to break in two new 
officers."
"Major Watachi was the second on another cruiser, and 
had a tour in corvettes."
"It sounds like there's some experience there," Trystin 
offered. James nodded.
Trystin looked at his orders again. For further 
assignment? Was that good or bad? He didn't know. He 
didn't even know anyone who'd ever received orders like 
that.
"Often, indefinite orders like that mean something special 
that no one wants to put on the net." James looked at 
Trystin. "I told them that you were the best pilot I'd ever 
shipped with." "They asked?"
"I got a questionnaire from the Service detailer a while 
back."
Trystin tried not to take too deep a breath. His orders 
might be very good, but he had his doubts. He forced a 
smile. "Time for a celebration." "How, Lieutenant? We're 
on outer orbit station." "I don't know. I'm sure the captain 
could find a way." James nodded slowly.
Trystin closed the dispatch case and put it under his arm. 
He had some thinking to do, but it could wait-a little 
while.
46
Trystin looked at the kit bags on his cabin floor and at the 
flimsies in his hand. The wrinkled top one was simple 
enough, except that it wasn't.
Major Trystin Desoll:
The commanding officer of the Mishima would request 
the honor of your presence prior to your departure for 
further assignment . ..
What did Ulteena want? Their schedules almost never 
coincided because the Willis and Mishima anchored the two 
opposing long-range recon sections. And how did one offer 
small talk to a cruiser's CO? Or even get to see her? He 
couldn't just march up to the lock and announce himself.
Even now, the only way that he'd been able to work out 
any time was between Major Watachi's arrival and the next 
shuttle to Mara. So he'd been like Major Doniger, packed 
and ready to depart when Eleni Watachi's boots touched the 
lock. James had been faintly surprised to find that Major E. 
Watachi was female.
Keiko Muralto hadn't even smiled when Trystin had 
asked her to confirm that the CO of the Mishima would be 
available. The senior tech had nodded and then brought 
back the second flimsy as he'd been sealing the last bag.
"Major Freyer will be available for Major Desoll"- that 
was all it said.
"Old friends," Trystin had said. "On the Maran 
perimeter."
Keiko had smiled then. "Major . . . no one on this entire 
station will question either one of you." "It's not like that." 
The senior tech had just grinned and left. Trystin shook his 
head, then folded the flimsies and slipped them into the data 
case that held papers and orders. What did Ulteena want? 
And why? Still not knowing, he hefted his gear and stepped 
into the corridor toward the quarterdeck.             The 
corridors around the quarterdeck were crowded. "Good 
luck, Trystin." James stepped forward. Trystin had to put 
down the bags to shake James's hand. Eleni Watachi nodded 
politely.
"Ser?" Keiko Muralto handed him a short tube with a thin 
red ribbon around it. "It isn't much, but we wanted you to 
have it." "You didn't have to-"
"It's just a thin-film holo of the ship, with inserts from the 
whole crew."
Trystin swallowed. Thin-film holos didn't come cheap, and 
he wondered how they'd even gotten one of the ship. 
"Thank you. Thank you." He carefully eased the tube into 
the second kit bag, then straightened. "I'll always keep it." 
"You still don't know where you're headed, ser?" asked the 
senior tech.
"No. What about you?" Trystin asked. "My orders just say 
the tech command on Fuji." Keiko smiled. "Any school 
there would be fine, but it'll probably be systems."
James stepped forward again. "If I can ever help, let me 
know, Trystin." He shook the younger man's hand again and 
grinned. "Even if you look like a rev, you've as much 
honor-or more-than anyone could ever ask for."
"Thank you, and I will." Trystin had the feeling James 
meant every word, that for once his words weren't 
calculated or political.
James flashed the boyish grin a last time, and Trystin 
smiled back.
"Good luck. Major," called Albertini as Trystin lifted the 
three kit bags and crossed the lock into the outer orbit 
station.
"Give 'em hell. Major!" added Muriami. "All of you take 
care," Trystin said as he stepped out through the lock. "You, 
too, ser."
Several officers nodded or waved as Trystin made his 
way to the delta locks, and to the Mishima.
"Yes, ser?" asked the slim tech guarding the access to 
delta four.
"Major Desoll to see Major Freyer. I think-" "You're 
expected, ser. The captain's in her stateroom." "Can I leave 
these here? I probably won't be long." Trystin extracted the 
data case from the pocket on the top bag.
"Yes, ser." The slim rating helped Trystin ease all three 
bags against the quarterdeck bulkhead, an area more 
spacious on the newer cruiser. "We're in stand-down, so it's 
not a problem." "Thank you." "First forward on the left." 
"Got it."
The door was ajar when Trystin rapped. "Yes? Oh, Trystin, 
I'd hoped you'd be able to come." Ulteena opened the 
stateroom door. She wore the standard shipsuit with the 
antique holoed wings and triple bars. Her eyes looked gray, 
and they met his. He shrugged and offered a wry grin. "I'm 
here." "I'm glad. Would you sit down?" Ulteena closed the 
door.
"For a bit. I've only got a few hours before I have to catch 
the shuttle." He sat with the data case in his lap.
Ulteena turned one of the two gray chairs and sat down 
facing Trystin. "The last time we talked was right after the 
mess on Helconya. I ran some inquiries," she said slowly, 
"but I couldn't find out anything about your sister, even 
through a few back channels. I'm sorry." "You didn't have 
to-"
"You remember the last troid battle? You got one of the 
last scouts pinging on us."
"I was just the second pilot," Trystin said cautiously, still 
wondering where Ulteena was headed.
"Trystin," she said wryly, "the entire system knows that the 
reason the Willis is the oldest cruiser left and the only one in 
its class not in scattered leptons is that Commander Sasaki 
had the brains to let you pilot her. Since you're being 
difficult, I'll make it simple. Our screens were going amber, 
and you saved our ass. I'm grateful." She held up a hand. 
"That's not why I asked you to stop here." Trystin wanted to 
shake his head, but didn't. He waited. "When I first met you, 
even over the perimeter net, I thought you were some 
spoiled anglo rich kid. You know, I grew up on Arkadya, 
and my parents were tech-grunts. The Service was my way 
out, and I hated people like you that had everything."
"I didn't have everything. . . .** Trystin paused, then 
added, "Well, maybe I did, compared to you, or most 
people."
"That's what I like about you, Trystin. After that first 
initial defensive reaction, you stop and think, and you really 
listen. It's hard to find people who listen. And you care. You 
know why I asked everyone I could find about your sister? 
Because when you found out about the Helconya raid, there 
on Mara station, the look on your face told me and the 
whole universe that you loved your sister." Ulteena rose 
from the chair and walked toward the comer that held her 
bunk, then turned and walked back toward Trystin. "I 
wished I could give you good news. Or even bad news and 
console you." She shrugged, and another wry smile 
appeared briefly. "The universe doesn't care much what we 
wish."
"No, it doesn't." Trystin didn't know what else to say, or 
exactly what Ulteena was getting at, and he felt he should.
"Trystin. . . I wish this were another time, another place. 
But it's not. We're on outer orbit station, and you have a 
shuttle to catch, and in another hour or so the Mishima is 
back on the duty roster. I'm worried for one reason, and 
you're worried for others." She paused, and the gray eyes 
met his again, almost with a shock. "This is difficult." She 
cared? The efficient Major Ulteena Freyer cared? "I know," 
he said slowly, fidgeting in the chair. He stood and set down 
the data case on the seat.
"You're from all the schools and places I was determined 
to be better than. . . ." She stopped. "That sentence doesn't 
even make sense, and it doesn't matter, does it?" Trystin 
shook his head.
"Trystin . . . I'm not one for love before the battle. I'm not 
one for making merry because tomorrow we may die." She 
swallowed. "This is hard. Very hard."
Trystin reached forward and put his arms around her, and 
hers came around him.
They just held each other silently . . . for a long time. She 
stepped back a half-step, not quite letting go. "I don't know 
what will happen. I can't promise. I won't. But I couldn't 
just let you go off without . . . somehow. . . letting you 
know that . . . things weren't what they seemed. I couldn't 
do it again." She swallowed. "I can't promise anything, but I 
. . . Do you understand?"
Trystin forced a grin. "Probably not everything. You felt 
the way I felt." "You felt?" Ulteena looked surprised. 
"When I was lying in that med-center bed, and I'd heard that 
you'd stopped all those tanks, and you'd even figured out 
that there would be revvie tanks and how to stop them, I lay 
there, thinking how brilliant you were, and how stupid and 
just plain lucky I was. And when you talked about 
endgaming on Beta, you probably saved my ass. It felt that 
way, anyway."
Ulteena gave a slight laugh. "I wanted to slug you, 
though, when you made that supercilious comment about 
already working out on the high-gee treadmill for an hour. 
You looked so... so... anglo . . . and composed."
"I was sweaty and tired, and you looked so neat and 
trim," Trystin protested. "Neat?" She snorted. "Neat."
"We could rehash it all, but . . ." Her arms went around 
him again, and she continued, "We already lived it." He 
squeezed her to him for a moment. After returning the full-
bodied embrace, she stepped back. "It's stupid, and it's not, 
but I told you-" "You're not one for love before the battle, 
so to speak." She nodded, and her eyes fell. "It's stupid. I'm 
a major and the CO, but some things don't change." "I wish 
I'd known before."
"You almost didn't know now. Except your tech asked 
Geilir for some help in making up a farewell gift for you, 
and I overheard that you were leaving, and no one knew 
where." She paused, and the gray eyes were brilliant with 
unshed tears. "I wish we'd had more time. I wish I'd made 
more time."
"Hindsight is a lousy gardener, as my father always said." 
He held her again, more gently, his hand stroking the short 
dark hair. "I didn't know how, and I'm glad you did, and it 
doesn't matter about love before the battle, because . . ." 
Trystin stopped and swallowed. "You know . . . I really 
think I'd screw it up." "That's a terrible pun. . . ." She shook 
her head. "What else have I got?" "More than you know." 
Again, for a long, long time, they just held tight to each 
other.
Later, after more words, never mentioning love, and more 
embraces, Ulteena straightened, and brushed her short hair 
back. "Duty, frigging duty, calls."
"As always." Trystin had heard the implant warning as 
well. "Take care, Trystin." "Me? You're still on the line. 
You take care." A last quick hug, and both straightened 
their uniforms-singlesuit and undress greens. Ulteena 
walked beside Trystin to the quarterdeck.
"Your bags are here. Major Desoll," offered the duty tech 
as Trystin stopped at the quarterdeck. Her eyes were grave, 
thoughtful, then she added, "We'll miss you. Good luck."
"Thank you." He offered a smile, both to the tech and to 
Ulteena.
The smile he received from Ulteena was more than mere 
formality but still guarded, but he understood that. . . now.
As he hurried toward the shuttle lock and the trip to Mara 
station, Trystin glanced back at delta four-just another 
lock. Just another closed door. He shook his head as he 
carried the three bags toward the shuttle. Why hadn't he 
seen? Why hadn't she seen?
He shook his head. Would it have changed anything? The 
Service didn't post people for their convenience. At least . . . 
at least he knew she wasn't crisp and competent in 
everything. Next time ...
He swallowed. Would there be a next time? Or would he 
find a dataclip announcing the disappearance of the 
Coalition ship Mishima?
He tried to push that thought away. There had to be a 
next time. Didn't there? But there hadn't been for Salya. . . 
or her major. He pressed his lips together and kept walking.

47
With a quick look back at the underground shuttle port 
tube-station, Trystin swiped his new ID through the reader 
and stepped into the tube-shuttle along with a handful of 
others in uniform, glad to be heading home, even if the local 
hour did happen to be before dawn. There was only one 
fifteen-degree segment on one planet that coincided with 
Coalition standard space time. Add translation error, and 
just about every interstellar journey required readjusting to 
the local planetary time.
By the time he had reached the tube-shuttle from the port, 
it was past dawn, and even later when the shuttle whispered 
to a stop at the EastBreak station. There Trystin lifted his 
three bags and followed the half-dozen other Service 
personnel out into yellow light cast by the glow-tubes. Soft 
as the light was, it tended to wash out the color differences 
between the green and gray tiles of the underground station. 
Even in the underground station, the air smelled like the 
warm rain of summer. Trystin took a deep breath, glad to 
escape the odor of plastic, ozone, and recycled water and 
people-except for one major he felt he had found and lost 
simultaneously.
Two young men, wearing militarylike school uniforms 
Trystin did not recognize, looked at him, then quickly 
looked away as he passed. A white-haired man with an erect 
carriage nodded politely, and Trystin returned the gesture. 
At the reader, Trystin flicked his card through the scanner, 
and swallowed at the five-cred price. The price of the trip 
from the port to EastBreak had more than doubled since the 
last time. Then he shrugged. He couldn't spend that much of 
his pay anyway. A light rain was falling when he reached 
the top of the stairs, and the eastern sky was fading from 
purple into the sullen gray of low nimbus clouds. He 
scrambled down the walk through the small gardens in 
order to catch the electrotrain. As he stepped aboard, two 
dark-haired youths, in more typical school uniforms, also 
looked away from Trystin as he slid into the second seat. 
One jabbed his furled umbrella against the floor.
Trystin didn't need to step up his hearing to catch the 
whisper. "Rev in our uniform . .."
"Not just your uniform, young ser. I was born here, and 
so was my great-great-grandfather, and every one of us has 
served."
Both boys stiffened, but neither spoke. "The revs reject 
people who don't look and think like they do. I always 
thought we were better than that." Neither youth turned or 
uttered a word. "Of course. I'm sure you know better than I 
do. After all, I've only spent a tour fighting them on 
perimeter duty, and another one busting troids."
The surtrans whispered on to its next stop, where a pair of 
girls stepped aboard and carefully furled their umbrellas. 
They took the seat across the aisle from the schoolboys.
The brown-haired girl looked at Trystin for a moment and 
offered a tentative smile. Trystin nodded back as the 
surtrans moved away from the station. The girl with dark 
mahogany hair glanced sidelong at the youth who had 
jabbed the umbrella.
A flock of heliobirds, mostly juveniles, swooped by the 
surtrans as it slowed for the second stop. Two more 
schoolboys boarded, one a gangly youth with light brown 
hair who offered Trystin a shy grin.
"Another one. . ." whispered the boy in front of Trystin. 
Trystin smiled at the gangly youth, who sat across the aisle 
from Trystin and behind the two girls, and then said quietly 
to no one in particular, "It really is amazing how some 
young people feel that short stature and small minds are a 
sign of superiority. I wonder what ever happened to 
decency and courtesy?"
Both youths in front of Trystin stiffened. The gangly 
youth grinned more broadly, and the brown-haired girl 
nodded ever so slightly.
The third stop was Trystin's, and he nodded politely to 
both students before he ran his card through the reader. 
Neither returned the head bow.
Like the tube-shuttle, the electrotrain fare had also more 
than doubled. He shook his head.
When he stepped away from the surtrans, he could hear 
one of the boys hiss, ". . . still a dirty rev . . ."
"Shut up, Goren," snapped the gangly youth. "Did you 
see the row of decorations?"
Trystin wanted to shake his head-decorations weren't the 
point, either. Instead, he shifted his grip on his bags.
"Ser?" A Domestic Service officer stepped through the 
increasing rain toward Trystin, then stopped. His eyes ran 
across the holo symbols on the greens below Trystin's 
name. "Those for real. Major? Six troid battles? As a pilot?" 
Trystin nodded.
"I never saw anyone who survived six. I was a tech on 
the lzanagi. "
"You were rotated off? I was there when-" 
"Where?" "The Willis."
"After my time. Major. That was five stans ago." "I was 
running a perimeter station then." Trystin shook his head, 
then wiped the dampness off his face. The beret didn't help 
much, and he hadn't thought about a waterproof. There 
wasn't rain on ships and orbit stations. "The captain made it 
through nine troids." "He must have been something." "He 
still is. He's a subcommander now." "Good to know . . . 
where you headed?" Trystin shrugged and offered a smile. 
"Sorry. I shouldn't have asked "
"That's all right."               
The Domestic Service officer paused. "Be careful, ser. 
Some of the young bloods are a little wild these days." He 
laughed. "I'm sure you'd have no trouble." "I'd rather have 
none," Trystin admitted. "You going home?"
Trystin nodded. "My folks live up at Cedar Gardens' "You 
one of those Desolls?" "I'm on home leave."
"Well . . . take care. Major." The Domestic Service 
officer nodded again as Trystin hiked up the gentle hill.
Trystin had never seen a Domestic Service officer near 
the house, especially one with a shocker, holstered or not. 
He continued to walk, shifting the bags around. After a 
time, they got heavy. The rain intensified, warm drops 
beginning to fall in sheets, battering their way through the 
summer leaves of the overhanging trees and through the 
symmetrical branches of the Norfolk pines.
The front gates to the house and gardens were locked, and 
a small speaker box had been installed in a matching 
extension to the stone posts. Beneath the speaker was a 
button. Trystin pushed it. "Hello . . . this is Trystin." He 
waited. After several minutes, a reply came. "Yes." "This is 
Trystin." "Trystin?"
"The same. You know, your son? The major. I got 
promoted. The one who built the stone wall holding the 
sage?"
"I'm sorry. I was away from the office." There was a buzz. 
"Make sure the gates are locked after you come in."
"I will." Trystin frowned, but after he stepped through he 
closed the gates and checked them. The gates had never 
been locked in his lifetime, not that he knew.
The marigolds in the lower garden looked newer, and 
part of the stone bedding wall had been replaced. Other 
sections seemed to have been replanted, but with the heavy 
rain, Trystin wasn't quite sure.
Elsin had the door open, and Trystin scurried inside, 
dripping.
He looked at the puddles forming around his gear. "I'm 
sorry about the mess." 
"It's good to see you." Elsin stepped forward, and Trystin 
hugged him, suddenly conscious that his father, always so 
muscular, was thinner, almost frail. "Are you all right?" he 
blurted out. Elsin offered a faint smile. "As well as can be 
expected in these times."
"I noticed. I got more than a few dirty looks on the way 
home-even ran into a Domestic Service officer at the 
bottom of the hill." "Jusaki, I'd bet. He's a good man." "He 
was friendly, but . . ." Trystin looked around. "Mother?" 
"She's. . . not here." "Isn't it a bit early for her to have left?" 
"Let's have some tea. I'd just made a pot. I don't sleep late 
these days, Trystin." Elsin glanced at the bags on the floor. 
"Leave them there. They can't hurt the tiles." He padded 
toward the kitchen.
Trystin followed, a sinking feeling coming over him. Elsin 
gestured to one of the chairs at the table in the nook, then 
extracted a mug from the cupboard. After lifting the tea 
cozy, he filled the mug and picked up another. Handing one 
to Trystin, he pulled out the other chair and sank into it.
Trystin took the chair across from his father and waited. "I 
suppose . . . I suppose I should have sent you some 
messages, but I didn't know that they would have gotten 
there these days, and what could you have done? Except 
worry, and you didn't need that, not then." Elsin looked at 
the table. "When I got your message the day before 
yesterday . . . then there was no way to let you know-" 
"What happened? When?"
"Almost four months ago . . . Quiella came to visit - . ." 
Trystin vaguely remembered his cousin Quiella as a quiet 
little blond girl, always into books-she loved the old-
fashioned paper books in his father's study.
". . . they went out to go shopping. . . that was the first of 
the riots-" "Riots... ?"
"Oh, yes . . . we've had several . . . antirev riots. .. it's 
been a month since the last one."
"Couple of them saw Quiella-that blond hair-she's 
very beautiful, shy as ever, though." Elsin shook his head. 
"They overturned the car, tried to drag Quiella away. Your 
mother keyed in the old combat reflexes and unarmed 
combat module-she maimed or killed a bunch of them, 
held them off until the Domestic Service patrols got there." 
Elsin paused and took another sip of tea. "Her system 
couldn't take it.  She died that night."
"They're supposed to deactivate implants." Trystin could 
feel his own eyes burning. "They're supposed to-"
"We reactivated about two years ago. It's not that hard if 
you know systems. We worried about something like this."
The younger man shook his head and stared at the tea. 
After a long silence he asked, "How's Quiella?"
"All right. She comes to see me every week. She's a 
sweet child." Elsin took another deep breath. "Courageous 
in her own way. Don't know as I could come to visit me. 
She's sweet. It helps, and I tell her that. Selfish old man, I 
guess."
Trystin got up and walked around the table, putting his 
hands on his father's shoulders. "No you're not. I'm sorry. I 
didn't know." "How could you?"
Trystin squeezed his father's shoulders again before 
walking over to the window and looking out at the rain 
falling on the garden. He was afraid to ask the next 
question, half knowing the answer. Instead, he watched the 
rain pour down on the pines and the flowers and herbs, the 
heavy drops beating down the leaves.
Then he looked at the empty place beside his father, and 
his eyes burned. His mother-she never said that much, just 
did what had to be done. He swallowed and looked back at 
the rain. He wanted to hit someone . . . something . . . but 
that wouldn't do much. After all, a mental voice told him 
sardonically, isn't that what everyone's doing?
"What else can people do?" he muttered. "What did you 
say?" asked his father. "Nothing. Just arguing with myself." 
He swallowed and pulled himself together before turning 
from the window. He might as well get hit all at once.
Elsin took a small sip from the mug, as if waiting 
fatalistically.
"Salya? Was she . . . at Helconya?" Trystin walked 
toward his father. "You knew about Helconya?"
"Only that there was an attack. I never could find out 
much in the way of details. Even the main admin office on 
Mara orbit station couldn't tell me . . . about Salya."
"Neither could we. Not until Shinji's cousin returned. All 
we got-later-was a formal letter-and some medals. And 
some credits." Trystin waited.
Elsin looked bleakly toward the window, his eyes 
focused somewhere else, not on the window, the wall, the 
rain outside, but some other place in time. "Salya always 
wanted to build, to create. When she came home, we talked 
a lot about her work, the technical details, how she 
engineered the spores." He looked down at the half-empty 
mug. "I miss her. I miss Nynca."
"Do you know what happened?" Trystin kept his voice 
soft.
"Not really. Some of them took surface skimmers, 
atmospheric tugs, and rammed the revvie scouts. That was 
what saved the station-that and some heroics by a junior 
major. She died, too. All the . . . most anyway . . . I don't 
know if Salya took a skimmer. I don't think I'll ever know, 
and it doesn't matter. I know Shinji did. Some of them. . . 
they never found. They never found him. They never found 
her."
Trystin paced back to the window. The heavy rain 
continued to tear at the garden, and the clouds seemed 
darker. Elsin took a last swallow from his mug, then pushed 
out his chair, and trundled toward the teapot. "It's cold here. 
Haven't felt this cold in a long time."
Trystin turned, watching the slight shuffle in his father's 
steps, seeing the even-thinner silver hair. "Everything's 
changed."
"That happens. . ." Elsin put the kettle back on to heat. 
"Riots . . . I can't believe it. Here? What's happening?" Elsin 
sighed. "What always happens. People are looking for 
someone to blame. Our heritage comes from two groups 
who always denied that they were part of the problem. The 
early ecologists blamed industrialization for environmental 
degradation even while they continued to purchase all the 
goods and services produced by industry. And the 
forerunners of the parashintos always looked down on and 
isolated strangers. Under pressure, people often revert to 
their roots, and the Coalition is under a lot of pressure."
Trystin moistened his lips. He'd seen that pressure. "Prices 
keep going up, and it's hard to get new equipment, 
especially electroneural or sophisticated electronics or 
microtronics. They're talking about conscription to fill 
support positions in the Service . . ." The older man's words 
trailed off. "Do you want some more tea?"
"A little, I guess." Trystin turned from the window and 
the heavy rain. He picked his mug off the table.
"You have to watch out now," Elsin went on. "Always 
wear your uniform . . . Cambria may not be all that safe for 
you-especially around the young ones. The older people 
still believe in restraint, but not the young ones. They just 
see the losses and cannot understand why the government 
does nothing."
Trystin nodded. "The uniform means nothing to them. 
Saw that already." He lifted his mug and held it as his father 
poured the steaming tea into it.
"It's getting worse. All the politicians are looking for 
someone to blame, and it's always the revs. If it weren't for 
the greedy Revenants . . .' " Elsin snorted. "The revs are 
what they've always been-an expansionistic and 
opportunistic culture with a high birth rate. That's never 
been the question. We just didn't want to pay the price by 
stopping them earlier, and we've been an easier target, 
because we've always tried to stop them, rather than take the 
fight to them. The Argentis would have started by 
destroying Wystuh, but we have this horror of total 
destruction."
Trystin took a cautious sip of his tea, nearly burning his 
tongue.
"No politician wants to admit either that horror or our 
unwillingness to take the fight to them. So it's who hates the 
revs worse now. The Democratic Capitalists almost took the 
assembly in last month's elections, and Fuseli is pushing for 
a total conversion to armament production. The Greens 
have held him off, but they're losing ground. I doubt the 
new government will last another three months." Elsin 
shook his head before refilling his mug. "Politics. It doesn't 
solve anything, arid it doesn't bring them back." He looked 
out at the rain that continued to fall. "Sure as hell doesn't."
"No." Trystin stood shoulder to shoulder with his father, 
and they watched the clouds and the rain. "No, it doesn't."
48
After a quick swipe of the card through the reader, Trystin 
slipped off the surtrans. He tried not to
wince at the fifteen-cred fare, more than triple the 
fare the last time. The three other officers in front of him 
didn't even seem to notice.
He followed them up the wide stone steps to the main 
Service medical center on Perdya. The rysya and trefil 
plants in the stone flower boxes beside the steps appeared 
beaten down from the heavy rain of the past few days, and 
flower petals were plastered on the edges of the steps. 
While the day was gray, the clouds were higher and thinner, 
and no rain had fallen since the night before.
Once inside the med center, he walked straight to the 
information console.
"Major Desoll, reporting for a follow-up physical." The 
civilian technician at the front console stared at him for a 
moment. "A physical?" "The Farhkan study." "What was 
your name?" "Desoll. D-E-S-O-L-L."
After a few keystrokes and a quick study of the screen, 
the technician looked up. "Second floor, all the way to the 
rear on the south wing. Dr. Kynkara's in charge." "Thank 
you."
The civilian did not answer, looking away. Instead of 
glaring at her, Trystin walked across the polished stone 
floor to the wide ramp, passing a commander and a major 
engaged in a conversation. Neither looked up.
Trystin found his way to the far end of the south wing and 
another technician at another console.
"Yes, ser?" The dark-haired woman looked up at him, 
waiting, her slightly slanted eyes skeptical. "Major Desoll. 
The Farhkan follow-up study." "Follow me." She stood and 
led him down the same side corridor and around the same 
two corners as he had walked the last time. The same four 
cubicles and diagnostic consoles waited. Two had open 
doors. She looked at Trystin. "Run your ID through, ser."
Trystin ran it through the reader, and she tapped several 
keys on the console keyboard. The console ready light 
winked green.
"I'm sure you know how this works. After you're done, 
go to gamma four at the end of the corridor. Wait there for 
the doctor."
Trystin nodded, not feeling particularly thankful for the 
cool reception, but the technician was gone. He closed the 
door, disrobed, and submitted himself to the chilly 
ministrations of the cold console. After dressing, he walked 
to the end of the corridor and took a seat next to a dark-
haired lieutenant.
The lieutenant glanced at Trystin, then saw the name, 
rank, and decorations, and looked away, coldly. "Lieutenant 
Rifori?"
The lieutenant followed the doctor into the office. 
Shortly, the doctor left, and the door shut.
"It shouldn't be long. Major." Dr. Kynkara, her short hair 
graying, paused.
"Thank you." Trystin gave her a brief smile, grateful for 
the momentary glimpse of humanity. Somehow, he 
expected coldness in battle and on the perimeter line, but 
not in a medical center. And not in Cambria.
The doctor entered the office adjoining the one where the 
interview was taking place and closed the door behind her.
Lieutenant Rifori left within ten minutes, a puzzled look 
on his face, until he saw Trystin, and his face hardened 
again before he turned and rapped on the staff office door.
After Rifori left. Dr. Kynkara ushered Trystin into her 
office.
The alien wore the same uniform/clothing as every 
Farhkan Trystin had met. Were they all the same? And 
would he be talking with Rhule Ghere once again or would 
it be Jhule? How many Farhkans were involved? Was the 
agenda going to be theft once more?
Trystin inhaled slowly, taking in the vaguely familiar 
odor, the mixed scents of an unfamiliar flower, a muskiness, 
and cleanliness.
"Major, this is Rhule Ghere. He is a senior . . . physician . 
. . in the Farhkan . . . hegemony."
"I've met Dr. Ghere." Vaguely surprised that his voice 
was so calm, Trystin nodded to Ghere.
The not-quite-human figure wore the same shimmering 
gray fatigues. The red eyes still peered out from the iron-
gray hair and square face, and the wide single-nostril nose 
flapped with each breath above the protruding crystalline 
teeth. "Greetings, Major Desoll."
Again, as they had before, the words scripted through his 
mind, but Trystin knew somehow that the use of the implant 
was a fiction, a convenient one for the Farhkans.
"Let me know when you're done," requested the doctor as 
she left.
"I will." Trystin waited until the door closed and the 
Farhkan's comm bloc dropped over the room. He settled 
into the plastic chair opposite Ghere.
"What do you feel about theft these days?" asked the 
Farhkan.
"I still don't like it. How do you feel about lying? Or is 
misrepresentation on the nonverbal level not lying?"
Ghere snorted, and Trystin wasn't sure the sound was a 
laugh.
"You are bright enough to get into trouble. Major." "You 
make that sound like a threat. Doctor." Trystin added the 
next words on a subvocal level through the implant. "Do 
your mental abilities include the induction of heart attacks 
or cerebral 'accidents'?"
"I did not mean my words as a threat." Ghere seemed 
unruffled. "You have thought, as I hoped you might, but 
you have not thought deeply enough." "How about 
answering the question?" "That is a fair request. Yes, we 
can talk mind-to-mind, but not to everyone of your species. 
The implant is symptomatic of ability. That is, it is difficult 
to convey more than simple thoughts to those who do not 
have the ability to mentally organize thoughts before 
speaking them. Thus . . ."
Trystin nodded. Ghere's thoughts/words made sense, but 
whether they were fully accurate was another question.
". . . and we cannot physically affect another entity 
directly by mental means . . ."
Directly? That bothered Trystin, although he couldn't 
immediately Figure out an indirect means. "How about 
indirectly?"
"No more than you can with spoken words." A silent 
laugh followed. "Now, you might do me the honor of 
responding to my request about your feelings on theft."
"Theft isn't simple. It sounds simple, but it's not. If I 
waste people's time with endless chatter, am I stealing their 
time? How do I know? I'd have to guess whether they 
wanted to talk or they didn't. If I steal food to live, it is 
theft, but is it so immoral if those I steal from have plenty?" 
"You still do not wish to admit you are a thief?" Trystin 
shrugged. "You want a simple answer to a question that isn't 
simple."
"Is not a failure to answer a question a form of lying?" 
Trystin felt what he thought had to be amusement, and he 
answered. "Not if you don't know the answer. Perhaps I 
should tell you that I don't know if I am a thief." "You steal, 
or you do not."
"When you can give me a definition of theft, then I'll 
think about answering the question."
"That is not the objective. In your own terms, are you a 
thief?"
Trystin paused. "The simple answer is no." "You should 
think about whether it is the correct answer." After a mental 
silence, Ghere added, "Is there a correct answer? Is your 
correct answer good for another being?"
"Probably not, but I also don't want to live in a society 
where people are free to steal everything under the sun."
"So some theft is acceptable? You do not believe all theft 
is unacceptable?"
Trystin's forehead felt damp. The questions were simple 
enough, but a lot more was going on than trying to answer 
questions. A lot more, and he could feel the anger building 
inside him. Everywhere he looked, something was hidden, 
as if everyone-except his father-had something to gain 
by concealment. And everyone was judging.
"Is some lying acceptable?" asked Ghere, interrupting 
Trystin's thoughts.
"That depends on what you mean by lying. And by 
acceptable."
"It is strange. You humans pride yourself on beliefs and 
values that you claim are absolute, and then you refuse to 
accept the judgments you have created by those values." 
"That gives you the right to judge us?" snapped Trystin. "I 
have not ever made such a claim. I have asked you to judge 
yourself, and you have refused."
"And if I had? If I had said I were a thief. . . then what?" 
The snort that seemed like laughter followed. "Then I would 
have asked you how you could be a thief when you pay for 
what you use."
"Then why did you bother? You weren't going to accept 
any answer I gave." Trystin could feel the anger building, 
anger fueled as much by the cold reception in the med 
center as by the Farhkan game-playing.
"Because understanding what cannot be answered or 
resolved is the beginning of wisdom."
"Why do you care about our wisdom? What is your 
agenda? Why do you subject me . . . and presumably others 
. . . to unanswerable questions?"
"We do live in the same galaxy, and your species is 
somewhat ... aggressive."
"And you're not? You haven't destroyed human ships? 
Don't make me laugh."
"I would not try that." Ghere paused. "We only destroyed 
those ships that attempted to attack us, to commit theft, if 
you will."
"You don't like theft. You've made that clear. So why do 
you bother with us poor peons of the galaxy? Why not just 
wipe us out? Get rid of the local vermin?"
"That poses a difficulty. Several." Again, the Farhkan 
paused. "Such an attempt would not be wise."
"You couldn't do it, is that it? So you'd rather figure out 
how we work enough to destroy us from within?"
The Farhkan laugh followed. "If we must . . . we will . . . 
accomplish such destruction... but it would be futile. A 
fool's victory, and the price would be as high for us as for 
you-as you may see someday."
Trystin sat in the chair. The cold certainty behind Ghere's 
words chilled his anger. Yet how could destroying humanity 
also destroy the Farhkans? Ghere offered nothing.
"All right. I'll bite. You've got the technology to destroy 
us, but it's so terrible that you'll destroy a chunk of the 
galaxy too, and you with it?"
"No. " This time the laugh was bitter. "The galaxy would 
appear almost unchanged. I choose not to answer that 
question. That answer you must find."
"Me? You have all the answers. You can say you won't 
answer, and leave me hanging. I'm just a poor pawn in a 
game I don't understand."
"Hardly a pawn. Major. And you will understand the 
game, as you put it. You will . . . if you value your heritage 
and race."
Trystin swallowed, biting back the anger. The Farhkan 
waited a moment, then added, "I would like you to 
memorize something for future reference. You may find it 
useful."
"Wait a minute!" Trystin protested. "Useful? Just like 
that? You threaten me and all humanity, and then you just 
tell me to memorize something. And what about theft? Or 
lying? Was that all a subterfuge?" He didn't like the way the 
Farhkan brought up things and just stopped. Or the 
incredible threat he'd delivered. Just forget it? How could 
he?
"All of it is woven together. You-or another human- 
must discover the pattern and act." "What if I won't play 
this game?" Trystin received the impression of a shrug. 
"You need to decide. I am not placing judgments upon you. 
I am not threatening you. It may seem that way. It is not so. 
I do not lie. But I am a thief, as you may discover. I am not 
proud of that. "Ghere snorted again.
Trystin wanted to hold his head, which had begun to 
ache. Instead, he just sat there, seething.
"Listen," commanded Ghere. "The key to the temple is. . . 
." What followed the words was a series of equations that 
scripted into Trystin's mind. "Why?" Trystin asked.
"Please. . ." requested the Farhkan with a mental 
forcefulness that was more command than request, yet a 
forcefulness concealing something else.
"You'll have to repeat those," Trystin mumbled. His head 
throbbed. It took four repetitions before he was certain that 
he had the phrases in mind, and he had to key them into his 
implant memory. "Why do you want me to memorize 
these?" "You may find them useful. At least one of you 
may. It may be you." "One of us?"
"Yes. One of you. If it is not you, consider yourself 
fortunate. If it is . . . you are better prepared than most, but 
you will pay an even higher price. These keys were . . . 
difficult . . . to obtain." The Farhkan stood.
"Wait a minute!" Trystin stood as his voice climbed. "In 
all these interviews, you prod me, and you probe. You 
threaten all humans, and you make me uncomfortable, and 
then you just drop things. What's the purpose?"
"I do not threaten. I state what is. Major. The goal is to 
give you-and all those we interview-a way of looking at 
life that may allow your species to survive. I am not your 
enemy. I am your patron. Remember that I am your patron."
"That still sounds like a threat." "We do not make threats. 
Major. Threats do not work, and they are bad policy. We 
offer help. You can take it or not take it." "Why me?"
"Because those members of your species with great 
power and position are more interested in personal power 
than species survival." "Great. Why are you bothering to tell 
me?" "Who would you tell? Also"-Trystin gained a sense 
of something like sadness-"you could learn enough, if you 
are unfortunate enough." Ghere stood and turned. "Good 
day. Major." "Good day. Doctor."
Trystin felt like grabbing the Farhkan and shaking him, 
but did not. He could not, because the Farhkan suddenly 
walked out the rear door.
Even through his headache, Trystin could feel a sense of 
sadness radiating from the alien. Sadness? Why?
When no answers immediately struck him, not that he 
thought they would, he opened the front door and went for 
Dr. Kynkara. His head still throbbed, and he wanted to kick 
people, or throw them down stairs. Or something!
49
"How was the physical?" asked Elsin as Trystin walked into 
the kitchen.
"The physical was fine, but the interview with the 
Farhkan . . ." Trystin slipped off the beret and tucked it into 
his belt. "Shit . . ."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Elsin paused. "Something 
to drink?" "Do you have any juice?" "Just mixed vegetable 
and sour apple." Trystin shivered. "Any iced tea?" "That's 
what I'm having." "Make that two."
Elsin poured a second tumbler and handed it to Trystin. 
"The mint's in the holder there."
Trystin crushed a sprig into the tea and settled into the 
second chair at the kitchen table. The whirr of wings drifted 
through the open window, and he watched as a male 
heliobird hovered for a moment above the hedge. "They're 
beautiful." Elsin nodded, waiting.
Trystin watched until the heliobird whirred toward the 
pines and out of sight. "There was this Farhkan. He's 
interviewed me several times, and he seems to be more 
interested in my ethics than anything else. He's always 
pressing me to admit I'm a thief." "Aren't we all?" Elsin 
lifted his tumbler. "I suppose so. He said he was, and that he 
found it hard to accept. I've kept refusing to admit it in 
blanket terms. That bothers me. Finally, I asked him what 
he would have done if I'd admitted it. " Trystin took a 
swallow of the cold tea before continuing. "You know what 
he said? He said that he would have questioned whether I 
really was a thief. Then he ended up with something about 
humans insisting on absolutes when we refused to apply 
those absolute values to ourselves." "That's certainly true 
enough." "But why does any of this matter to a Farhkan?" 
"Maybe they've never had experience with hypocrisy on 
such a vast scale. "Elsin laughed.'
"I don't think that's it." Trystin took another deep swallow 
of the tea. "He's been hammering on me to declare an 
absolute, but then he'd hammer on me not to."
"We like to make things absolute, but that doesn't mean 
they are," observed Elsin.
"But why would an alien care? He said-not in so many 
words-that they'd have to destroy humanity, and that 
would destroy them, but that I'd have to find out why. And 
he said that the Coalition's senior officers were too corrupt, 
or too in love with personal power, to learn what junior 
officers could. And, then, at the end, he said that I might 
learn enough if I were unfortunate. Not fortunate-
unfortunate. What in hell would a frigging alien care?"
"We do live in the same galaxy. Perhaps they're worried 
about what we might do to the neighborhood."
"That's what he said, but it seems to me they should 
worry more about the revs." Trystin cupped his hands 
around the glass for a moment. "And he kept saying that he 
wasn't making threats."
"Maybe he wasn't," Elsin said. "If you know something 
will happen, and you say so . - . is that a threat?"
Trystin shivered and rubbed his forehead. "But he never 
said anything about the revs. They're more of a threat than 
we are. Aren't they concerned? It doesn't make sense. Don't 
they care?"
"They probably do, but why would they tell you?" "That's 
true." Trystin took another swallow of tea. "But what 
about being unfortunate? That's like a curse."
"Wisdom is a curse, Trystin, and it's usually bought" with 
pain and suffering. Your alien seems rather perceptive."
"Maybe . . . but figure this That wasn't all." Trystin 
forced a laugh. "He's basically told me that his people  
might have to destroy us-and implied that it wouldn't be 
any problem at all technically-that it wouldn't change the 
universe in the slightest-and then he asks me to memorize 
a bunch of stuff. Figure that "Oh? I can't say I like where 
they're pointing you." "Me, neither," Trystin said, taking a 
deep swallow of the cold tea.          "What were you 
supposed to memorize?" "He told me that the key to the 
temple was a series of equations, and he insisted that I 
memorize them."
"That is odd." Elsin frowned. "Do you still 
remember-"
"Of course. I also keyed them into my implant." "Do 
you want to analyze them?" Trystin pursed his lips, 
thinking about security. Then he shook his head. No one 
had said that what the Farhkans told him was classified, 
and, besides, his father was more trustworthy than most 
officers, a lot more if the Farhkan were right. "I think I 
need all the help I can get." "Why did you shake your 
head?" "The strangeness of the whole thing." He didn't 
even want to mention security to his father.
Elsin stood. "Shall we? I have to use more antiquated 
equipment."
Trystin chuckled as he rose and followed, carrying his 
tea. The console in the office was already on. Trystin 
wondered if it were ever off anymore, now that his 
father was alone.
"You'll have to use the keyboard. I don't have any 
direct interface equipment."
After setting his tea on the side table, Trystin sat 
down in the high-backed blue leather chair and used the 
keyboard and keys, slowly coding the memorized lines 
onto the screen.
They both studied the lines of code. "I can tell you what it 
looks like-it's the operating protocol for something. I've 
never seen quite that construction, but here"-Elsin pointed 
at the screen-"that's an entry key."
"What does it open? How would you use it?" Elsin studied 
the equation for a time. "It looks like a simplified protocol 
for a complex system, and it has to be a human system." 
"Why?"
Elsin laughed. "The antique anglo, for one. Second, 
because I understand at least some of the terms, and while it 
is possible that an alien system would use another species' 
phrase for security, it's more than a little unlikely that an 
alien system would be that transparent or use our symbols."
Trystin stood and offered the console seat to his father, 
who settled into the chair. For a time, Elsin just sat, 
apparently concentrating on the codes. Trystin reclaimed his 
tea and took a sip.
Finally, the older man's fingers blurred across the keyboard, 
until a separate set of symbols appeared below the lines 
Trystin had entered. Trystin blinked. "All right. Now 
what?" "I'm guessing, but this section looks like the key 
itself, and these are merely parameters for system 
frequencies and band width. Now that's a guess, but I'd 
present this part"-his hand stretched toward the bracketed 
plain-language phrase-"just like you do a Service protocol. 
As I told you, it looks like a human system, and the words 
are human, almost archaic, somehow . . . but that could be a 
translation or a transliteration. I wouldn't know for sure." 
"What's the stuff you put below?" "My approximation of an 
override code. That's even more of a speculation, but the 
Farhkans don't play jokes. You were given this for a reason, 
and you probably won't have time for heavy analysis if you 
need to use it. Things don't work that way, I've discovered. 
Anticipation generally is worth several tonnes of reaction."             
Trystin nodded, his thoughts going to Ulteena Freyer 
with the word "anticipation." For some reason, he recalled 
her waiting for him, while her ship waited for her.  He 
should have seen it before she had finally told him "Trystin? 
Trystin?"           "Oh, sorry. I was thinking about 
anticipation - about someone."                    "She must be 
something."                Trystin grinned, half sheepishly. "She 
is. But she's there, not here, and I was thinking about how 
she avoided much trouble by anticipating things. She's the 
CO of the Mishima now. " He finished the tea and set the 
glass on the side table, then he stepped up to the screen. 
"You'd better explain this."                                  \
Elsin coughed. "I'm almost embarrassed to. I'm only 
guessing, but the layout is pretty standard-so standard  it's 
almost antique. All right, now this is based on the 
assumption  that ..."                              
Trystin listened, trying to link in all the explanations 
and burning the potential override code into his thoughts 
and his implant memory, as Elsin outlined the logic and 
the rationale.                                     
When they were done, Trystin wiped his forehead, He 
hadn't realized he was sweating. "I need more tea." 
"There's not much more I can tell you. It's filed in your 
directory if you want to review it again before you have to
"Good." Trystin's head ached, again, and, Farhkan  denial  
or not, he felt like a pawn on the ancient board in the great 
room. How long had this been going on? Why him? Or 
were the Farhkans playing the same game with a bunch of 
interview subjects? And why did the Service let them? Was 
the situation with the revs that bad? He shivered again.                                      
"Trystin?" asked his father.                          "Just thinking . . 
. trying to make sense of things."    "Let it settle in. You've 
got a few days, don't you?" 
"A few."
His father cleared his throat. "Did you tell anyone about 
this . . . key?"
"No. I didn't have a chance. You're suggesting it might 
not be a good idea?"
"I don't know . . . but with what the Farhkans said about 
senior officers . . ."
Trystin nodded. That presented another problem. Did he 
have a duty to report it? And what was he reporting? Would 
he just look foolish? Would he jeopardize the technology 
the Coalition was receiving?
He shook his head as they walked back to the kitchen, 
where Trystin refilled the glass and crushed more mint into 
the tea. He took a deep swallow. Settling in or not, the 
questions wouldn't stop. "Have any ideas why the Farhkans 
wanted me to have this . . . key or whatever it is?"
Elsin shrugged, then rubbed his silvery hair. "Your 
mother probably could have told you more, but . . . what I 
do know is that the Farhkans don't lie. I doubt they're more 
ethical-the one admitted that he was a thief-but they 
don't lie. So it's a key to something. I just don't know what."
"Neither do 1." Trystin took another swallow, almost a 
gulp, of the tea. "Why-how-would they get access to a 
human system?" "He said he was a thief." Elsin laughed. 
Trystin swallowed. The interviews were more than 
psychological evaluations. But what more? And why? 
"What's their purpose? The Farhkans, I mean? Why me?"
"I don't know what the Farhkans are doing. Several years 
ago, there was a rumor that they were working with their 
own version of the Genome Project. That died away." 
Trystin moistened his lips. The initial Human Genome 
Project had been one of the factors leading to the Great Die-
off, when the neo-Mahmets, the Revenants, the Eco-Techs, 
and the Argentis had united in their assaults on Newton and 
old Earth. Although rumors had persisted for centuries that 
some of the Immortals had survived, Trystin doubted it. 
Over time, accidents alone would have done them in, and 
any routine gene trace would show the genetic 
modifications.
"They are aliens, Trystin. Aliens with alien motivations, 
no matter how much they seem human, no matter how 
much we try to steal or manipulate their knowledge and 
skills from them. Sometimes, I think they must sit back and 
laugh at our obviousness." "So why do they help us?"
"Why do we help the poor? Or save certain environments 
or species?"
"Only those that take our fancy," pointed out Trystin. 
"Maybe we take their fancy." Elsin shrugged. Trystin 
refilled his glass again, wiping his forehead and wondering 
why he was so thirsty.
After a time, Elsin spoke. "By the way, I've transferred 
the title to the property here to you . . . it's in a trust that you 
can revoke or modify. The trust provides for maintenance, 
taxes, and the rest in case anything happens to me while 
you're unable to be contacted." Elsin delivered the words 
matter-of-factly, as if they had been rehearsed. "Why? 
You're in great shape."
"Property registered to a Service major with a 
distinguished career is far less likely to be targeted for 
miscellaneous legal ploys." Elsin's voice was dry. "Besides, 
I won't live forever, and if you translate the wrong way, I 
could live another fifty years and still not see you. It's better 
to handle these things when you can. Anticipation, 
remember?" He laughed, but there was .an edge to that 
laughter.
"Oh . . . Father." Trystin could feel the lump in his throat.
"You still have that investment trust? With the Pilot's 
Trust?"
Trystin nodded. "Last time I checked, it had built to over 
fifty thousand creds."
"And it has arrangements for paying taxes? That's the 
latest bureaucratic ploy. You look like a rev, and you're late 
or somehow deficient in taxes, and the revenue service is all 
over you."
"It does, but maybe we should go over it before I leave." 
"Might as well." Elsin nodded. "Make sure it has the 
maximum statutory length-that's a hundred years now. 
The longest translation error documented, plus twenty 
years. If anything happens to me, everything will be 
handled by your trust. That should ensure that everything 
will be here for you."
Trystin looked down for a moment, then took another 
long swallow of the tea, his eyes going to the window 
where a female heliobird paused before darting toward the 
upper flower beds. "I miss the gardens."
"They do grow on you. They've been a comfort, and, 
someday, I hope you'll find them so."
Trystin nodded. He reached out with his left hand and 
covered his father's right hand for a moment. They 
continued to look at the greenery beyond the window.
50
SErvice Command Headquarters occupied two three-story 
buildings set in three gardens-one garden between the two 
buildings and one on each side-all three joining in a series 
of low flower beds in front of the east-facing buildings. 
SERCOM Was the fourth stop on the number three surtrans 
route from the West-Break station in Perdya.
Trystin walked along the covered pale green marble 
walkway, lugging his gear, and glancing between the pillars 
at the flowers. He recognized most, but not all. A steady 
flow of uniformed personnel, usually in ones or twos, 
traversed the walkway. Just before the flower beds that 
linked all three gardens, the covered walkway split- one 
section heading to the right building, the other to the left.
Trystin followed the arrow under which read-among 
others-Personnel and Detailing and continued to the left 
building.
As he entered the structure, he could sense the energy and 
probes of the security net. He paused for a moment, 
wondering if the Farhkan protocol was for Headquarters, 
then shook his head. The Service security system was a 
closed system. Whatever protocol, it had would have to be 
used inside the control center or the console that held the 
controls-which certainly made sense.
Most high-security installations were closed weave, 
rather than the modified open-weave systems used on ships 
or perimeter stations. Implants were only good either almost 
touching a ship or inside it, and since space combat didn't 
involve close proximity, the modified system was perfectly 
secure, especially since the revs didn't use implant 
technology. Trystin's implant could theoretically, if he had 
the protocols, access and control any truly open-weave 
system. He shook his head. Of course, most open-weave 
systems guarded their protocols dearly.
He crossed the atriumlike space, with the windows open 
to the gardens, and paused by one of the information 
consoles, setting down his gear. "Major Trystin Desoll." He 
handed across his ID and a copy of his orders. "Reporting 
for further assignment."
"Yes, ser. Let me check." The dark-haired tech at the 
front console took in Trystin, studied his uniform, the 
decorations, and turned her head to the tech at the next 
console. "Has to be Marshal Fertuna's staff."
"Intelligence? Good bet. " The other tech studied Trystin 
as the fingers of the first flicked across the console 
keyboard.
"Yes, ser. You're to report to Marshal Fertuna. That's 
Intelligence-1 Section. His office is on the third level of 
the north building. Just take the cross-garden walkway. It's 
easier than going back out the front. If you're carrying any 
weapons or energy implants, check with the tech at the 
console outside his office. Otherwise, just go in. All right?" 
She offered a pleasant professional smile as she returned his 
ID and orders. "They'll be expecting you." .
"Thank you. " Trystin returned the smile, keeping it 
plastered in place even after he caught the words "poor rev 
bait."
Even outside the Intelligence office, with its fractionally 
thicker walls, and stepped-up system net, there was no 
reference to Marshal Fertuna, just a small sign that said "I 
Section"-that and a bored-looking senior tech seated at a 
console in the hall outside. Trystin nodded.
"Anything to declare, ser?" The technician looked at 
Trystin's bags.
"Nothing but normal pilot implants. Flight armor and 
personal effects." "They'll clear."
The scanners buzzed through the implant, not pleasantly, 
as Trystin stepped into the office proper.
Another technician gestured from a corner console. 
"Major Desoll?" "Yes." Trystin headed toward him. "You're 
fortunate. Commander Delapp is waiting for you." The 
technician's black eyes studied Trystin quickly. "You can 
leave your gear here, ser, right over there."
Trystin shrugged and set the gear on the stand clearly 
provided for the purpose, removing the thin case that held 
his orders and records. He had no doubts that his gear 
would be scanned again-or, at least, that it could be. "This 
way, ser."
Commander Delapp had an office not much larger than 
the mess on the Willis, but most of the back wall was a 
window overlooking the garden below.
The gray-haired commander stepped forward and 
extended her hand and a warm smile. "Major Desoll, I'm 
Katellie Delapp."  
"Trystin Desoll, Commander." He took her hand and 
gave a slight bow.
"Please have a seat." The commander settle behind the 
console. Trystin took the wooden captain's chair.
"Major, your CO recommends you highly. And your 
discretion. " The white-haired commander behind the 
console waited, bright blue eyes fixed on him. "That's 
unusual in itself. Commander Sasaki is rather cautious. 
Both the commander and the Pilot Training Command also 
commend your piloting skill. And you are acceptable to the 
Farhkans."
"Yes, ser?" Trystin didn't like the last statement at all. 
"What do the Farhkans have to do with it?"
"Cautious, aren't you? That's good. You'll need to be 
cautious. We'd like to send you into Revenant territory." 
"The Farhkans?" Trystin asked. "It makes matters easier. 
You'll find that out later." He could tell she wasn't about to 
say more about the Farhkans, and that somehow 
strengthened his own determination not to mention the 
Farhkan key. It was childish, but if the Service wanted to 
keep secrets, then so could he. "You need pilot scouts for 
the rev perimeter systems?"
"No, not scouts. We're talking about two-overlay 
missions."
Trystin contained the wince he felt internally. "Two 
overlay?"
"You wouldn't know the term. We'll load your implant 
with two identities you can call up for reference." "I'm a 
pilot, not an intelligence agent." "A good one." The 
commander's eyes caught his. "Do you want to spend the 
next twenty years somewhere like Parvati outer orbit 
control?"
"Is that a threat?" Trystin could feel the anger building. 
More damned threats!
"No." The commander's voice was calm. "You're not 
stupid. Do you see a pattern in the Revenant attacks?" 
"There are a lot more of them." "There are even more 
coming. We can't match them in terms of personnel and raw 
resources, and we don't want to go into the planet-busting 
business for pretty much the same reason. That's why you're 
here. That's why every distinguished junior officer who fits 
the rev physical profile and the psychological profile has 
been in this office, or will be."
Trystin took a deep breath.
"You fit the profile of the standard Revenant, close 
enough that we can match their gross gene coding, 
inspacing screen. Blue-eyed blonds aren't exactly common 
here in the Coalition." That Trystin knew all too well. 
"Now. . . you can turn us down, and some do, and, believe it 
or not, nothing bad will happen. At least nothing that 
wouldn't happen anyway. You'd probably get your own 
cruiser for a half tour in either Safrya, Helconya, or Parvati, 
and then a full tour as a heavy cruiser CO in one of the hot 
systems." Commander Delapp shrugged. "After that, you'd 
get a tour at the Pilot Training Command, and then either 
retirement or promotion to the staff level- something like 
that. We can't afford to waste talent over skin or hair color, 
no matter what some hotheads in Cambria think."
While he wasn't sure he totally believed the commander, 
Trystin understood the numbers and the situation. Twenty- 
to fifty-percent attrition over another two tours wasn't 
exactly harmless. On the other hand, intelligence missions 
into revvie territory didn't exactly seem harmless, either. As 
for resignation . . . he shook his head. Stupid as it might 
seem, especially after Salya, he had to do something, and he 
didn't like quitting, which was probably something else the 
Intelligence types had already figured out. Why was 
everyone pushing him? Or was it so desperate that they 
were pushing everyone?
"Your profile says you're not the money type, but 
Intelligence work carries double hazard pay-for the rest of 
your Service career-and the double hazard pay is 
calculated as part of your base pay for retirement purposes." 
"Very safe line of work, I can see," said Trystin dryly. 
"We're just more honest than the Pilot Training branch," 
countered the commander with a faint smile. "Any general 
questions?" "Why do I need the Farhkan approval?"
"Yon don't. We do. I can't tell you now, but I can 
guarantee absolutely that if you decide to accept an 
Intelligence assignment, you will know before you 
undertake that assignment."
"You implied that this was a one-time shot. What's to 
keep it from being either terminal or recurring?"
"The Revenant security systems. We can get you in 
once-guaranteed-and out. Too many transits of the 
system get flagged. Revenants don't travel that much 
between systems. We don't either, when you think about it. 
To create an identity that allows those kinds of transits 
brings up a level of scrutiny that's hard to pass." Trystin 
frowned. "What are the odds?" "Almost exactly the same as 
the two tours you have in front of you."
In short . . . not very good, but nothing looked very good. 
"Why me right now?"
"You were available. Personnel is rotating officers after 
six troid missions on the same ship, or as soon as possible 
for officers over that. It's caused some problems, but 
survival rates drop too quickly after six." "What will happen 
to me if I say no?" "A month at command school, mostly to 
give you a break. You don't really need anything but the 
brushup on advanced Revenant tactics. Then another few 
weeks home leave, and then a frigate in Helconya or 
Safyra."
Trystin frowned. What difference would he make, killing 
more Revenants or busting a few more troids? Then, what 
difference would he make chasing information in the revvie 
systems? At times, it all seemed futile. He cleared his throat 
as the commander waited, and finally asked, "Will what you 
want me to do in the Revenant systems really make a 
difference?"
"I don't know. All I can honestly say is that I don't think 
the answer lies in force of arms."
Trystin nodded slowly and spread his hands. "You've 
convinced me. Now what?" "You don't need to lie. Major," 
answered Katellie Delapp. 
"I doubt I've convinced you in the slightest. You just 
don't see any real options."
Trystin had to force a grin, but it wasn't too hard. "You've 
got me."
"The situation has us all. Anyway . . . you go back to 
school in Yuintah. Actually, it's an enclave in the hills there 
surrounded by the South Continent's Service reservation."
Trystin frowned, not recalling such a reservation on 
Perdya's southern continent.
"It's there. Major. And I'm not reading minds. All of you 
get the same look. It's much easier to hide something on a 
well-inhabited planet than in the middle of nowhere." She 
paused. "Are you ready to start?" "Yes, especially since I 
don't have any options." "Good." She tapped something into 
the console and stood. "Once you leave the building, you 
won't see anyone besides Service personnel, Farhkans, or 
Revenants until you finish the job."
Or until he was dead, Trystin added mentally. It was 
wonderful to be without realistic options, just wonderful.
"Tiedrol will escort you to the atmospheric shuttle. Good 
luck. Major." She smiled as the tech opened the door. 
Trystin's gear was racked on the small cart.
"Thank you." He bowed to the commander before he left, 
wondering just what he had let himself in for, and, for all 
his thoughts of duty and Salya, why?
He snorted. What were his choices? Another tour on 
system patrols, wondering if he could figure out another 
series of impossible ship contortions necessary for survival, 
punctuated with nightmares and boredom between 
disasters? Insanity, spending the rest of a short life in a 
padded cell? Or a reluctant Intelligence agent?
As he followed the cart down the corridor toward the lift 
shaft, he repressed a laugh. He'd wanted to do more than sit 
on a perimeter station and wait for revs. He'd wanted to do 
more than patrol an outer-system belt waiting for endless 
lines of revs. Now, he was being pushed into doing more, 
and he didn't like it.


"Ser?" asked Tiedrol in response to the half laugh, half 
snort.
"Nothing. Just thinking about getting what you wish for." 
He shook his head.

51
Trystin paused for a moment beside the double doors of the 
building that looked like a school and
studied the small town that lay below the gentle 
hillside, noting the extra-wide streets and the low and 
sprawling houses that all seemed to have central courtyards. 
In the exact center of the town was a wide building with a 
single glittering spire.
The man who had introduced himself as Brother Khalid 
when Trystin had stepped off the atmospheric shuttle 
waited. In the white square-collared coat and trousers and 
the open-necked large-collared white shirt. Brother Khalid 
seemed cool, despite the warm winter sun of the near-
tropical locale. "Ready, Brother?"
Trystin tried not to wince at the religions salutation. "Yes, 
Brother Khalid. " "Good."
They stepped inside. Trystin followed the sandy-haired 
and tanned Khalid down a corridor and past several 
classrooms. In one, with an open door, sat a half-dozen men 
and women dressed in white. None looked up as they 
passed.
Khalid led Trystin into a small office without windows 
and closed the door. "Sit down." Trystin sat.
"First, the technical details. Your personal gear is stored 
for your return. You can take nothing that could be traced to 
the Coalition. When we leave here, we'll go to the tailor 
shop in the back. Your clothes should be ready for you, and 
you'll be instructed in their wearing, including the garments. 
Everything you're wearing now will be stored for your 
return. Understood?" "Yes, Brother Khalid."
"Good. Now . . . as for your mission . . . forget about it. 
You have one. You'll be briefed when you're ready. Your 
job now is to assimilate an entire lifetime of Revenant 
culture in less than two months. It's called total immersion. 
After the tailor shop, you'll get your first overlay, through 
your implant. It will give you the basics, including a 
grammatical update. We really don't have time to do this as 
well as we'd like, but we'll immerse you until you feel the 
Revenant culture, and we'll keep it up.
"From this point on, you are Deacon Wyllum Hyriss. The 
familiar is Brother Hyriss. You are of the returned. You will 
address anyone you meet in New Harmony as 'Sister' or 
'Brother,' except as you will learn for more distinguished 
personages.
"Inside or outside this building, you are Brother Hyriss. 
You will speak modern Revenant. Your day is structured as 
though the sessions here are your job-and the rest of the 
time, you live and react in New Harmony. You will be 
living in the Cloisters-that's where newly returned 
missionaries live until they get married to their first wife-
and none of them live there more than three months, but 
obviously that won't be a problem here.
"You are expected to use every facility in the town, 
especially the stosque-" "Stosque?"
"It's the everyday church, if you will, as opposed to the 
Temple. You'll get more on that in the religion sessions. 
You need to become familiar with all the buildings and to 
use them, and to converse as any Revenant would. You will 
even learn to drive a petroleum-powered vehicle. Yes, they 
still use them. The entire town is scanned, and your every 
movement will be watched-and every day for the first two 
weeks, you will be debriefed here on the previous day's 
successes and failures.
"In the future, you may be assigned to a job in the town as 
background for your mission. You may not. It just depends." 
Khalid waited. "What do we study here?"
"The only non-Revenant material will be your weapons 
class, where you will learn to build several weapons from 
common components available on Revenant worlds." 
"Weapons?"
"You might have to defend yourself-or more. That 
depends on your mission, and, no, I don't know yours. But 
you won't be allowed to bring weapons into whatever 
Revenant system is your destination. So you must know 
how to make them if the need arises." Trystin frowned. 
Weapons?
"Everything else will be Revenant cultural materials- 
from the Book of Toren to church procedures and 
protocols-and you will go to church every Sunday and to 
scripture study group on Wednesday nights." "Wednesday?"
"Threeday. The day names-they use a variant on the old 
Earth nomenclature and a seven-day week and irregular 
months-will be in your first overlay." "This seems . .. 
rather elaborate. . . ." Khalid shook his head, almost sadly. 
"Most of those who are discovered by the Revenants give 
themselves away. The culture is structured, quietly 
xenophobic, and comprised of elaborate, sophisticated, and 
interlocking rituals. So is the Ecofreak culture. Ecofreaks-
that's right-Ecofreaks  don't recognize that. Most cultures 
don't. They only recognize outsiders because they don't 
seem to fit. Our job is to make you fit. Is that clear?"
Trystin nodded. It was all too clear, but the weapons bit 
nagged at him. "Let's go. Brother Hyriss." "After you. 
Brother Khalid."

52
Trystin blotted his forehead with the large white 
handkerchief, absently folding it and replacing it in his 
jacket hip pocket, thankful for the late-afternoon hill breeze 
as he walked into the bookstore that featured the hard-
covered paper books relegated mainly to collectors on 
Perdya.
The coolness of the store was refreshing as Trystin 
stepped toward the section labeled "History."
"There's a new one in. Brother, that you might like," 
called Imam, the white-haired patriarch who operated the 
store. "What might that be?"
Imam hustled from behind the counter that held the 
accounting console and almost right up to Trystin. "Here?" 
He pointed to the book on the "New Releases" shelf.
"Orum's Way," Trystin read aloud. "How the Battle for 
the First Temple Was Won." He wondered if the book were 
merely a rehash of the Book of Toren or if it would provide 
some new insights.
"Good story, and better, it's true. All about Toren's 
struggle to clear the mount and make it a place for the Lord 
and the faithful. You know, the old militarists wanted to put 
a military base there."
"Militarists?" asked Trystin innocently, recognizing the 
trap, if belatedly.
"That's what they called the people who fought wars for 
money back in the black centuries after the Die-off-sort of 
like the Ecofreaks' Service. 'Cept the Ecofreaks won't admit 
they fight for money."
"That's why they can't withstand the missions of the 
faithful," Trystin said matter-of-factly.
"Could be. Brother. You'd know better than I, having
returned more recently."
"Some things don't change." Trystin studied the book. 
"That's for sure."
"You think this would be interesting." "A lot of people are 
reading it." Trystin repressed a shrug, then nodded. "You've 
convinced me. Brother Imam."
"A wise fellow you are." Imam walked back to the 
console and slipped behind it. Trystin, no longer fumbling 
with the separate plastic
credit strip or the paper money used for smaller 
transactions, slid the strip and the book across the counter 
to
Imam.
"Peace be with you. Brother." "And with you," Trystin 
answered as he tucked the book under his arm. Outside the 
bookstore, he paused as another man in
white gestured. "Have you seen Sister Angelica, Brother 
Hyriss?" asked
Brother Munson. "She wasn't in the bookstore. Brother. I 
haven't seen her
this afternoon. Could she be up at Circle in the stosque?"
"I don't know. If you should run across her. I'd appreciate 
it if you would tell her that Brother Khalid is looking for 
her." "I will. Peace be with you." "And you."
Trystin walked across the wide street to the confectionery 
shop-all the Revenants liked sweets, of all sorts. "You 
want to try the lime balls. Brother Hyriss?" asked
the sister behind the counter. "Too tart. Sister." "No 
Ecofreak there," laughed the older man from the
back door. "They love fruity tarts, the fruitier the better." 
Trystin laughed, trying to enjoy the bad pun. "I prefer
my confectioneries sweeter, not sickeningly sweet, but 
honestly sweet."
"Spoken like a true returned, but how long will he be true?" 
The sister glanced at the older man. "Get the man his 
sweets, sweet." "You, too? All you men like your sweets." 
Trystin grinned as the sister turned to him.

53
"Brother Hyriss, please come forward," requested  the 
instructor identified only as Brother Suledin.
"You are from Nephi, and you are on Orum, somewhere 
in Wystuh."
Trystin stepped into the space in front of the chairs, not 
knowing what scene might unfold.
"Brother Hyriss, I understand you come from Nephi. Is 
that not rather familiar to the Ecofreak systems?"
"I am from Nephi, Brother," acknowledged Trystin with a 
smile he hoped was open, "and blessed that the Lord and the 
Prophet have chosen to serve as our shield."
"To be so familiar with the abominations of the Lord 
must trouble you."
"The Lord has shielded us from untoward familiarity, as 
you have indeed recognized."
"I would say that familiarity might become you. Brother 
Hyriss," said Brother Suledin smoothly.
Trystin managed to continue smiling as he replied, "The 
Lord knows what is, and when one insists on such 
familiarity, then the beholder may harbor even greater 
familiarity."
Suledin nodded and turned away from Trystin. "Sister 
Susanna? You have just arrived in Midinha, and your 
clothes are wrinkled." Sister Susanna took Trystin's place. 
Trystin's hand moved as if to begin to wipe his forehead.
"Brother Hyriss, did I upset you? Are you too warm? 
Perhaps there is indeed some familiarity with 
abominations."
Trystin forced another smile. Did Brother Suledin have 
eyes in the back of his head? "I am from Nephi, and Nephi 
is cooler than Wystuh, much cooler. Perhaps you could 
come to visit sometime."
Without pausing, his point made. Brother Suledin turned 
back to Sister Angelica. "Sister, are you headed for a 
nunnery?" Trystin held in a wince at the insult. Sister 
Susanna turned and fixed her eyes directly on Suledin. 
"Brother, your concern is most welcome, and seemly, and 
even brotherly, and I will commend your concerns to my 
husband." She offered a radiant smile. "Debrief," said 
Brother Suledin. All that meant was that he could be 
objective, Trystin reflected. They still had to stay in 
character, politely smiling.
"Overt aggression is not expressed, and, if expressed, not 
allowed to persist. All insults are veiled, as in the reference 
to abominations with Brother Hyriss-except that insults to 
third parties not present, such as Ecofreaks or abominations, 
are allowed, often with puns or other tasteless allusions. 
This is a highly repressed and stylized culture. Every action 
is observed and tallied against a social norm. You are never 
in a position when someone is not observing you. You are 
expected to respond, as would any innocent being, but you 
must respond in the same style, with veiled allusions.
"Tolerance within the norms is high, but once anyone 
exceeds those norms, they effectively vanish. Remember 
one other thing we've been drilling into you. The Revenants 
seldom lie. They may avoid disclosing or revealing 
something, but if something is said, you can usually bank on 
it being true. That's why they punish those who exceed the 
norms so stringently. Now, they don't call it punishment. In 
polite terms, they go on a mission for the Prophet, which 
can be anything from asteroid mining with inadequate 
equipment to being dumped on a barely habitable planet 
undergoing final planoforming. No one is exempt, and that 
is why the system works." He paused. "Debrief ended."
Silence hung over the classroom for a moment. 
"Good day to you all. Brothers and Sisters." "Good 
day. Brother Suledin."
Trystin did not try to wipe his damp forehead again, at 
least not inside or in the shade.
54
As Trystin stepped out of the front foyer of the Cloisters, 
Brother Khalid smiled.
"Brother Khalid."
"Brother Hyriss. The time has arrived for your call to 
greater service."
"It will take a minute to pack." Certainly not much more, 
reflected Trystin. "I will wait."
Trystin nodded and returned to the three-meter-square 
bachelor quarters, containing a narrow bed, a chest, and a 
wardrobe. No wonder most of the returned were in a hurry 
to get married. Being married-he'd really never thought 
about it. Who would he marry? The only two women who 
had come even close to understanding him were his mother 
and Salya. He frowned-and maybe Ulteena. But who knew 
if she'd even survived the latest round of troid onslaughts, 
although, if anyone could, she could. He hoped she had, but 
when he would ever. . . if he would ever'...
Forcing his mind back to the mundane matter of packing, 
he pulled out the fabric traveling bag of the returned and 
opened it. First came the undergarments from the chest, 
white and longer than he would have preferred, then the two 
nightshirts, also white, and the white dress belt with the 
stylized bronze eagle with the lightning bolt that was the 
symbol of the returned. From the wardrobe came toiletries, 
including the antique bladed razor and the tube of white 
leather polish, and white shirts and the second and third 
white suit.
He put the white dress boots in the side pocket, along 
with the thick white socks. At least the everyday boots were 
black.
Once finished packing, including the Book of Toren that 
he had read at least twice completely and still didn't feel he 
knew well enough, he snapped the bag shut and adjusted the 
shoulder harness before leaving the empty room.
"You look ready to travel. Brother Hyriss," observed 
Khalid.
"As the Lord and the Prophet will." They walked across the 
street, past the stosque and into the center of New Harmony 
toward the school building on the far side.
"Some sweets. Brother Hyriss?" called Sister Andrews 
through the open door of the confectionery store. "Not 
today. Sister." "Nice intonation," said Khalid. Trystin didn't 
fall for it. "Sister Andrews does have a nice voice."
Khalid nodded. "Many sisters do. Most are truly good 
people."
Trystin concealed a frown, but wondered what Khalid's 
motives might be. "The Lord inspires them."
"That he does. Brother Hyriss, and best you not forget 
that. All in the Lord's mansions strive to do good, and that is 
their grace and their failure."
All? wondered Trystin. Did Khalid really believe that? 
And if he didn't, wasn't he even more hypocritical than most 
of the Service?
Trystin kept walking, and Khalid offered no other 
observations. When they reached the school building Khalid 
led Trystin to the back section. They stopped outside a 
closed door.
"This is as far as I go. Brother Hyriss. Peace be with 
you." "And with you."
Trystin opened the door and stepped inside, closing it 
behind him.
A white-haired man in the uniform of a senior 
commander sat behind the desk in the windowless office. 
His uniform bore no name and no decorations. Idly, Trystin 
wondered how the commander had reached the office 
unobserved. "Sit down. Brother Hyriss."
Trystin sat and set the fabric bag beside the chair, his eyes 
remaining on the commander.
"Careful, aren't you? That's good. You'll need to be. 
You're going to the Jerush system."
"Orum?" Trystin was tired of the intelligence types telling 
him he needed to be cautious. They weren't being asked to 
stick their necks out.
"As a matter of fact, you're going to Wystuh itself. After 
you get your second overlay and your mission profile, of 
course."
Trystin contained the wince he felt. More overlays? "You'll 
get the full details with the profile. Your mission is simple 
enough. You're a Revenant courier pilot of a ship owned by 
an independent trading firm out of the Hyndji systems-
those are the only outsider ships the Revenants allow to 
enter Revenant systems, and only the outlying systems at 
that. You'll bring the courier, carrying legitimate Hyndji 
microtronics and designs, into Braha. Braha is one of the 
recently opened outlying systems where security isn't quite 
as tight. From there, you'll travel commercial to Orum, and 
then to Wystuh itself. Your job is to attack the High Council 
of Bishops, and to remove, with extreme prejudice, 
Administrative Fleet Commander and Archbishop Jynckia. 
Any questions? You don't have to be in character. Double 
debrief alpha." For a moment, Trystin said nothing. He 
should have seen it from the beginning, especially with the 
weapons-creation training. Of course he wouldn't be sent 
just to gather information. He wanted to pound his head for 
not seeing the obvious. Except he hadn't really wanted to 
see it, had he? "Why?"
"You don't like the idea of assassination, do you? Almost 
none of you do." The commander offered a cold smile. 
"One afternoon on Mara, on a single afternoon, you 
slaughtered nearly one hundred revs. You've destroyed 
thousands on system patrols, but an assassination of one 
man that might shorten the war and save untold thousands . 
. . that bothers you."
"It doesn't quite seem the same." Trystin kept his voice 
level.
"Dead is dead. Brother Hyriss. We're not ordering you to 
kill children, or pregnant women. We're ordering you to 
remove a military figure during a war. You think that the 
admirals who order all those revs into battle ought to be 
exempt from danger?"
The commander had a point, but Trystin still asked, 
"What will the assassination of one admiral do?"
"That's a matter of strategy." The commander offered a 
second cold smile. "However, in general terms, we need to 
make an example. To show the Revenants that we can 
strike them anywhere, that their patriarchs aren't exempt 
from the consequences of their decisions."
"There's no better way to do this? Than someone like . 
me?"
The white-haired man shook his head. "The social and 
indoctrination codes are so effective that we couldn't buy a 
traitor-not one we could trust-with half a system's 
wealth. Besides, that's not the point. The point is to show 
that we can neutralize anyone. That takes someone who has 
a range of talents and also technical skills. Why do you 
suppose you've gotten training in building a crude weapons 
laser from common electronic parts? You can't exactly cart 
weapons through security. Also, very few Revenant women 
have technical skills."
"And you don't have any male agents in place in Wystuh?  
That's hard to believe."
"Oh, we do. But now isn't the time, and this kind of 
operation isn't designed-"
"In other words, you've got deep agents placed as serial 
wives or as returned technicians, and they're fine for more 
subtle operations, but you don't trust them with something 
like this."
"It's not a question of trust. We can't get them permanently 
established on Orum," admitted the commander.
"And I can? That's hard to believe. Or is it that you can't 
turn them into killers?" An edge of anger seeped into ' 
Trystin's voice, an edge he regretted and tried to damp.
"You'd rather go back to commanding a corvette in 
Parvati system? We could send you back-right now. Do 
you want that?"
"No." That was an absolute death sentence, especially 
stated the way the commander had. "But why do you have 
to use a novice agent?"
The commander shrugged. "As you have doubtless been 
instructed, much of the Revenant culture is nonverbal, and 
the Revenants have a clear sense of who belongs and who 
does not. The best way I can explain is that the so-called 
returned-those military missionaries who have survived-
have a certain look, an aura, that seems to have been created 
by facing death and deep space. The only people we have 
that match that are Service pilots, and not all of them. You 
do. Do you have any idea what it takes to find someone who 
has Revenant-compatible genes, a Revenant appearance, 
deep-space aura, intelligence, and ability to learn a new 
culture without fragmenting?"
"That makes more sense. But if there are so few of us, 
how can we create the impression of being able to strike 
anywhere?"
"That will be explained more in your profile, but the basic 
point is that people react to impressions, not numbers of 
incidents. Do you have any more questions?" The 
commander's voice implied that Trystin had already asked 
too many questions.
"No, ser." He wasn't going to get any real answers, and 
there was no point in asking questions that wouldn't get 
answered. He pushed back the seething anger-anger at his 
own na?vet? and at the calculated blackmail used to get him 
to agree to the mission. The choice was too simple: take the 
mission and probably die or not take it and certainly die.
"There is one last thing. . . stay away from the Temples. 
They have defenses that seem to incinerate all non-
Revenants as they pass through the gates. That's another 
reason why we can't put permanent male agents on Orum."
"Lasers, obviously." Trystin noted to himself that such 
information had not been made available in the cultural 
briefings-another form of lying and deception.
"Of course. It's not the weaponry, but the recognition 
patterns. You know the whole ritual for entering the Temple 
the first time. No one who doesn't go through it gets in 
except as cinders. It doesn't matter which Temple baptized 
you, but if you're from another system, you have to present 
your Temple card. The one you will get looks real, but it 
won't work."
"So why can't we duplicate the card? A closed 
algorithmic key?"
"Exactly. We've tried. We've tried for fifty years." The 
commander stood. "Are you ready. Brother Hyriss?"
"As the Lord and His Prophet will." Trystin picked up his 
fabric bag.
A crooked smile crossed the commander's face. A second 
door opened in the rear of the room, revealing a ramp 
downward. Trystin followed the commander down the ramp 
and along the glow-lamp-lit tunnel to an open doorway.
A technician and what appeared to be a large implant-
activation machine waited. "In the chair. Brother."
Trystin forced himself to be calm as he slipped into the 
chair, waiting as the helmetlike apparatus was adjusted 
around his head.
"Good . . . just a tad there . . ." A faint tingling ran 
through his implant. "Sensitive . . . good . . . better take . . ." 
Light flared through Trystin's skull, so bright his eyes, even 
in blackness, watered, and he shivered in the chair.
The profile slipped into place-the trading company, 
Altus, Limited, and the specific microtronics, the flight 
schedules, the office manager. . . even the alternate backup 
identity-thin, but better than nothing in an emergency. The 
pieces clicked into his mind and his implant. "One down . . . 
now . . ."
Another light novaed through Trystin, making the first 
seem pallid by comparison. His whole body spasmed for a 
moment, and his eyes felt like knives had been rammed 
through them.
Then the memories flashed through Trystin's head- the 
mission to Soharra, and the thin men with veils who opened 
every door and shut it when they saw his brown square-suit; 
the holo pictures of the Temple in Wystuh, with the eight 
four-pointed spires and the angel of the Prophet hovering 
there in shimmering gold; the cold of the Prophet's asteroid 
ship, and the small scout that was his, and the triumph of 
taking Bokara. ... "Good take . . ."
Trystin winced, fighting the images, as the tech slowly 
folded back the apparatus. For a time, he just sat there. 
Finally, he sat upright and swung his legs around until his 
boots touched the stone floor.
"Don't fight them," offered the tech, a thin man with a 
brush mustache. "They'll fade, but you can call on them if 
you need them."
"And you will need them," added the commander. "Let's 
go. You can sort it all out on the way." "Where?"
"To Braha, Brother Hyriss, and the enfolding of the 
Prophet."
Trysts forced himself to walk erect, although he felt 
almost crushed by the weight of Brother Hyriss's 
pseudomemories. The underground corridor seemed to 
stretch forever, but they walked less than a hundred meters 
before they reached a small tube-shuttle. "First seat."
Trystin took the first seat of the dimly lit tubetrain. The 
doors closed and the shuttle dropped into the tunnel and 
whispered through the darkness for nearly ten minutes, 
according to Trystin's implant.
One thing he did understand-sort of-was the need for 
Farhkan approval, because his return flight, assuming he 
made it that far, required refueling at the outer Farhkan 
station. There was also a blunt warning about not crossing 
the orbit of the sixth planet. But why Farhka? What role 
were the aliens playing? The questions swirled through him, 
and the pseudomemories pressed at his entire sense of self.
Why . . . why . . . why . . . ? That was the question that no 
one was answering.
The shuttle emerged into another underground station, 
deserted except for two technicians armed with stunners and 
shockers. Trystin carted himself and his bag up another 
ramp where he found himself looking out at the atmospheric 
shuttle port where he had entered training.
"Your orbit shuttle will be here in less than an hour." The 
commander sank into a chair and pulled out a portable 
console.
Trystin sat, and called up the mission profile-but try as 
he could, there was no information on his departure point-
or the coordination with the Farhkans. Everything started 
with his arrival in Braha. "Where am I headed?" he finally 
asked. "To your staging point."
"Why is it necessary to go through Farhka on the return?"
"Even if you are followed, the trail ends there. They don't 
let revs near their systems. One of the few benefits of 
cooperating with those gray bastards. That's all, Major." The 
commander's eyes glazed over as he used his implant to 
interface with the small console he held. Standing without 
answers, Trystin took a deep breath.
He had no real choices, did he? And the commander 
knew it, the sadistic bastard! Trystin could undertake the 
mission and defect-and he had no doubts the revs would 
squeeze his mind dry and kill him. Or he could do the 
mission and try to survive-and that probably meant 
surviving Revenants, Farhkans, and the Service. . . if he got 
that far.
Deep inside, he was even more pleased that he'd never 
told the Service about his keys to the Temple. Keys to the 
Temple? He swallowed. To what degree was the entire 
Service being manipulated by the aliens? Or was he being 
used to manipulate the Service?
Salya had been right about Farhkan studies and piloting. 
Oh, how she'd been right. He took another deep breath and 
began to sort through the pseudomemories.
What else could he do? As Ghere had said, he had to find 
the answers' and he didn't like it one bit.
55
Trystin shifted his weight on the hard plastic chair. While 
the seat wasn't comfortable, at least the gray pilot's shipsuit 
that had been waiting on the courier was. A second one was 
folded in his bag. In the commercial world shipsuits were 
for ship wear, period.
"Where are we? How will I translate out from here?" 
Trystin asked the major who sat in the tiny mess room with 
him, watching the single visual screen as the courier eased 
toward a dark blob in the middle of darkness that appeared 
to be his destination.
"You don't need to know. The coordinates are in your 
ship's translation system, and they'll burn out at your first 
translation."
Trystin nodded. The profile had him returning, via Farhka, 
to outer orbit control in Chevel, or Safrya, as an


alternate. That was why he'd needed Farhkan approval, and 
that explained some things. If the Farhkans were willing to let 
Intelligence cover ships' return to their systems, they favored 
the Coalition in some ways-or they wanted something very 
badly. But what? And why? He still hadn't figured that out.
He could also understand the secrecy about his departure 
point. He couldn't very well betray what he didn't know, and 
he really didn't know anything that any Service officer 
wouldn't know, except that there was a total-immersion 
system for training spies, and that some spies were assassins.
He didn't know exactly where any of the Intelligence bases 
were, nor even what officers ran them. He laughed. The 
Revenants could take him apart and learn very little that they 
didn't already know. Much simpler than providing suicide 
devices or organic explosives.
The assassination angle still bothered him. Yet . . . the 
commander had been right. Trystin's hands were already 
covered in blood. The assassination of an admiral, while 
perhaps cowardly, was scarcely terrorism or the murder of an 
innocent.
The major, who, like all the other Intelligence types outside 
of Service Headquarters, wore no name badge or decorations, 
gave him a puzzled glance, but said nothing.
"Need to know. I could spill everything I know, and it 
wouldn't be of much use to the Revenants." "We'd prefer you 
didn't." The major's tone was dry. "So would I, but you 
people didn't leave any clues for anyone to use against you." 
"I hope not."
The small station looked more like a chunk of rock than a 
station. In fact, it looked like a Revenant asteroid ship. 
Trystin and the major waited as the courier was grappled into 
an interior lock. "Power changeover."
Instead of full gravity replacing ship gravity, minimal grav 
did, and Trystin's stomach momentarily lurched upward.
Trystin picked up his fabric bag and followed the major 
out of the courier-he had never seen the pilot or crew- and 
into the station, careful not to bound in the low gravity. Only 
a single tech, wearing armor with a one-way faceplate, 
remained by the courier.
Once they left the hangar deck, Trystin staggered as he 
stepped into the corridor and full gravity.
"First stop is the tech shop," announced the major. "They'll 
do a final fitting on your space armor-it's standard 
commercial, authentic Hyndji. We could have used Argenti, 
but the Hyndji is more common and suited to your mission."
One technician waited in the large shop. The armor was 
laid out on an empty workbench.
Trystin pulled it on slowly, checking each section, 
particularly the seals and the fittings. Then he picked up the 
helmet, frowning.
"I know. Brother," said the technician. "Only bad feature 
about the Hyndji helmets is the field of vision."
After testing the armor, and after the technician made 
minor adjustments, Trystin took it off and packed it into the 
carrying case. Then he marched after the silent major toward 
another hangar lock where a bulbous ship, apparently 
massing more than a corvette and less than a cruiser, rested in 
minimal gravity on a flat carriage. Two rails ran under the 
carriage and toward the lock door.
"It's a standard Revenant trader, manufactured by a Hyndji 
firm to Revenant standards, with a few slight modifications 
for our purposes." The major gestured, and another 
technician, also in nondescript browns, appeared. "Would 
you show the brother through his ship?" "Yes, ser."
The major inclined his head to Trystin. "A pleasure 
meeting you, Brother, and I wish you well. Take whatever 
time you need to become familiar with the ship. The 
technician here will answer any questions you have. When 
you're ready to launch, just use standard control frequencies 
and tell them you're ready."
Clearly, Trystin had seen as much of the base as he was 
going to. "Food, necessities?" "The Paquawrat is fully 
stocked." "Crew?"
"Traders this size run with one pilot. Multiple-pilot safety 
rules apply only for larger ships with passengers." The major 
inclined his head. "Peace be with you," Trystin said. "And 
with you." The technician waited.
"Show me what I need to know." Trystin offered a smile. 
"More than I'd be knowing. Brother, but we'll give it a shot. 
We'll start with the thrusters and translation system."
Trystin followed the technician aft, trying not to bounce 
much in the low gravity. He watched and listened as the man 
ran through what was essentially an elaborate preflight before 
they returned to the cockpit, a cockpit with two couches, but 
with manual controls only before the left-hand seat.
". . . standard controls here, and you can switch to manual 
if you want. The low net's real simple, compared to either 
Revenant or Coalition standards. You want a full net, just use 
the command 'FULLNET.' It won't respond except to a Service 
implant." The technician laughed. "Good thing all the Service 
implants are all organic or organic density. You won't set off 
any alarms. Ex-Hyndji military pilots are always doing that."
The technician pulled on his chin. "The specs are on the 
low net."  
"Anything else?"
"One thing." The technician in the nondescript brown 
coveralls flicked what appeared to be a rivet beside the right-
hand screen and a small panel dropped, revealing a single 
switch. The top position was labeled "B," the bottom "G." 
"Brother, this is the most important gadget on this scout." 
Trystin waited.
"In the blue position, the thrusters are tuned to revvie 
scale; in the green position to Coalition scale. Don't forget 
this."
Forgetting that could get Trystin cooked, and he touched 
the stud, fingering the switch and concentrating on the 
concept. Finally, he flicked the stud to the lower position. 
Then he frowned and flicked it back up, but left the panel 
open.
"That's all I can think of," said the technician. "Except take 
your time, and review the systems." "I will."
Trystin escorted the technician back to the ship lock, then 
closed it after the man stepped onto the hangar deck. He 
opened the armor's carrying case and stowed the armor in the 
rack on the back wall of the cockpit, placing the case in the 
locker underneath. Then he went back to the tiny quarterdeck 
and took his clothes bag to the minuscule cabin, placing it in 
the net restraints.
After that he went to the galley, and looked for the 
samovar. There wasn't one. While the water heated in a pot, 
he decided to check the cargo bays.
After ten minutes, he stopped, shaking his head. The cargo 
appeared to be what he'd been briefed that it would be-
microtronic components, but all the cases were sealed and 
stamped with Hyndji break-nots.
He closed the seals to the cargo spaces, and went back to 
the galley, where, sipping herbal tea, he rehydrated a de-
hydrated meal. The beef was still dry and too heavy, but his 
stomach felt better when he returned to the cockpit and 
plugged into the net.
According to his implant, he'd spent nearly three hours 
before he felt halfway comfortable with the ship and the 
systems-although they were similar to and far simpler than 
either those of a training corvette or of the Willis.
Finally, he went through the checklist, as far as he could go 
in an interior lock.
"Control, this is Paquawrat, Ready for departure." 
"Paquawrat, reduce ship grav to nil." "Ship grav is nil."
"Opening lock this time. Do not initiate thrusters or attitude 
jets until instructed."
"Understand no power on thrusters or jets until instructed." 
"That's affirmative."
Trystin used the sensors to watch as the outer lock door 
slid open. Then the carriage on which the Paquawrat rested 
slowly edged the ship toward the darkness of the open lock.
"Electrorepulsion beginning."
Trystin's stomach heaved at the gentle pressure of the 
directed grav fields, but he kept his attention on the net and 
the sensors as the trader slowly floated upward from the 
asteroid station. Then the lock door closed.
"Hyndji ship Paquawrat, you are cleared to proceed." 
"Roger, Control." Trystin almost had used "Stet" instead of 
the "roger" used by Revenant pilots. He shook his head as he 
slowly eased power to the thrusters.
The representative screen showed a dead system-not a 
single EDI trace. Within minutes, he would have been hard-
pressed to relocate the asteroid base.
With a deep breath, he slowly added power until the 
thrusters were at seventy-five percent, the most any 
commercial pilot would use, given the massive fuel 
consumption and stress placed on the fusactor system by 
higher thrust loads.
As the Paquawrat accelerated toward the dust-free 
translation zone, Trystin continued to range through the ship's 
networks-high and low-trying to ignore the same nagging 
question: Just how was an assassination of a senior 
administrative admiral going to help the Coalition?
How would even several assassinations help stop the 
endless flow of troid ships and tanks and military 
missionaries committed to overrunning the Coalition?
Then, again, he reflected ruefully, if the continued 
comparative military successes of the Coalition hadn't 
stopped the Revenants, maybe trying anything was better 
than losing while winning almost every battle.
He, frowned. A successful assassination attempt on the 
enemy's capital planet-how likely was a safe escape? Did 
the Service really care?
Of course not. He sighed. In the final analysis, what he felt 
really didn't matter to anyone but himself, and there weren't 
exactly a bundle of alternatives. If he took the ship and tried 
to enter Non-Coalition space, he'd be branded as either a thief 
or identified as a Coalition spy, or both-and that probably 
meant death or the rest of a short life behind some very 
strong walls.
Besides, he told himself, Jynckia was a revvie military 
figure, and it was war, and Salya was dead, and she'd been far 
less military than the rev. So he had to get the job done, and 
he had to survive-if only to spite them all. But . . . his 
stomach still twisted.
56
"Braha Control, this is Hyndji ship Paquawrat, commercial 
code alpha gamma seven five four. Requesting clearance for 
approach." "Roger, Paquawrat. Request pilot clearance 
code." "Braha Control, pilot number is W-H, that is Wood, 
Heart, five, nine, five, four, two, Quebec. Wood, Heart, five, 
nine, five, four, two, Quebec." A pause followed, punctuated 
with faint static. "Paquawrat, cleared to Beta three this time. 
Maintain thrust at point zero two or less."
"Roger, Braha Control. Maintaining thrust at point zero 
two."
Commercial hubs didn't like quick movement around the 
station-that was clear as Trystin eased the Paquawrat 
around to the beta section and into the old-style, protruded 
locking dock.
"Control, this is Paquawrat, beginning lock approach this 
time."
"Paquawrat, you're cleared. Report full locking." 
"Roger, Control."
There was only a slight bump as the ship entered the dock. 
Trystin got the holdtights magnetized before there was any 
rebound, and went through the shutdown checklist.
"Braha Control, Hyndji ship Paquawrat, locked in place 
this time, beta three."
"Thanks, three. You're cleared to station power." 
"Roger."
Trystin sat in the couch for several seconds, then laughed 
as he scrambled out. He was the crew.
Once he had completed the power switchover and the 
pressure check, he triggered the lock.
A woman wearing the uniform of Altus Limited waited at 
the lock with a clipboard. So did two men in blue ship-suits 
with white lightning bolts on their sleeves-the Revenant 
Trade Clearance officers.
Trystin checked the mechanical holdtights first, then the seals 
on the locking tubes before turning to the woman.
"Inindjy Dotta? I'm Brother Hyriss. I haven't had the 
opportunity to meet you before."
"I am most pleased to meet you. Brother Hyriss. Pilots 
such as you make our business possible." Her voice was 
polite, but no more.
Trystin kept his face calm, knowing that the Hyndji 
company had been forced to hire Revenant pilots.
"Brother," began the blond and green-eyed officer, "what's 
the cargo?"
"Assorted microtronics, plus design ensembles, and several 
proprietary sealed designs commissioned by customers." 
Trystin had expected it, but he was still glad he'd studied the 
manifests until he knew almost every item on them.
"What's the status of the seals?" "They were all clean when I 
left." "Do you mind if we come aboard?"
"Of course not, but I believe that Mistress Dotta should 
accompany us also, since she is the shipper's agent." Trystin 
gestured to the woman. "That would be Fine." Trystin opened 
the cargo spaces easily. "Now, here are the bundled 
microtronics. . . ." The taller agent frowned and looked at 
him. "Brother Hyriss, you do seem to know this cargo well."
"A pilot who doesn't know his cargo well is all too soon a 
dead pilot," Trystin returned. "The mass calculations..." He 
shrugged.
"Keep this one, Inindjy," said the second clearance official.
"If we are fortunate . . ." The company official spread her 
hands.
Trystin stood back as the two looked, scanned with 
portable equipment, and generally prodded almost 
everything. They also checked every seal and stamp. Finally, 
they returned to where Trystin stood. "Cargo looks fine. 
Brother Hyriss. Your card and data-bloc?"
"They're in the safehold in the cockpit. Just a moment." The 
tall man followed Trystin and waited as Trystin retrieved the 
two encoded plastic oblongs. Then the clearance officer ran 
both through the portable terminal he held.
Trystin watched the other's eyes for any red reflection, but 
they showed no reaction except studied boredom when the 
terminal flashed green.
"You're clear." The officer turned to the woman. "The 
ship's cleared to unload. A pleasure doing business with you, 
Inindjy." Then his eyes settled on Trystin. "You taking the 
ship back out. Brother?"
"Yes, but not for a bit," Trystin answered. "The outrun 
cargo's not ready."
The shorter official shook his head. "Good work if you can 
get it. We got to log things in and out every day."
"I'll take that, thank you," said the taller one. "Even 
commercial pilots don't always make it. Ever see an old 
one?"
The two officials nodded and walked off the quarterdeck.
"Do you want to sign for the ship now, Mistress Dotta?" 
"That would be acceptable." She handed the clipboard to him. 
The Hyndjis still preferred hard-copy signatures on official 
documents. "You are due back on the thirtieth of March."
Trystin made the mental translation-roughly the twenty-
seventh or eighth of trio- and nodded. If he were in any 
shape to make it back after undertaking an assassination in 
the heart of the Revenant capital. She watched as he 
reclaimed his bag. "I'm leaving the armor in place." "Good. 
Then you will be back." "I certainly plan to be. Mistress 
Dotta." He watched as she sealed the ship, not that it made 
any difference to him. With the implant, he could open it 
without the physical keys. Then he walked up the tube, 
heading to  book passage to Orum.
57
Trystin shifted his weight in the narrow seat, glad that no one 
was sitting beside him, then blotted his forehead with the 
white handkerchief. The transport was hot, and he was even 
hotter from sitting three hours after translation while the 
transport maintained modest thrust in-system. Trystin could 
sense the time-dilation envelope, but the effect was mild, less 
than an hour over the trip. He still didn't like so many people 
crammed into a single cabin, like animals in stalls, but that 
was the way Revenants traveled between systems, probably 
the only way it was halfway affordable. He'd swallowed at 
the rate of ten thousand Revenant dollars. Then again, in the 
Coalition, almost no one traveled between systems, except on 
Service craft.
The seats were clean, but old, with scratches in the plastic 
polished over, and the covers on some chairs replaced, while 
others bore older fabric.
He blotted his forehead again as he sensed the approach of 
the ship to the orbit station through his implant-the ship's 
protocols were different, but the overall pattern was familiar 
enough. One big advantage provided by the implant was the 
ability to touch and, theoretically, manipulate "open-wave" 
systems. The Revenants, because they felt the body was a 
"temple for the Lord," did not use implants. Trystin hoped he 
could use that advantage.
"You a pilot?" asked the stocky man from the seat across 
the aisle.
Trystin scanned the other with eyes and implant. "Yes, 
Brother, fortunate enough to have returned." "Brother Jymes 
Harriston. " "Brother Wyllum Hyriss." "What are you doing 
being a passenger?" "I'm a pilot now for a Hyndji trading 
company. I never got back to Wystuh before I left on my 
mission. Went from Nephi, and I've got some time between 
translations." Trystin shrugged.
"The Temple's worth seeing again when you return. I guess 
you don't realize when you see it all the time."
"I'm looking forward to it." Trystin didn't have to feign that 
interest.
"Please remain seated until we complete docking. Please 
remain seated."
"They always say that. It never changes," Harriston 
remarked. "Can always spot a pilot or a former one. You 
fellows always get jittery."
Trystin laughed. "I suppose it's because we know what can 
go wrong."
A gentle thud went through the transport, and Trystin 
winced.
"A little hard?" asked the other, leaning toward Trystin. "A 
little." 
"You pilots..."
"Now that we are docked, please collect your belongings. 
Then move to the baggage bay behind the rear of the cabin to 
claim your bags before leaving the transport. Please make 
sure you have all your belongings."
Trystin nodded politely as he rose, but the other man was 
gathering some paperbound books, seemingly having 
forgotten Trystin altogether.
In the middle of the line of two dozen passengers as they 
filed back toward the lock, Trystin stopped in the baggage 
bay for only a moment to grab his single bag. Everyone else 
had two bags, at least. He lifted the bag off the rails, 
comparing the scratched and tarnished inner rail to the 
smooth and shiny outer one, clearly a recent replacement. He 
carried the bag out through the lock, staggering slightly as he 
stepped from the lower ship gravity to the station gravity. The 
station gravity was fractionally less than what Trystin was 
used to-when he had been in gravity. Apparently, the 
Revenants didn't shift gravity on the ship after docking. 
Perhaps it caused too many logistical problems. He walked 
up the locking tube.
The Orum orbit station smelled like every other orbit 
station Trystin had visited-a mixture of plastic, metal, warm 
oil, ozone, and people. Some things really didn't change.
At the top of the tube, he waited behind a heavyset older 
woman with braided hair piled high on her head. When the 
Soldier of the Lord handed back her card and databloc, 
Trystin slid his across the flat counter. The officer slipped it 
into a console, then looked at him. "Brother Hyriss?" "Yes, 
Officer," Trystin responded. "Would you go through that 
portal there, ser?" The man pointed to an open doorway.
Trystin could see another Soldier, also blond, standing 
beside a more elaborate console. "Certainly." He followed the 
other's directions, knowing that his off-system origin would 
have flagged him, hoping that they hadn't already pegged him 
as a spy or assassin. Don't think assassin, he told himself 
mentally. What's one rev more or less after all you've done?
When he reached the large console that stood in the alcove, 
he stopped and waited until the officer finished with the thin 
man in flowing whites of some sort. "Next?"
Trystin stepped up and offered card and databloc again. 
"Please put your hand there. It's just a formality, but these 
days, you never know."
Trystin placed his hand on the scanner, and felt the minute 
prick of the sampler. He also could sense the crude fields of 
the analyzer as it ran a rough gene-pattern analysis. He tried 
not to frown at the age of the equipment- obvious from the 
field fluctuations and the repainted outer cover.
"Good genes. Don't see that kind of stock from the 
outplanets often."
Then the databloc went into the scanner, and the 
equipment began to compare the patterns on the card and 
data-bloc to those taken by the sampler. The databloc was 
genuine, as was Wyllum Hyriss. The real Hyriss had died, 
but not until he'd been on life support long enough to extract 
memories and genetic codes. The codes in the data-bloc had 
been altered to match Trystin's genes, and the probabilities 
were over ninety-nine point three percent that no 
irregularities would be detected, except at a Revenant 
research facility.
Trystin overrode his discomfort and concerns about being 
that less than one percent probability and waited quietly. He 
could have manipulated the fields in the equipment, but his 
tampering would have raised a greater likelihood of detection 
than doing nothing.
"Good. You're cleared to take the down shuttle, ser. I'm 
sorry to have bothered you."
"It's certainly not a problem. Officer. I'm appreciative of 
your effort." And he was, if not exactly in the way described 
by the words.
"Thank you. Enjoy your stay in Orum. Peace be with you. 
Brother."
"And with you." Trystin hoisted his bag and walked back 
to the corridor that led to the lower decks where the shuttles 
down to Orum waited. Where his less-than-desirable mission 
waited. Behind him, he heard, "Next!"
58
The shuttle screeched as the heavy tires touched the long, 
straight runway. Trystin could feel the corrections for the 
crosswind, but the pilot's touch was halfway deft, and the 
spaceplane slowed, then finally rumbled off the runway and 
toward the shuttle terminal for Wystuh and Orum's West 
Continent. The tires bounced slightly on the taxiway, which 
seemed rougher than the runway.
"Please remain seated until the shuttle comes to a complete 
stop. Then, and only then, you may claim your bags and 
depart." Trystin let his head rest against the worn, but clean, 
fabric of the seat as the spaceplane eased to a stop and the 
others scurried to get their bags.
He studied the interior of the spaceplane as he waited. 
While it was clean, and even smelled clean, slightly like a 
mixture of lavender and pine, there was a tiredness associated 
with the equipment, the kind of fatigue that became apparent 
when a ship neared the end of its service life. His implant 
could detect no interactive system. Did the Revenant shuttles 
run on manual controls? That was something that hadn't been 
covered in the mission profile or the training.
After the aisle cleared, he stood and walked to the baggage 
racks. His fabric bag was the only one left, and he swung the 
carrying straps over his shoulder. As Trystin finally walked 
out of the shuttleway, with his bag in hand, he could see 
nearly two dozen people waiting to board another spaceplane 
that was parked next to where Trystin's shuttle had eased. 
The outer walls of the terminal were glittering white, 
although the intensity of that glitter varied slightly. Trystin 
studied it, and realized that the brighter sections were more 
recently repaired or refinished. He continued walking toward 
the center of the terminal.
That there were no security arrangements apparent 
confirmed for Trystin that the Revenants used the orbit 
stations as control points.
A technician with an equipment kit and wearing a maroon 
singlesuit passed Trystin. Ahead of him, a white-haired man 
and two women greeted a young man in white. One of the 
women hugged the blond man. All wore white.
Trystin shifted the straps on his bag and stepped around the 
group, following his implant-provided directions, and the 
overhead arrows, toward the lower level. The synthetic stone 
underfoot was immaculately clean, but bore fine cracks in 
more than a few instances.
A high-speed electric trolley ran between the terminal and 
central Wystuh, but Trystin was looking for the rental-vehicle 
section. He found the logo he was seeking in the middle 
section of the lower level, that of an interlocked 0 and R, 
standing for Orum Rentals. He stepped up to the empty 
counter, setting down his bag.
"Yes, ser?" The sister behind the counter, scarcely more 
than eighteen standard years, offered a friendly smile. The 
free-falling blond hair said that she was unattached, and the 
blue eyes studied Trystin.
He smiled. "Sister, I'm Brother Hyriss. I sent a request 
from orbit station."
". . . I told you he'd be a returned bachelor . . . good-
looking, too . . . not that many so young . . ."
Trystin couldn't control his flush at the scarcely hidden 
whisper from the other sister who was seated at the console 
farther back.
". . . and he's shy, too ... that's good . . . not an old 
grouch..."
"Ah . .. yes . . . Brother," stumbled the sister at the counter, 
clearly as discomfited as Trystin was. "Do you want a 
standard or a luxe?" "What's the difference? Price and 
features?" "In features, not much. The luxe has more room in 
the back seat and a larger trunk, a little more power, and 
tinted glass in all the windows."
The other sister snickered with the mention of the tinted 
glass. Trystin didn't dare to comment as the counter sister 
flushed.
"The luxe is fifty dollars more a day." "I'll take the standard." 
Trystin finally smiled at the other sister. "Even if it doesn't 
have tinted glass." He handed across the Revenant universal 
credit strip. "I'd also like a map, if you have one. I wanted to 
get to Wystuh the long way, through the Dhellicor Gorge." 
"It's worth the detour."
"Tell him you'll show him. . .." hissed the other sister. The 
sister at the counter flushed even brighter red. Although the 
immersion training had tried to convey the pressure for early 
marriage, being subjected to it in an uncontrolled setting was 
something else, and Trystin could not only understand, but 
feel, why the returned remained unattached for such short 
periods.
"Is there anywhere that would be good to stop to eat along 
the way?" he asked, trying not to let an awkward silence 
persist.
"Krendsaw's," offered the fair-skinned brunette in the back. 
"It's just this side of the Gorge."
"That would take you about an hour, if you don't stop at 
the foresting center," added the blonde, the redness receding 
from her face. "You're all set. Brother Hyriss." She handed 
him a key and a folder. "There's your key and the rental 
agreement. If you need the car for more than the ten days, 
you can call us here or in Wystuh and let us know. I'm Sister 
Lewiss, Arkady Lewiss. It shouldn't be a problem." She slid a 
map across the counter, her hand barely touching his, and 
only for an instant. "Here's the map."
She leaned forward and used a stylus to point out the green 
line. "This is the scenic route . . ."
As she explained, Trystin became all too aware of how 
good she smelled, almost like the delicate roses in the garden 
at home, how close she was, and how interested she seemed. 
And how lonely and vulnerable he was.
". . . and this is about where Krendsaw's is. It's a good 
steak house, but they have everything there. To get to the car, 
follow the tunnel there to the right and down the ramp. It's in 
space A-five."
Trystin offered a broader smile. "Thank you very much, 
Sister Lewiss. Peace be with you."
In some ways, he wished he could have taken her up, but it 
wouldn't have been fair to her, and, Revenant or not, she was 
still a person. More important, unfortunately, spending time 
with her would have been an invitation to blow his cover 
immediately.
As he picked up the bag and walked away, he increased his 
hearing, partly from curiosity and partly from ego. ". . . he 
was interested, Arkady . . . could tell . . ." ". . . seemed nicer 
than a lot of the returned . . ." ". . . was returned all right . . . 
see it in the eyes . . ." Trystin nodded and turned down the 
ramp to the tunnel, which he followed to the underground 
parking area and the space with the blue sign that proclaimed 
A-5.
The standard car was a four-wheeled, petroleum-fueled, 
manually driven vehicle, and Trystin was most grateful for 
the indoctrination provided by Brother Khalid. Otherwise, he 
would have spent a lot of time fumbling before he'd figured it 
out, and the locals could have begun to ask embarrassing 
questions.
Instead, he tucked the bag in the cargo space in the rear, 
opened by a button on the trunk. There was no lock. In fact, 
the car had no locks at all, only an ignition key, and Trystin 
knew that was just as a safety precaution against young 
children.
The internal-combustion engine turned over easily, and 
Trystin slipped off the brake and shifted, wishing he'd 
practiced more, but glad that everything worked.
The drive from the parking area led to a larger road that 
Trystin followed until he reached the highway with the green 
"S" emblem, where he turned south, paralleling the main 
shuttle runway. Only a few vehicles were on the southern 
road, moving at high rates of speed for manually controlled 
vehicles.
As a small white car roared around him, barely avoiding 
another oncoming car, Trystin felt like wiping his forehead. 
Instead, he concentrated on driving and increasing his own 
speed.
Almost from his peripheral vision, he could tell that 
sections of the shuttleport runway had been replaced with 
new ferrocrete, but others seemed to be overdue for 
replacement.
Continuing south, still recalling the scent of roses, he 
shook his head, understanding in his guts as well as in his 
head something he already knew. With girls like that, no 
wonder there were so damned many Revenants!
59
From the plateau where the shuttleport squatted, Trystin 
continued southward on the scenic road, which wound 
downward into a valley filled with trees-slender pines, all 
the same, all planted in rows. Despite the warmth, Trystin 
kept the window down and the cooler off. The dusty air 
smelled better than the recycled gas used as a facsimile of 
breathable air for pilots. KKhhhchewww!
He rubbed his nose. Perhaps he wasn't as used to natural 
contaminants as he had once been. KKkkhchewwww...
His nose began to run, and he fished out the big 
handkerchief, using it as necessary as the car whistled along 
the road seemingly cut between the pines, pines so identical 
that they might have been cloned.
Heber Valley Lumber-Trees for Today and Tomorrow 
Foresting Center Ahead
Trystin looked from the blue-trimmed white sign to the 
rows of identical trees-silval monoculture, yet another 
practice contributing to the Great Die-off on old Earth. Hadn't 
the Revenants learned anything?
Abruptly, less than a kay beyond the sign, the trees 
stopped, and a circular building, painted green, stood a 
hundred meters back from the road. The parking lot held but 
a few vehicles, and as he sped past, Trystin noted the small 
sign that identified the Foresting Center.
Beyond the center, the pines continued for several more 
kays, before another sign appeared-Beth-El. With the sign 
came the houses, hundreds of houses, each set squarely in a 
small patch of green. Farther back from the load was the 
glittering spire of the stosque.
A few minutes later, Trystin was past the houses of Beth-
El,  and the road began to climb toward a notch in the red 
rocky slopes of the southern hills. After several kays more, he 
passed another town, with a stosque and school and a good 
three hundred houses that he could see. Before long, he went 
through yet another town, and then another. The trees tended 
to disguise how many small towns filled the valley.
Krendsaw's was located at a crossroads where the main 
north-south cargoway crossed the scenic route. Trystin turned 
into the parking area-nearly empty and flanked by pines of 
a different type with squat trunks and spreading branches. He 
checked the time, almost an hour before local noon, then 
closed the car door. He took the ferrocrete  walkway 
patterned to look like flagstone to the steps and up onto a 
covered and shaded portico.
"One, Brother?" The young woman standing in the 
archway smiled at Trystin, her eyes only slightly below his, 
perfect white teeth flashing for a moment, light brown hair 
falling freely from a hairband positioned across the top of her 
head-running almost from ear to ear. "Please, Sister." 
"Would the inside garden be all right?" "That would be fine."
"Most of the returned like it." She smiled, her eyes 
dropping to his left hand to see if he were already married.
Trystin nodded, trying to keep a straight face. He'd been 
warned about the tendency of the sisters to try to be the first 
wife-the one who set the household rules. But warnings 
didn't convey how attractive most of the sisters seemed to be, 
and how tall compared to most Eco-Tech women.
"If you would come this way . . ." They went through another 
archway into the courtyard, where a dozen tables were set on 
the ceramic tiles under two overarching trees that shaded 
most of the space. Two tables were occupied, one by two 
older men, and the other by a woman who seemed to be 
reading while she sipped a clear beverage.
A circular fountain in the center of the courtyard sprayed a 
thin column of water that fell back in a thin mist which 
cooled the space. Trystin could feel the itching in his nose 
subsiding even before he took the seat at the small glass-
topped table facing the fountain.
"You're just back, aren't you?" The hostess handed him the 
menu. "How did you know?"
"Your nose. It's red." She gave a musical laugh. "It takes a 
while to get used to the tree pollen around here. The specials 
are at the top there." She paused. "I'm Sister Megan Barunis. 
I hope you enjoy your meal."
"I'm sure I will. Sister." Trystin offered as warm a smile as 
he dared, and less than he would have offered in a less 
dangerous setting, getting another smile in return before the 
hostess left.
The top special on the menu was pine chicken with pinon 
nuts and new Idaho potatoes, whatever variety of potatoes 
Idaho were. The other special sounded even more 
problematical-sauteed mushwursts over blue maize pasta.
The menu featured meat-mutton, steak, carbo, beefalo-
in large portions ranging up to half a kilogram. Trystin 
couldn't imagine eating that much meat at one setting-or the 
ecological impact raising that many herd animals would have.
As he pondered, another sister appeared, dressed in a long 
blue-checked uniform that was not totally becoming to her 
fair, freckled face. Like the hostess, she wore her hair flowing 
free, and her left hand, almost flaunted, was free of rings.
She bent forward to pour his water, standing closer to him 
and the table than was absolutely necessary, and the long 
bright-red hair-not the mahogany-red of Perdya- cascaded 
against the side of his face, bringing the scent of flowers. "I'm 
sorry. Brother."
"You don't sound totally sorry. Sister." Trystin grinned and 
folded the menu.
"Oh, but I am. Brother." She winked, then went on. "I'm 
Sister Ali Khoures, and I'll be your waitress today. Have you 
looked at the specials?" "How is the chicken?"
"Very good. The mushwursts are good, but most returnees 
find the texture too suggestive of-" "I'll take the chicken," 
Trystin said hurriedly. Sister Khoures laughed. "What would 
you like to drink?" "The limeade."
"That goes well with the chicken. Most people order anise 
tea." The waitress shook her head, and the long red hair 
rippled.
Trystin took a deep breath quietly, trying to push back the 
faint hint of summer flowers. "I'll bring the muffins and your 
limeade right away." "Thank you." On the other side of the 
fountain, the older woman continued to read, and the two 
men in white suits ate and talked quietly.
Trystin studied the garden-really more a set of brick-
walled flower beds that followed the courtyard walls and 
surrounded the eating area, except for the four passages into 
the main building. Wide windows allowed diners in the 
building to look over the flowers-mainly marigolds and a 
bright red flower Trystin didn't recognize-into the courtyard 
garden.
He took several slow and deep breaths. He was supposed 
to be thinking about his "removal" of Admiral/Archbishop 
Jynckia. Instead, he was getting distracted by very attractive 
young women who actually found him desirable, rather than 
glaring at him for his looks. Would they find him all that 
desirable if they knew who he really was? That thought 
sobered him.
He took a deep breath, thinking about his main problem. 
Just how was killing one admiral going to help the Coalition? 
Supposedly, people older and wiser than he had it figured, 
but he could tell that the Revenants weren't exactly 
monsters-they were human beings with human reactions, 
and Trystin doubted that the assassination of Marshal 
Warlock or any other marshal on the streets of Cambria 
would have much effect on the Coalition. So why would the 
assassination of Admiral Jynckia have much impact on the 
Revenants? Was the admiral a strategic genius or something? 
Or were the Coalition strategists getting so desperate that 
they'd become willing to try anything?
Those were things he didn't know, but, in the end, he'd 
have to act without knowing. And after acting, he'd have to 
escape, probably with an entire planet looking for him. The 
best assassination would be one that no one knew was an 
assassination-but the Service wanted one with impact, to 
deliver a message. He tried not to sigh.
"Are you all right?" asked Sister Khoures. "You looked . . . 
so far away."
"We can't always escape our past," Trystin answered 
ambiguously. That was safe enough and in character, besides 
being true.
"I'm sorry." She paused. "Here are your muffins and your 
limeade." Her hand somehow brushed Trystin's after she set 
the plate and glass on the table.
"Thank you." Trystin nodded, and received a smile before 
she turned and left.
The hostess led two other young women, both unattached 
sisters from the hairbands, into the courtyard. Trystin sipped 
the limeade and watched as the taller and sharp-nosed blonde 
leaned toward the hostess and whispered something. Trystin 
flicked up his hearing to the limit.
". . . how about the table there, next to the flowers?" "As 
you wish. Sisters." "Thank you."
The hostess, walking more stiffly than Trystin recalled, led 
the pair to the table for two nearest his table. "Enjoy your 
meal," she said politely. "I'm certain we will," responded the 
thin blonde. The sandy-haired and stockier sister smiled at 
Trystin. Trystin ignored the smile and took another sip of 
limeade. While he knew he wasn't ugly, the attention was 
disconcerting, in its own way as disconcerting as the negative 
attention he had received in Cambria on his last home leave. 
Was attraction and repulsion all a matter of appearances? Or 
preconceptions? He hadn't changed, but the students-boys 
and girls-in Cambria had disliked his rev looks-and had 
wanted to kill poor blond Quiella, while women he scarcely 
knew on Orum were almost panting after him.
He broke open one of the still-steaming muffins and spread 
a touch of butter on it-at least he thought it was butter. After 
eating the entire sweet muffin, filled with dark berries, in 
three bites, he took another sip of the limeade. The slight 
headache he hadn't realized he had began to fade.
". . . handsome . . . not wearing a ring . . ." ". . . with one like 
that . . . take being number two . . ." ". . . eats like a returned . 
. . like he'll never taste another good meal . . ."
". . . make sure he got good meals . . ." Trystin cut back his 
hearing to normal. He was beginning to discover that hearing 
too much was sometimes worse than hearing too little.
The hostess escorted in another party, settling the two 
women and the man with salt-and-pepper hair at the larger 
table next to Trystin. "Enjoy your meal. Brother and Sisters."
The man nodded curtly at the hostess, and Sister Baninis, 
dismissed, turned and paused at the edge of Trystin's table. 
"The berry muffins are usually very good."
"Very good," Trystin agreed. "Is there anything else you'd 
recommend? I ordered the pine chicken."
"I saw that in the kitchen. It smelled wonderful. If you like 
desserts, you might try the Saints' chocolate silk pie." "We'll 
have to see."
"I imagine you'll find room." The hostess's tone was dry. 
Trystin grinned. "Probably."
"Tell me how you like it." This time her hand brushed his 
shoulder as she left. "I will."
With another radiant smile, she headed back to the front 
entrance.
Trystin didn't need stepped-up hearing to catch the 
displeasure from the two women at the adjoining table. He 
could feel the glare.
"Here's your chicken." Sister Khoures slipped the plate in 
front of Trystin with a low half-bow that brought her cheek 
practically beside his.
"Smells good." Trystin caught the pleasant mixed scents of 
the spiced chicken, flower perfume, and clean woman. "It 
should. I told Sister Jerriyn to give you a good one." "I 
appreciate the kindness."
Sister Khoures waited for a moment, then flashed a smile 
and left.
Trystin wanted to wipe his forehead. Instead, he picked up 
the knife, absently noting that Sister Barunis had escorted a 
party of four-a man with three women, presumably his 
wives-to another large table. Although the man was white-
haired, with a heavily lined face, none of the women seemed 
much older than Trystin, and two were noticeably pregnant.
Trystin slowly sliced a bit of the tender chicken and ate it. 
The pine taste was faint, and overshadowed by rich brown 
sauce and complemented by the semicrunchy nut morsels. 
The Idaho potatoes were just round white peeled potatoes, 
and the sauce helped them considerably. The greenery was 
bitter, but he chewed it thoroughly as well.
One of the pregnant women kept studying him, as did the 
thin-faced blonde at the nearby table.
When he had finished the plate, somewhat surprised that 
there was nothing left, he sat back-but not for long. "Would 
you like some dessert?" "I've heard about the Saints' 
chocolate silk pie. . . what else is that good?"
"If you like really tart and sweet things"-Sister Khoures 
glanced toward the entrance where Sister Barunis  
presumably was waiting for other customers-"there's the 
lime crumble pie. We also have fruit tarts, ice cream, and a 
lemon custard." "I'll have the chocolate silk pie." "It is good."
As the waitress left, Trystin reconsidered the benefits of 
being a patriarch. Up to six wives chosen from among young 
women like Sister Khoures or Sister Barunis? Or the two who 
watched his every bite from the nearby table?
"Your pie. Brother. " The slice she presented was almost a 
quarter of a good-sized pie. "Thank you."
Her hair, and her hand, brushed his shoulder as she left to 
attend to the party of four.
Trystin finished the silky chocolate of the pie, and the 
golden pastry crust, in measured bites, half marveling that he 
had eaten it all without feeling totally gorged. He sat back 
and sipped his water. "Will there be anything more?" "No, 
thank you." She set the antique lunch check on the glass of 
the table.
"Thank you, Brother." Her steps away from the table were 
precise and professional.
He studied the bill, and the careful script that said, "Thank 
you, Sister Ali Khoures."
After using some of the paper bills for a gratuity- Brother 
Khalid had been firm about that-Trystin took the check to 
the hostess's station, and Sister Barunis. "Was everything all 
right?"
"Excellent, Sister. Excellent. Especially the pie. " Trystin 
handed her the credit strip, which she ran through the reader 
and handed back to him.
"You could call me Sister Megan, at least." Again, the 
warm smile followed, with a hint of something else, almost a 
sadness, that bothered Trystin, though he couldn't identify it, 
even with stepped-up hearing.
"I'm Brother Wyllum Hyriss. I appreciate your hospitality 
and kindness." "What are you doing on Orum?" "Sightseeing. 
I took a job as a pilot for a Hyndji trading company, and I've 
never been to Orum and to the Temple. Friends told me that I 
should see the Gorge on the way." "Your friends were right." 
"Is there anything else I should see?" "You ought to stop at 
some of the overlooks. Don't just look at the Gorge from the 
road. You can't see the way the sun hits the crystals if you 
don't leave the car." "Thank you."
"It was good to meet you. Brother Hyriss. I hope we'll see 
you here again." She extended a card bearing the restaurant's 
logo. "Just call me if you need reservations. . . or anything I 
can help with."
Trystin took it, avoiding a smile at the scripted "Megan 
Barunis, hostess," and slipping it into his jacket pocket.
"You never know," he said softly, trying not to invite or 
discourage her. "I'm on my way to see the Temple. After that, 
my plans aren't settled.'' He smiled again and turned, feeling 
her eyes on his back all the way down the steps and out into 
the parking area, now half full.
The car started easily, and Trystin pulled it up to the edge 
of the highway. He wanted to wipe his forehead, but didn't, 
recalling his sessions with Brother Khalid.
Whhsttt! Whhsttt! The Revenant-driven cars whipped by 
the restaurant's parking lot like so many high-speed torps. 
Trystin wasn't sure that most torps didn't have more guidance.
Another car pulled up behind him. Then another. Finally, 
he pressed the accelerator to the floor. Screeeechhh!
The combination of the heavy foot and the internal-
combustion engine succeeded in getting him back on the road 
south, even if one of the other southbound cars whistled by 
him as he was still accelerating. Was guiding vehicles on 
Revenant planets akin to suicidal military missions? Or 
suicidal Intelligence missions?
The road, clearly cut by laser, began a continuous climb 
almost as soon as Trystin had left the restaurant. Scrub cedars 
and cacti dotted the pink and rocky hillside soil. While the 
cacti, and there were at least three different varieties, seemed 
to grow randomly, the older cedars seemed to be 
approximately the same size and placed in what seemed to be 
a grid pattern. The original planoforming plantings?
Taking Sister Barunis's advice to heart, he dutifully 
stopped at the first overlook. There were no signs, and all he 
could see was the valley he had just left, with trees and 
towns, and trees and towns.
He moistened his dry lips and tried to count the squares in 
the trees that seemed to be towns. There were more than 
thirty. How many more he didn't know, because even with 
enhanced vision, the angle got so flat for the northern end of 
the valley that the cleared spaces seemed to blur together near 
the base of the shuttleport's plateau.
Still . . . thirty towns of a thousand people . . . in just one 
valley. The valley could have had almost as many people as 
half of Cambria. Still . . . there was a certain . . . openness . . . 
a stark beauty . . : to the mountain-framed expanse of trees 
that was moving.
He walked back to the car.
Another five kays uphill where the road leveled out, he 
passed a sign-Dhellicor Gorge-but the road just continued 
to wind through hillsides of pink soil, cacti, and scrub cedars.
After another five kays of driving, the hillside on the left 
side of the road dropped away into a narrow gorge-less than 
half a kay across, and deep enough that Trystin could see 
from the road that the lower walls were in shadow.
Trystin pulled off the highway at the first overlook, 
marked by a sign staling, appropriately. Overlook #l. There 
he stopped the petroleum-powered car a good twenty meters 
short of the edge of the lockout. After setting the brake, he 
walked across a strip of grass and weeds to the blued-steel 
railing that separated the hard red-clay parking area from the 
cliff edge. He caught his breath.
Below the railing, the ground dropped into a canyon of 
fluted red-crystal walls that fell a good two kays to a ribbon 
of silver water winding westward through the canyon. The 
Gorge walls widened somewhat under the overlook, as if the 
rock about two hundred meters below the railing were softer, 
leaving a shadowed patch on the south side of the Gorge, 
across from Trystin. The early afternoon sun played on the 
crystals jutting from the rock beneath the overlook, and 
rainbows and shafts of red light speared into the thin canyon 
shadows on the other side, as well as down to the narrow 
river. The facets of light did not blind, but almost interwove 
into a pattern that changed minute to minute, but so gradually 
as to defy a description of the changes.
For a long time, Trystin watched the lights playing on the 
rocks, and the shifts in the reflected silver of the river far 
below.
The rocks seemed sharper even than those below the Cliffs 
of the Palien Sea, and starker, without the greenery that 
enfolded the cliff tops on Perdya. On Orum, the pink-red soil 
appeared more barren, despite the scattered scrub cedars.
Finally, he turned and started toward his car. Beauty or not, 
he had a mission he continued to dread. As he walked from 
the overlook, another car, white, turned into the lockout, but 
instead of parking well short of the railing, stopped and 
parked no more than a half-meter from the blued steel.
A man and three women got out. All three women wore 
skirts to mid-knee and high-necked blouses with sleeves 
below their elbows. All three were blondes of varying shades, 
and each had her uncovered hair braided in some intricate 
fashion, although none of the hairstyles were exactly alike. 
The tallest woman was pregnant.
The driver was a trim but white-haired man with a slight 
tan, also wearing a long-sleeved, if light, collared shirt. "See, 
girls! Best view on Orum! Look at the way those crystals 
sparkle when the light hits 'em." Trystin nodded politely as he 
stepped toward his car. ". . . bet he's recently returned . . . 
eyes look like deep space..."
"He'll be looking for some of the sisters." The man 
laughed. "Unless they find him first." ". . . poor girls . . ."
"Poor fellow. Now . . . look at the light there! Ever see 
anything like that?"
Trystin stopped at five other overlooks. Long before his 
last stop, he understood and felt the appeal of the Gorge. 
Although each overlook framed a scene similar to the first, 
showing light, stone walls, and a river far below, each was 
subtly different, with different shades of the crystalline light 
that varied from moment to moment, never quite the same. 
Like the Cliffs of home, the Gorge was unique. Also like the 
Cliffs, the beauty of the Gorge seemed relatively 
unappreciated. Still . . . some, like Sister Megan Barunis, 
appreciated that beauty.
With the stops, it took him nearly three hours before he 
passed the blue-trimmed and -lettered white sign that marked 
the end of the Gorge.
As he drove down the laser-melted and textured road, 
winding along the hillside, his eyes kept straying out to the 
valley. New Harmony Valley according to the map within his 
brain. The wide checkerboards of green and brown fields, 
occasionally interspersed with stands of trees, stretched to the 
distant line of mountains to the south, nearly as far as Trystin 
could see, even with boosted vision.
A heavy truck growled up the road on the other side, a thin 
line of smoke streaming from the exhausts above the wide 
red cab. The trucker smiled and waved at Trystin.
Trystin returned the friendly gesture, wondering at the 
possible hypocrisy of an assassin being friendly. Then, 
soldiers were allowed to kill and be friendly. Maybe 
arbitrarily deciding that some places should be free from war 
and that other places were slaughtering grounds was just as 
hypocritical. Would the people in Cambria be so eager to kill 
if the war raged across Perdya itself? He shivered. Or would 
they be even more thirsty for the blood of the Revenants? 
How could what he did matter? Could he make it matter? 
Should he try? Could he not try?
Soon, the road flattened as he drove through the middle of 
the valley, passing irrigated fields on each side of the road, 
driving and thinking about Wystuh and Admiral Jynckia.
He sniffed. The acrid odor of animal manure inundated the 
car, getting stronger with each meter traveled. The fields gave 
way to fences, and within the fenced areas were hundreds, 
thousands of animals--brown-coated, shaggy, four-legged 
animals-beefaloes.
Ahead, in the distance, were smokestacks, tall gray stacks 
rising into the pale sky. While only a thin grayish haze came 
from the stacks, the distortion told Trystin that the almost 
colorless air emissions were hot indeed to be visible kays 
away.
The stock- or feedyards stretched more than four kays. 
Then, abruptly, the fences were followed by a high wall 
beside the road, painted or coated with a white so bright that 
it sparkled in the sun.
Kashmir Meroni Township read the sun-faded sign. 
Through the gaps in the wall, Trystin glimpsed the town 
itself. The houses were neat, if smaller than those he had seen 
earlier, and the yards displayed trimmed lawns and gardens. 
But the windows seemed smaller, and the walls thicker, and 
certainly the location, between the vast stockyards to the east 
and the industrial facilities ahead, would not have been where 
Trystin would have chosen to live.
A woman and two children walked along the other side of 
the road, facing toward Trystin. As he passed the three, he 
realized that their skins were dark, far darker than even the 
darkest of the Coalition populations.
One hand fingered his chin, as he thought about the small-
windowed small houses between the stockyards and what 
seemed like kay upon kay of industrial facilities filling the 
west end of New Harmony Valley. He also had not seen the 
spire of a stosque.
He sniffed the air again, as the odor of manure was 
supplemented by an oily smell, like solvents. In the rearview 
mirror, the three figures dwindled as he drove toward his own 
private day of judgment, trying to sort out warm and friendly 
women, dying cruisers with their metal guts and crews 
vaporized across the cold of space, cold-smiling 
commanders, and iron-gray Farhkans. He kept driving.
60
Trystin's stomach grumbled. While it had only been a little 
over four hours since he'd eaten at Krendsaw's, his meals 
before that had been uneven, and mostly dried or otherwise 
preserved.
The sign at the edge of the town read Dalowan, a place 
small enough that it was a red dot and a name on the map 
he'd been given by Sister Arkady Lewiss. She'd certainly 
been careful to let him know her full name, as had Sister 
Megan Barunis and Sister Ali Khoures. He could almost feel 
the card in his jacket pocket, and he smiled. For some reason, 
he couldn't see such forwardness in Ulteena, even when she 
had been younger, especially after seeing what it had cost her 
to admit she cared about him. Were younger women just 
more forward in the Revenant systems? Or had he been 
sheltered somehow?
He slowed the car, as he passed a park, then a school 
building. Ahead he could see the single glittering spire of the 
local stosque. His stomach growled again.
Ahead were several buildings. He stopped at the sign 
proclaiming R.P.'s, a small building with faded tan plaster 
walls' and three enormous cacti planted in front of the 
building. The entrance was framed by two man-high red 
boulders. Only three vehicles sat in the parking area. On the 
far side of the parking area was a confectionery store- 
Dalowan Confectioneries.
Trystin grinned. Maybe he'd stop there after he ate-for 
some lime balls.
A round-faced older woman with hair braided and piled on 
top of her head greeted Trystin as he stepped into R.P.'s. "A 
late lunch. Brother?"
"Or an early dinner," Trystin laughed. "I'm not quite sure 
which."
"This way." She led Trystin to a corner booth, made of 
dark-varnished and smoothed planks, handing him the menu 
after he eased himself into the left side where he could see all 
ten tables that comprised the dining area. "The only special 
left is the smothered meat loaf, but everything else on the 
menu is available."
"What would you recommend . . . besides the meat loaf?"
That got a laugh. "None of you returned like meat loaf. I 
just can't imagine why. Well . . . the chicken tortelada is 
good, and so is the fried beefalo steak."
Meat and more meat-Trystin still couldn't imagine 
ingesting that much protein at a sitting. "I'll try the tortelada, 
with limeade." "You'll like it. I'll get your limeade." She 
returned with the limeade almost immediately, and then went 
through a swinging door in the back of the dining area.
As Trystin sipped the limeade, his eyes surveyed the room. 
Two older women with braided hair and wearing the 
prevalent checked dresses sat at a table under the high 
window by the front wall. They talked quietly, occasionally 
sipping from mugs before them-chocolate, probably. In the 
front corner booth was a middle-aged couple-just a man and 
a woman.
Trystin took another sip from the limeade. According to the 
map and his implant calculations, he was only about two 
hours from the outskirts of Wystuh. Once there, he'd have to 
round up the electronics supplies he needed. Weapons were 
not exactly something you carried through multiple security 
checks. He pursed his lips. He still didn't know how killing 
one admiral was going to help the Coalition, but he also knew 
that not killing Jynckia would eventually create a large 
problem for one Trystin Desoll, perhaps a fatal one.
Was there any other way? So far, he didn't see one, not that 
would leave him free and alive. Was there any way to do 
something that would stop the war? He didn't know that, 
either. It had been simpler to be a pilot, and much simpler to 
be a perimeter officer, but he'd wanted to do more than react. 
Now he had at least some choice, and he hadn't the faintest 
idea of how to exercise it!
He took another sip of limeade and waited for the 
tortelada. His stomach growled again.
The rationale for assassination was clear enough-to plant 
the idea that the Coalition could strike anywhere. But Trystin 
wasn't convinced it would work. He shook his head. Here he 
was on the home planet of the enemy on a mission be wasn't 
convinced would work, and without any better ideas. And he 
knew that too much thinking was a recipe for disaster-
which made it all the worse. He finished the limeade with a 
gulp. "Would you like another?" asked the waitress as she 
saw the empty glass. "Please, Sister."
As she returned with another limeade, she asked, "Are you 
headed to Wystuh?" "Yes. I was sightseeing-the Gorge." 
"It's something, the Gorge is. Makes you wonder sometimes. 
Takes your worries away, too."
Trystin nodded. "It is beautiful, never even the same from 
moment to moment." "It didn't seem to take yours away. 
Brother." "Probably not, but it is spectacular." "Remember. . . 
leave your worries to the Lord. He's the only one big enough 
to hold them. "
"Unless He's the one who created them. Sister." Trystin 
forced a laugh to cover his excessive openness. "Discovering 
His will and then doing it isn't always easy."
"He didn't put us here for it to be easy." She patted his 
shoulder in a motherly way. "You're young, and you're 
returned. Be thankful for that. You'll find a way." "Yes, 
Mother . . ." Trystin grinned. She returned the grin with a 
smile, then turned to the door as a single man in a pale blue 
uniform entered. "Jonathan! Would you like some punch?" 
"Anything cold. Sister Eviyn. Anything cold." The burly 
peace officer, the first Trystin had seen, sank into the chair 
next to the credit-strip console. ". . . it's not the same . . ."
The whispered words drifted to Trystin, who, more curious 
than anything, turned up his hearing to listen to the couple-
odd because most families seemed to consist of an older 
husband and several younger wives.
"What do you want from me?" the older man asked, in an 
exasperated fashion. "Do you expect the Lord to send another 
Prophet just for you, Llamora? Do you expect the Prophet to 
proclaim that the Ecofreaks will stop their abominations and 
that Joshua will be spirited home?"
"No . . . I just want him to live in peace. Why can't they let 
us live in peace? Why must we lose so many?"
"Many return." The older man paused. "That fellow across 
the room's a returnee." Trystin did not look in their direction. 
The words about "another Prophet" skittered through his 
thoughts. What good would another prophet do? The last one 
had been bad enough from the Eco-Tech perspective. "He's 
not Joshua." "He's someone's Joshua."
"They're lucky. You still haven't told me why they won't 
let us live in peace."
"Because they won't. It's more likely Toren himself will 
return than the Ecofreaks will change. Now, stop sniveling. 
You don't think I don't know. I was there, dear. Don't forget 
that. I saw those dark men who moved like machines, always 
smiling, never-" "I know, Ed. I know . . . but it's hard. It's 
hard." Trystin shook his head. It was hard on both sides, but 
the damned Revenants had a choice. He wasn't sure the Eco-
Techs did. He frowned, wondering if he were just 
rationalizing. "Here you are."
The platter held not only the massive chicken tortelada, but 
a heaping portion of rice and a dark congealed mass covered 
with cheese, presumably the refried beans. "I think there 
might be enough here," Trystin observed. "Don't want it said 
that anyone'd go hungry here." "There's no danger of that."
The waitress/hostess walked over and talked to the peace 
officer, mainly about the weather, as Trystin slowly worked 
his way through the enormous meal. The older couple left 
about the time he gave up on the beans and pushed the plate 
slightly back. "Would you like some dessert?" Trystin looked 
at the plate and then at Sister Eviyn. "I'm not going away 
hungry."
"That'll be ten and a quarter, and I'll take you up there at 
the counter anytime." She went back to talk to the officer, 
who gulped the last swallow of something from a glass and 
stood.
"Thanks, Sister Eviyn. Tell Jock I stopped by." Trystin 
waited until the door closed. He left several paper bills on the 
table and stepped up to the console, proffering the strip, 
which she ran through the reader.
"Glad you liked the tortelada. I couldn't eat half what you 
ate." She scanned the reader. "Hyriss. Any relation to 
Sammel Hyriss here?"
"Not that I know, but probably some distant relation. I'm 
from Nephi originally."
"I think his folks came from out that way." She smiled. 
"Remember what I told you. Brother Hyriss." "And I will 
find a way?" "That's right."
He took the strip. "Peace be with you. Sister." "And with 
you."
Once outside, Trystin walked across the paved parking area 
to the confectionery store.
Two young women-girls-stood behind the counter. He 
glanced at the display case and then at the redhead. "I'd like a 
half-pound of the lime balls." The redhead flushed, and the 
other girl giggled. Then the smaller blonde held a sack while 
the redhead used the scoop to dish out the lime balls, which 
hit the metal pan of the scale-clank. . . clank. . . clank. . .. 
"One and a quarter, ser."
The "ser" was a giveaway that neither girl was of 
marriageable age.
"Here you go." He handed across the change and took the 
bag.
As he headed for the open door, he could hear the 
whispers.
". . . should have called him 'Brother," Merryn. It's only a 
month, and he wouldn't know . . . he's handsome . . . no 
rings..." ". . . wouldn't do any good . . ."
Trystin stepped out of the confectionery store, shaking his 
head, and paused under the overhanging porch for a moment. 
He took one of the lime balls and popped it in his mouth 
quickly before the lime melted on his fingers. The last thing 
he wanted was candy on the white coat- although the white 
fabric had been treated, as had all whites worn by the 
Revenants, to resist and repel stains.
To his right was the road he had followed from the 
Dhellicor Gorge, stretching up the gentle slope that led to the 
high plateau. Less than a kay south, the houses of Dalowan 
stopped, and modified cedar trees covered the pinkish soil. 
The houses were all finished, on the outside, in stucco or 
cementlike plaster, and all were colored in pale pastels.
With the faint screech, Trystin turned. One of the 
petroleum-burning cars skidded around the corner, and the 
driver, half engaged in talking to the young woman beside 
him, did not seem to be watching the street. A small blond 
girl and her older brother were crossing the wide street to the 
confectionery store. Several women and a man stood beside a 
long six-doored car talking. One pregnant sister watched the 
children.
Trystin dropped the candy, and vaulted the low railing, 
kicking himself into his high metabolic rates and stepped-up 
reflexes. As he ran, he calculated the angles.
"Georgia! Run!" The boy tried to drag his sister, but she 
resisted, instinctively. "No!" screamed the mother.
Sccccreeeee - . . The driver tried to stop, and the car 
seemed to move broadside as Trystin swooped and grabbed 
both children. He felt a glancing blow on his hip, and saw the 
horrified expression on the young driver's face. The youth 
couldn't have reached the local equivalent of his eighteenth 
birthday.
Trystin, breathing deeply, dropped his metabolism to 
normal, even as he set down the children. Why had he done 
it? The last thing he needed was to do something to attract 
attention.
"Georgia! Dahn! Are you all right?" The sandy-haired and 
pregnant sister had her arms around the two almost before 
Trystin had straightened up.
"Brother, I don't know how to thank you. If it hadn't been 
for you. . ." stammered the man, blond with streaks of white 
in his hair, a slight paunch, and a tanned face. The driver had 
stopped the car-or the raised stone curb behind the long car 
had-and he stood, whiter than Trystin's coat, beside it.
"Children, you must watch and look both ways. Please 
watch."
". . . wanted to get there first. . . Dahn always does. .." 
protested the girl. Dahn just stared at the pavement. ". . . don't 
know how you did it . . ." the father stammered.
"I was just in the right place," Trystin said, his thoughts 
trying to find a way out of the mess. "...but how... how..."
"Just thank the brother and the Lord," murmured the 
mother.
". . . how . . ." The father appeared dazed. Trystin touched his 
shoulder. "Be thankful. I am." Then he walked over to the 
youthful driver, who was still shaking. "You're fortunate you 
didn't kill them." The driver kept shaking.
"Next time, the Lord might not be watching." Trystin 
patted him on the shoulder, deciding to rely on theology. 
"That's your miracle."
"He could have killed them!" The father stepped up to 
Trystin.
"He didn't, and I suspect he's gotten the Lord's message." 
Trystin gestured at the driver, who slumped against the 
fender of the car, shivering. "You some kind of nut. 
Brother?" Probably, thought Trystin to himself, but he turned 
and looked at the father. "Do I look like a nut? Didn't I save 
your children? I am what I am." He smiled pleasantly. "Now . 
. . I have a journey to make." "Where are you going?" "To 
Wystuh." "To the Temple?"
Trystin saw the burly officer walking toward them. He 
wanted to leave, but it was looking too late already. He 
swallowed a sigh. Would more blatant theology work? He 
could try. 
"Are you going to the Temple?" "Yes," he lied, to stop the 
interrogation, since he had no desire to be incinerated in the 
middle of Wystuh. "And after that?"
"Where the Lord wills." He offered a smile, and bent down 
slightly to face the little girl, Georgia. "Please be careful, 
Georgia."
"I didn't have to be careful. Yon saved me. The Lord sent 
you to save me."
"I was here, but I won't always be here. We have to save 
ourselves. He only points the way." Trystin straightened, 
hoping he hadn't bent theology too much, hoping that his 
recollections from his study of the Book of Toren were 
accurate enough. "Thank you," said the mother. "Just keep 
her safe," Trystin suggested. "I need to go." Behind him, the 
officer in blue said to the driver, "You stay right here, Billy 
Bardman. After something like this, you just might be getting 
your mission call early."
If possible, the youth turned even whiter, and shook even 
more. Trystin suppressed a frown as the officer in blue 
approached him.
"I'm Brother Smithson. Jon Smithson." The tall man in the 
official blue jacket extended his hand.
Trystin took the beefy hand and shook it. "Brother Hyriss. 
Wyllum Hyriss."
"That was something you did. Never seen a man move so 
fast."
Trystin forced himself to relax, as if what he had done 
were commonplace. "Guess you move quickly when you 
have to." "You headed to Wystuh?" Trystin nodded.
"Well . . . thanks again, Brother. The Lord be with you." 
"And with you."
Trystin walked back to the car, stopping by the porch of the 
confectionery store to reclaim the bag of lime balls. What had 
the officer meant by the reference to the early mission call? 
Had that been what Peter Warlock had meant by internal 
social controls against violence? The reference had certainly 
stunned the young man.
As he headed to his car, he tried not to frown. He'd already 
said too many of the wrong things, little things, and now he'd 
aroused a local peace officer's curiosity. He'd made himself 
memorable, far too memorable, in saving the . children, and 
the Revenants doted on small children- and he hadn't even 
reached Wystuh.          
Brother Khalid would have had far too much to say about 
his actions, far too much.
He refrained from wiping his forehead as he drove toward 
Wystuh. He had to wonder if Headquarters had any idea how 
bad an idea it had been to send him. It was one thing to do a 
job, a straightforward mission like holding a perimeter 
station or defending a system, and to do it well when you 
didn't have that much time to think or get to see those you 
killed up close. It was another to assign a murder and give 
him the time to think about it. Or to see children and not have 
the cold-blooded sense to let them die in order to avoid 
unwanted attention.
He shook his head. Jynckia he could still handle. Admirals 
weren't above the carnage they created. But he couldn't let 
children die . . . and that might be his failure. He took a deep 
breath.
61
Trystin noted the air pollution long before he reached the 
outskirts of Wystuh-a brownish haze hanging over the big 
saucerlike depression that held Wystuh and the rings of 
outlying communities. Although Promised Valley's 
geography was the principal reason for Wystuh's status as the 
first settlement, the depression and uniform surrounding hills 
that had speeded the early planoforming were also 
immensely helpful in creating inversions and concentrating 
industrial by-products, especially since the Revenants clearly 
did not plan out the total ecological impacts of their 
industrialization.
The scenic highway widened into a divided motorway 
separated from what appeared to be industrial parks by high 
white walls. Trystin damped the intensity of his vision 
again-Wystuh glittered. White light seemed to pour at him 
from every direction as he entered the city proper. Seventh 
Octagon read the sign for the first turnoff. Trystin kept 
driving, watching the other vehicles carefully. The petrol cars 
were far more fragile than spacecraft, and the relative 
motions in close proximity seemed potentially more deadly. 
He was aiming for the road hotels off the Second Octagon-
the ones that catered to Temple visitors.
Several of the road hotels on the Second Octagon were 
filled, and Trystin finally pulled into a smaller one- Promise 
Inn-on the north side of Wystuh. As he got out of the car, 
he glanced southward. Over the low trees loomed the eight 
spires of the Temple. He paused. "Sort of gets you, doesn't it. 
Brother?" Trystin turned. A white-haired man in a coat of 
pale blue, so pale that it was almost white, stood beside a 
four-doored blue car three meters away. "You don't realize . . 
."
"No, you don't. First time in Wystuh, Brother?" "Yes, 
Brother," Trystin answered. "It's always good to see one of 
the returned coming to give thanks to the Lord and the 
Prophet. Where're you from originally?" "Nephi."
"Pilot, aren't you?" The white-haired man stepped toward 
Trystin.
"How'd you know. Brother?" Trystin asked. "It's not hard. 
Most of the returned are pilots these days, and all of you have 
an air. It's hard to explain," laughed the older man, "but I 
know it when I see it." He held out a hand. "Brother Carson 
Orr."
"Brother Wyllum Hyriss." "I'd guess half of Nephi must be 
named Hyriss." Trystin shrugged. "What can I say?" "It's not 
your fault. You didn't pick the name." "No. That's certainly 
true."
The other man looked at his wrist. "I'm going to be late, but 
I'll probably be seeing you around." He slipped into the car.
After Brother Orr drove off, Trystin walked across to the 
office. Inside the glass-walled space, less than five meters 
square, a gray-haired woman stood behind the counter.
"I was wondering if you might have a room for the next 
week or so?"
"For how many. Brother?" The badge just below the 
shoulder of the subdued dark-checked dress read Sister Myra. 
The braided hair and gold band on her left hand confirmed 
her status. "Just for me." "Giving thanks?" "And coming to 
see Wystuh."
"For one or a couple, that's not a problem. A family with 
two or three wives and children-those suites are all taken. 
Let's see. You want to be up or down?" "Whichever is 
quieter," Trystin answered honestly. "Probably the one near 
the middle on the first floor. It will run you thirty a night or 
one ninety a week."
Trystin paused, knowing that would probably be expected, 
even for a returned missionary. "We're less than most. 
Brother . . ." "Hyriss," he supplied. Then he shrugged and 
smiled. "It'll be a long time before I'm here again." "You 
never know. The Lord works in mysterious ways." "His will 
be done," Trystin responded with the accepted response and 
pulled out the credit strip. His hand brushed the hip that was 
beginning to ache from what he knew would be a bad bruise. 
"Credit strip-you have a job already?" "I'm a cargo pilot." 
As she ran the strip through the reader. Sister Myra shook her 
head. "You couldn't get me up there." She handed him back 
the strip and a plastic oblong. "Here's your door-reader. Your 
room is 117. The juice in the cooler comes with the room. So 
drink what you want. The restaurant opens at six in the 
morning and closes at eleven." "Thank you."
Trystin smiled and walked back to the car, listening with 
extended hearing as the sister turned to the other woman who 
had entered. ". . . he looks sad behind the smile . . ." ". . . 
wouldn't you be with what he's seen?" ". . . almost too 
handsome . . ." Too handsome? That was hard to believe, 
especially on a planet of generally especially handsome 
people. And thinking about what he'd seen? Most Eco-Techs 
wouldn't have said the Revenants thought about the 
privations of their military missions.
He pulled the car up in front of 117 and brought in his bag, 
setting it on the luggage rack, then opening it and hanging out 
the other suits. He took off his own coat and hung it up, 
before pulling out the halfway well-thumbed Book of Toren 
he'd received so many light-years away. He set the book on 
the table and studied the room.
The videolink console-manual style-appeared to have 
only a handful of channel selections. He flicked it on, and the 
holos came up around him slowly, with a slight fuzziness. 
The surround-sound was also somewhat distorted, possibly 
by the age of the console.
"The Wystuh Evening News is brought to you by Bayliss . 
.-." The image of a green package of something was thrust 
almost to Trystin's nose. Trystin flicked to another channel. 
"Know Your Scripture-the Quiz Show of the Book!" He 
flicked again and got what appeared to be some sort of 
drama, where tall figures in combat suits with lightning bolts 
assaulted and overwhelmed short figures in black suits. He 
seemed to be carried along with the missionary troops. With a 
sigh, he tried another selection. The volume of the music 
stunned him.
". . . listen to the Prophet! Listen to the Prophet, yeah, 
yeah, yeah . . ." He flicked again.
". . . if you want to order this genuine replica of Nephi's
,,__  " 
urn-
Trystin flicked off the videolink. The words were different, 
and the selections fewer and more religious, but the quality 
similar to what was broadcast in Cambria-unfortunately.
He picked up the Book of Toren and sat down, flipping 
through the pages, then stopping, recognizing the passage, 
absently surprised that he had.
". . . for no man who commits his soul unto the Lord can 
fail in His sight, for the Lord is generous . . ."
Trystin frowned. Generous? He flipped to another section.
". . . do not say, better my cousin than my neighbor, for all 
men and women are cousins in the sight of the Lord, and all 
are neighbors . . ."
Trystin wiped his forehead. As his continued studies of 
Revenant materials kept demonstrating, consistency 
definitely wasn't a part of the theology. How could the 
Revenants believe what he had just read, and then make war 
on the Coalition? Did religion allow a greater inconsistency 
between internal and external actions? Could he somehow 
exploit that?
He shifted his weight in the old chair, and his hip throbbed.
Could he use the business about neighbors? How? What did 
it have to do with an assassination? Somehow, somehow, he 
had to come up with a way to carry out his mission that made 
it more than a mere assassination. An assassination wouldn't 
be enough. That he knew already. Once more, he blotted his 
forehead, before flipping the pages of the Book of Toren, 
seeking another scriptural passage. He needed some sort of 
inspiration-and a way to escape in one piece.
As he sat with the once-hot cider in front of him, looking at 
an empty plate that had held a stack of pancakes he'd never 
thought he'd finish, Trystin glanced through the window to 
the corner of the Promise Inn and then to the spires of the 
Temple beyond the trees.
The Temple-always the Temple-that was already clear 
enough.
What was it that the revvie officer had said so long ago-
back on Mara? Something about while he believed, nothing 
could change his mind. Trystin nodded to himself. That 
meant that the belief structure of the Revenants had to be 
either changed or destroyed. And how could he do that?
He took a sip of the lukewarm cider, and looked back at 
the Temple spires. He didn't know how to change a belief 
structure-but he'd better figure out how, and fast. 
Otherwise, he was stuck carrying out a meaningless mission 
with a slim chance of survival.
With a shrug, he stood up. In the meantime, he'd better 
continue on with the preplanned mission, until he could come 
up with something better. He just hoped he could.
After paying for the breakfast, Trystin settled into the car 
and began his shopping trip, although he wasn't shopping for 
quite the same reason other returned missionaries might be. 
They missed the luxuries and were setting up households or 
giving presents. Trystin was looking for components 
convertible to weapons. The problem with passing Revenant 
screening was that he would have to build what he needed 
from other components, preferably commonly available 
items. While that wasn't a technical problem, it took time. 
Then again, he could use that time to try to come up with 
more than an assassination.
As he drove down West Kingdom Avenue, Trystin was 
again glad the implant gave him the ability to darken his 
vision, because Wystuh glittered-glittered with a whiteness 
that penetrated everything. Every building was white or off-
white, and with the yellow-white sunlight of Jerush burning 
through the pale blue sky, even the shadows cast by the sun 
were filled with reflected light. At the same time, he could 
not help but notice something else. While everything was 
clean, spotless, there were no new buildings under 
construction. He did not see one-historic preservation or 
something?
Entertainment Microtronics Center-that was what the 
sign read, but Trystin drove by the store twice before he 
located the parking area, and pulled the rented car into it.
"Could I help you. Brother?" asked the white-haired 
manager almost as Trystin stepped into the store. All the 
older men in supervisory positions everywhere seemed to be 
white-haired. Was being white-haired something that went 
with being a patriarch?
"Yes, except"-he forced a rueful grin-"I am a little out 
of touch."
The older man took in Trystin, looked him squarely in the 
eyes for an instant, and then offered a smile in return. "I can 
see that. Well . . . let me show you what we have here." He 
gestured toward a compact black unit with a blank and 
smooth front, flanked by two speakers.
"The basic audio system is a laser-read, digitally produced 
sound. The central system is pretty standard. . . how good the 
sound is depends more on the output speakers than on the 
processing unit . . ."
Trystin knew what he wanted, but nodded as the salesman 
took him through the units.
He finally settled on the basic unit, plus a small repair kit. 
After the salesman accepted the credit strip and entered the 
transaction, he helped Trystin load the equipment in the rear 
seat of the rented car.
"Thank you. Brother Hyriss, for choosing us. Thank you."
'Thank you. Brother Gerstin. I put myself in the hands of 
the Lord, and this is where I found myself. Peace be with 
you." "And with you."
Trystin couldn't help but wonder at the other's effusiveness, 
as if the salesman hadn't seen a real customer in months.
As he drove, his thoughts kept returning to the Revenant 
officer on Mara and his words-"while I believe." What 
could stop that kind of faith? Could anything? Trystin finally 
smiled a crooked smile. Why fight that blind faith? Why not 
use it? He still didn't know how, but he nodded to himself.
His next stop was a small industrial-supply house on the 
outskirts of Wystuh. Despite Wystuh's reputation for 
nonexistent crime, he wondered how safe the area was as he 
parked the car in front of the low building whose white walls 
were almost gray. While not streaked with grime, the walls 
had been washed enough without recoating to convey the 
impression of dirt.
"Help you, Brother?" The greeting was rough, almost 
dismissive, and the heavyset man looked almost 
contemptuously at Trystin's immaculate white suit.
"I'm looking for a replacement sonic unit on a Rubeck 
cleaner, model 786."
"Hmmm . . . 786 Rubeck . . . sure that's what you want? 
Lotta wasted power there." "If you need to fix a 786 . . ." 
Trystin said. "Yeah, you need a 786. Let me see." Trystin 
walked over to the hard-copy catalog lying on the counter, 
and began to thumb through it, noting parts and components. 
Thump! "Here. Lucky. Had two even."
"You also have this Remmer wave guide?" Trystin 
pointed.
"Nah. . . piece of junk. Anything that'll fit can also take a 
Murrite." "Could I take a look at the Murrite?"
"Sure. Carry a lot of those. Good for cleaners, just about 
anything. They say even the missionary forces use them- 
not like we do, though. Wouldn't know. Spent my time on 
Josephat."
Trystin whistled. Josephat was a mining asteroid. The man 
had to be tough.
"Only one who returned. Something, anyway. Just a 
second."
Thump! The Murrite looked better than the Remmer. 
"Looks a lot sturdier." "Easier to adjust, too." "How much?"
"Three hundred for the sonic unit and seventy-three for the 
guide."
"The last thing I need is the Wembley powerpack." "You 
need that much power?" "It's a long story . . ." "Cost you 
more than the rest." "That's fine."
The burly man left and returned with a flat box that he set 
next to the others. "Credit strip?" Trystin asked.
"Sure. We take anything that converts to dollars. Lot of 
business lately. Folks doing more repairs. Don't see how 
some of the places selling new stuff stay in business." Trystin 
handed over the strip.
"What's a God-fearing returnee like you doing here?" Trystin 
laughed, thinking about faith. "I don't need to fear the Lord, 
just men. I'm like everyone else, doing what has to be done."
"Good point. Brother. Didn't need to fear the Lord on 
Josephat either, just the idiots who thought they knew His 
will.'' He handed back the credit strip.
"Yes." Trystin nodded, searching for a proper reply. "The 
Lord will make His will known in His own way." He picked 
up the strip and pocketed it and then stacked the smaller box 
on the larger. "Peace be with you." "You, too," grunted the 
big man, scratching his head. After loading the gear in the 
car, Trystin decided to return to the Promise Inn before 
completing his rounds. He was getting a feel for what he 
wanted to do-somehow separating the Lord from those who 
thought they knew His will was a first step.
"Rather presumptuous, aren't you?" he murmured to 
himself, not answering the question as he eased the car 
into a space within a few meters of his door at the 
Promise Inn.
Trystin carried the first box of console components into 
his room and returned for the smaller boxes, and the tool 
kit.
"Brother Hyriss? Do you need any help?" The older 
gray-haired sister had walked out to the car from the 
office.
"No, thank you. Sister. . . I'm sorry, I don't remember 
your name." "I'm Sister Myra."
Trystin nodded. Married women used their first names. 
"No, I just had two loads." "That'd be a lot to pay to send 
back to Nephi." He laughed. "No, this is for here."
"Be visiting friends?"                                 , "Old and new. 
But aren't all of us children and friends under the Lord and 
the Prophet?" The phrasing suggested another small step in 
implying that the current Revenant leadership wasn't exactly 
infallible.
"Children and friends . . . that'd be an odd way of 
putting it."
Trystin smiled instead of answering directly. "He is our 
Father. And all who share His bounty should be friends. 
So . . ." He spread his hands to continue the implication. 
So far, Trystin knew he was on sound theological ground, 
if feeling hypocritical, considering the uses he had for the 
equipment.
"Perhaps you should take up a calling in 
communicating for the Lord, Brother Hyriss. You have 
the gift." Sister Myra bobbed her gray head sagely.
"I'm afraid that's far above me. When you have seen the 
endless stars in His mansions, then you realize how 
mighty is all creation-" Trystin broke off and smiled 
sheepishly.
Trying to straddle the line of the devout and the 
returned and not sounding overblown was hard, even with 
the briefings. He sounded so pompous, so full of bullshit. 
"I guess I get carried away." "Have you seen the . . . other 
peoples?" "The Ecofreaks?" Trystin had been told to 
expect the question. "Yes. At least, I have seen their ships 
and their bodies."
Sister Myra glanced over her shoulder. "Are they small and 
dark, with deep eyes and foul words?"
Trystin pulled at his chin. "Some are. Some are tall and 
fair."
"They say some are golems, more machine than person." 
"That I would not know. They looked like people, and they 
died like people." Trystin paused, knowing he was treading 
on delicate ground. "Some fought bravely, and some did not." 
He shrugged and turned to lift the second box.
Sister Myra followed him. "You look like Colin, a little, 
except he is younger, and his Farewell was last year."
"I will pray for the success of his mission and his return." 
Trystin set the box just inside the door to the room. Sister 
Myra remained outside, apparently cool in the heat of the 
blinding sun. Trystin wiped his forehead. "You're like many 
from Nephi. It's cooler there." Trystin nodded. "He was my 
only boy."
What could he say? That it was damned unlikely young 
Colin would return? Trystin shifted his weight from one boot 
to the other. Finally, he said softly, "I wish I could see the 
future and tell you what might be, but, as we know, that 
remains to the Lord. We just have to persevere in doing His 
will."
"He was tall, like you, and his smile was a lot like yours." 
"There isn't anyone like your son. Sister Myra, and I share 
your prayer that the Lord will keep and preserve him." 
Except even the old Christian god had only raised one son 
from the dead.
"Do you think it will end?" "All things end."
"Soon, I meant." Sister Myra paused and added, "The 
Prophet said that one day he would return, and we would all 
dwell in peace."
Everything he said was getting him in deeper water. He 
pursed his lips before answering. "I'm no tactician, and, as 
you can see, I am what I am. I've seen what I've seen, and I 
have seen people who should live, somehow, as brothers and 
sisters, killing each other." Trystin paused, deciding he 
couldn't quite be so blunt. "The fighting should end. The 
Lord has said to bring His word to those who do not believe, 
and, as a simple man, I cannot see how someone who is dead 
can hear the word of the Lord. Even the Prophet wrote 'do not 
say, better my cousin than my neighbor, for all men and 
women are neighbors in the eyes of the Lord.' "
"Will they stop if we stop? You say that it should end, but 
will it? In time for Colin and others to return?" asked Sister 
Myra.
"I don't know. That is something that the Lord will make 
known. " Trystin still hadn't figured out how to make such a 
will of the Lord known, or how far he could go in planting 
the germs of his ideas without being denounced as a heretic. 
As he spoke he wondered why he insisted on opening his 
mouth, on going beyond the letter of his mission when he 
hadn't even accomplished his assignment yet-or figured out 
how he was going to change it to do what he wanted. But so 
long as people like Sister Myra felt the way they did, 
completing his original mission would do nothing. Even a 
hundred missions like his would do nothing. So he added a 
few more damning words, hoping he could build on them. 
"All I can do is what I can, and what the Lord asks."
"That is a great deal. Brother Hyriss." Sister Myra nodded. 
"I wish you well." Her heavy shoes clicked on the concrete as 
she walked back to the office.
Trystin stepped into the room and closed the door. He wiped 
his forehead. He had more than a little work to do, both in 
constructing the laser and in trying to figure out how to 
complete his own plans for using the blind faith of the 
Revenants, damned fool that he was getting to be. But, damn 
it, the Revenants were people, too. Ulteena would have 
understood. So would his parents. He shrugged. Then there 
were people like the Park policeman at the Cliffs and the 
fanatical revvie officer who would have fought forever-the 
kind of people who refused to look beyond their narrow 
prejudices. And there were all too many of those on both 
sides.
He looked at the Book of Toren on the table, hoping he 
could find answers between the lines of the scriptures. He 
wasn't going to find answers in the words themselves.
He smiled. Or was he? Another prophet . . . a son and a 
temple raised in three days. .. and who would kill some-one 
who was already dead? If he could put those together 
correctly with the Service-required assassination . . . then 
maybe he could shake the Revenants' faith.
He lifted the Book of Toren and began to flip through the 
pages. The laser could wait a few minutes.
63.
Trystin's eyes drifted from the thin sheaf of papers on the side 
table to .the three sections of equipment on the bed-
essentially a handgunlike laser projector, a cable, and a flat 
powerpak that could be worn under his clothes. He could 
have assembled the components into a relatively standard 
laser far more quickly, but his tentative plan required a laser 
with a wider focus, something that would create what 
amounted to a pillar of flame rather than a large surgical hole 
through a body. After all, hadn't every deity in existence used 
a pillar of fire at some point or another?
After three days of driving around Wystuh and studying the 
general layout of the city-in between building the device on 
the bed and assembling the scriptural background represented 
by the slim stack of papers on the table, he still had to 
complete his planning. He was operating backward, figuring 
the theological support and the necessary weapons 
configuration before establishing whether he could even pull 
his own plan off, if he could even call it a plan.
Making Jynckia a victim of the Lord-or a sacrifice- 
laughable, except it was better than a meaningless 
assassination linked to the Coalition, better than the 
meaningless death of another soldier. Somehow. . . in some 
way, it had to be tied more closely to the faith of the 
Revenants, but he wasn't making that much headway.
After a last look at the equipment, he split the pieces apart, 
putting the handgun section in the printed paper catalog he'd 
picked up and hollowed out, the cable in one pocket of the 
clothing bag, and the powerpak in the bottom of the main 
section. The catalog itself went under the Book of Toren on 
the side table.
Then he picked up the single remaining large box, into 
which he had packed all the leftovers, and carted it out to the 
car, where he placed it in the rear seat.
With a deep breath, he got in and started the car, pulling it 
out of the lot and heading in toward the Temple. The Temple 
was the center of the faith, and maybe seeing it up close 
would help his scattered thoughts. Maybe that was why he'd 
avoided it, because he was afraid seeing it would show him 
how stupid his half-formed plan was.
Wystuh was a city based on an octagonal grid-that had 
been the vision of the cities of the Promised Lands since the 
first prophets of the Lord had settled the Jerush system.
Trystin parked the car just inside the First Octagon and 
walked up East Temple Avenue. Across the avenue was a 
long building constructed of large white stones. The dark-
framed marquee bore the words "Tonight! Ballem Michel-
the Seer of Music." Wondering what a seer of music might 
be, Trystin walked slowly toward the Temple Square, the 
center of Wystuh.
The faint breeze that whispered around him was not 
enough to cool him, and he took out the handkerchief and 
blotted his forehead quickly as he walked, hoping no one 
saw. Beside him were low buildings, none more than four 
stories, containing shops. Several storefronts were empty, but 
even the empty ones looked immaculately clean.
The wide avenue carried what seemed to be light traffic-
occasional trucks, regular electrobuses, and personal cars. 
Trystin sniffed. The faint odor of burned hydrocarbons 
permeated the atmosphere, along with something that smelled 
like popcorn.
It was popcorn. As he passed the next cross street, he could 
see a cart and a vendor selling bags of the stuff. A mother 
handed her daughter a bag, and the two walked hand in hand 
down the glitter-white sidewalk away from Trystin.
After walking another block, he stopped opposite the 
square, studying the white walls and eight spires of the 
Temple that rose over a hundred meters into the blue-pink 
sky. The Temple's northwest spire bore the laser-imposed 
image of the Angel of the Prophet.
Surrounding the Temple were the eight Arks of the 
Revealed-each over fifty meters tall. Each Ark was really a 
building sacred to some divine aspect of the Prophet-the 
Ark of Teaching, the Ark of Healing, the Ark of Technology, 
the Ark of Ministry, the Ark of Music, the Ark of the Family, 
the Ark of the Producing Land, and the Ark of the Producing 
Waters.
At the corner, with a casual look at the Fountain of Life, its 
eight jets forming a single column of water over thirty meters 
high, Trystin crossed the street and entered the octagonal 
section of land that held the Temple and the eight Arks.
Even before he neared the Temple gates, he could sense 
the energies and the hidden systems that most Revenants 
would have denied ever existed. As he stepped within meters 
of the closed gates, he reached out with his implant, ever so 
gently, to scan the systems-and almost froze where he 
stood.
His false identity, superficial memories, and basic 
Revenant gene patterns would not be enough. The data net 
and systems that lay behind the shimmering white walls, 
while not as powerful as most Coalition systems, were 
certainly powerful enough to hold the absolute identity of 
every true Revenant admitted to the Temple, and the energies 
held there were certainly enough to incinerate him. But the 
system was an open-weave operation-that he could tell, and 
he might be able to tap it from outside.
His lips pursed, he let his eyes flick to the schedule board. 
"11:00 A.M., Thursday. Ceremony of Remembrance." 
Underneath the board was a screen, and Trystin stepped up to 
view the information scrolling there.
After a time, he nodded. Certainly, all the high Revenant 
military mission officials would be there, since the ceremony 
was to honor the missionaries sent to remove the 
abominations of the Lord. If he could enter the Temple . . . he 
thought about the warnings and the force of the systems less 
than meters away and repressed a shiver.
Instead he stepped toward the Temple walls, not close 
enough to touch them, but close enough to see what more he 
could sense with his implant.
The system was in standdown, or partial standdown. 
Somehow, he needed a key to the Temple's systems. A key to 
the Temple? He swallowed. Did he have the actual protocol? 
Had the Farhkans stolen it, just to give it to him? And why? 
Because no Farhkan could ever approach the Temples?
The key raised a few other questions-like why he'd never 
told the Service. Was it just his stubbornness? Or some 
subconscious suggestion by the Farhkans? Trystin shivered.
Did the Service know? They couldn't. They would have 
taken him apart like a broken timepiece to get something they 
thought was a key to the Revenant Temples. Had he 
repressed the key-and letting, anyone besides his father 
know-because he unconsciously knew what the Service 
would have done?
Was there any doubt? Was deep space cold? Slowly, after 
swallowing and taking a deep breath, he called up the 
protocol that the Farhkan had given him, as well as the 
override command line his father had designed. He 
concentrated, trying to match them, but, while they seemed at 
least vaguely similar, there was no real way to tell unless the 
systems were in full use. The open-weave receptors were shut 
down, and the main Temple doors were closed at the 
moment.
Trystin stood there for a time, but without either success or 
failure.
Did he have enough faith to walk through those gates when 
they were operational? This time he did shudder. He had two 
days to decide. Were they enough? Were they too much?
Faith? What did the Revenants know about faith? "Brother? 
Are you all right?" A young sister stood in front of Trystin, 
wearing the blue sash of a Temple Guide. He shook his head. 
"Yes, I mean. Sister." "It is overwhelming sometimes. Even I 
look up there and get the chills." She smiled, only a friendly 
smile, and Trystin momentarily wanted to hug her. "You 
haven't been here before, have you?"
"No. This is my first visit to the Temple." "I hope 
it won't be the last."
"That's not my decision, but the Lord's." Trystin offered a 
smile. After what he'd just been through, that was about how 
he felt.
"It makes you feel that way, but you'll get over it." "Thank 
you. Sister. May your faith always so comfort you." He 
hoped he could find enough faith to do what looked to be 
necessary. Still, there might be a way out. He needed to 
check the Ministry of Missions, more closely than he'd been 
able to do from the car.
"May yours be of comfort also," she answered before 
turning to another visitor to the Temple Square. Trystin 
slowly walked around the Square, taking in the eight Arks 
that surrounded the Temple, studying their apparent exits and 
entrances, and using his implant and his hearing to trace what 
seemed to be underground passages from the Arks to the 
Temple itself.
Finally, after walking around the Temple for over an hour, 
he started down East Kingdom Avenue, toward the Ministry 
of Missions, where Jynckia had his office. Even East 
Kingdom Avenue, while almost dust-free, had patches in the 
bright white pavement.
He walked by the Ministry of Missions, neither hurrying 
nor dawdling. The entrance to the heavy-walled, four-story 
Ministry building was definitely, if unobtrusively, guarded 
and the heavy lasers concealed there were even more obvious 
than those hidden in the Temple gates. The two doormen 
were also heavily armed, although Trystin could have taken 
care of them. He just couldn't have taken care of the lasers.
That almost mandated an effort to enter the Temple. He 
walked back to the car without retracing his steps past the 
Ministry. He still needed to find a place to dump the leftover 
electronics. He needed to think some more, a lot more, about 
the application and conversion and uses of faith. And about 
his faith in the Farhkans and his father.
He tried not to shiver as he started the internal-combustion 
engine, repressing thoughts about how to counterfeit a 
prophet without becoming a martyr-or a statistic
64
The crowds hurried toward the Temple, flooding past the 
eight Arks and the Fountain of Life, and Trystin tried to 
remain inconspicuous as he walked toward the Temple, 
equipment strapped in place under the white coat.
Following two young women in long white outfits, he 
stepped toward the gate, ignoring the glance of the uniformed 
Soldier of the Lord standing in the alcove.
"Abomination! Abomination of the Lord!" The words rang 
out through the entire Square. Revenants of all ages turned 
toward the Temple gates.
Trystin looked around with the others, although his heart 
was pounding and his body was cloaked in instant cold 
sweat. "Abomination of the Lord!"
The Soldier of the Lord, hard-eyed, turned toward Trystin, 
but before he could act, a lance of light flared from the 
Temple gates toward Trystin-burning, BURNING, 
BURNING!!!!
Trystin sat bolt upright in bed. His arms twitched, and a 
faint burning ran through his whole body. He forced himself 
to take a deep breath, then another, and a third, but he kept 
shuddering. He wiped his forehead on the counterpane. 
Finally, he got up, and soft light flooded the room. It was 
only slightly after midnight, and he walked into the fresher, 
where he splashed cold water on his face. He shivered again.
Clearly, his subconscious was telling him that trying to 
walk into the Temple was suicidal, not to mention foolish, ill-
considered, and just plain stupid.
But the problem he faced was that turning Jynckia into an 
example of the Lord for perpetuating slaughter wouldn't have 
the impact he needed if it didn't happen in the Temple itself. 
And he couldn't "disappear" in the streets the way he could 
behind a flash of light in the Temple.
His other problem was that he didn't know how open the 
Temple's net really was. Still . . .
He splashed his face again, trying to cool his flushed skin. 
He could just try to enter the Temple, not too obviously, and 
feel out the systems. If his efforts didn't work, he could just 
slip away and try something else. No one knew him, not 
really.
He took a deep breath and used a towel to blot away the 
water.
Why nightmares? He didn't recall having had many 
nightmares until the last few years. He hadn't even had 
nightmares when he'd been on the Maran perimeter. He'd 
only had nightmares when he'd started to think about the war, 
really think, and to understand that he could die, that - he 
could be killed. Was that why those who ran societies liked 
their soldiers young? So they didn't have the age or the 
experience to think about the stupidities of the wars they 
fought-or might fight? He tried to laugh, but couldn't.
His face still damp, he began to walk around the room in 
the darkness, breathing deeply. The burning that ran in lines 
throughout his body slowly faded, but did not quite 
disappear, continuing to tingle through all his nerves.
After taking another drink of water, and breathing deeply 
for several minutes longer, he ran through a short set of 
stretching exercises, trying to work out the muscular knots 
created by the nightmare.
Then he washed his face again, turned off the lights, and 
climbed into bed. But he lay for a long time, looking into 
the darkness.
65             
After completing another drive around central Wystuh, and 
the Temple area, Trystin slipped the car into the space in 
front of his room. All the spaces near the ends of the 
building-and the staircases- were taken. He stepped from 
the coolness of the car into the heat, but did not wipe his 
forehead as he walked toward the room.
Once inside, he checked the space, visually, and with 
implant-enhanced senses, but he could find no trace that 
anyone had been there, not that he was any expert. The walls 
that had been carefully painted and repainted looked the 
same, as did the well-scrubbed carpet that was beginning to 
fray near the door.
He washed his hands and face, blotted some smudges off 
the white coat, and stepped back into the late-afternoon heat. 
He walked by the office, and the sister who had checked him 
into the room lifted a hand and waved. He smiled and waved 
back.
Only a handful of tables were taken in the small restaurant 
adjoining the Promise Inn. "One, Brother?" asked the gray-
haired hostess. "Please." Trystin followed her to a small table 
for two along the wall. A pale green cloth covered the table, 
and the two napkins also appeared to be of real cotton or 
linen.
"The special is beefalo stew with noodles and greens. That 
comes with dessert, and a drink, and it's seven and a quarter." 
"Thank you."
"A pleasure. Brother." The hostess smiled and left Trystin.
His stomach rumbled, and he glanced quickly at the menu. 
Although the food was heavy, the Revenants did serve good 
cooking-everywhere he had eaten so far.
"Have you decided, ser?" The waitress was also an older 
sister, wearing rings and braided hair, and not a checked 
dress, but a gold-colored tunic and long matching trousers.
"I'll have the stew special, with limeade." He wished he 
could get tea, but real tea and cafe were forbidden on the 
Revenant worlds, and anise tea tasted like weak liquid candy.
"I'll bring the limeade right away." A single older man sat at 
the table by the door, hands cupped around a glass, eyes 
staring into space. The corner table held four women, all 
wearing what seemed to be matching dresses and conversing 
animatedly. ". . . Heber's Farewell-that was something . . ." 
". . . going to be a pilot, not just a plain missionary . . ." ". . . 
missionary's a missionary - . . equal in the sight of the Lord . . 
." "You ask me . . . doesn't matter . . ." "Sarah's daughter . . . 
her Farewell . . ." ". . . doesn't seem right, her wanting to be 
an Angel . . -such a sweet child she was . . ."
". . . strong-willed, though . . . that's what Becki told
me. .  ." 
Trystin nodded to himself. He had the feeling that overtly 
strong-willed women got a lot of mission calls. "Here you 
are."
"Thank you." Trystin ignored the growling in his stomach 
and took a sip of the limeade, waiting for his beefalo stew to 
arrive.
"Brother Hyriss!" Carson Orr walked straight across the 
room toward Trystin's table with a broad smile.
"Brother Orr." Trystin stood. Orr's appearance wasn't 
exactly coincidence. "What a coincidence."
"Would you mind if I joined you for a moment? Just for 
some lemonade. I'll have to be going shortly." "Of course 
not."
The older waitress, silvered golden hair braided neatly, 
stopped. "Will you be having dinner. Brother?"
"No. I'd like some lemonade, though." When she left, Orr 
turned his pale blue eyes on Trystin. "How are you Finding 
Wystuh?"
"In some ways, it's as I thought it would be. In others, 
different." Trystin took a small sip of limeade.
"I can imagine that. No place you haven't been is the way 
you expect." Orr smiled. "How are you finding the people?"
"Like most places . . . friendly. Sometimes, very friendly." 
"The unmarried sisters?"
Trystin blushed. He had been more than careful to avoid 
them.
"Young returnee like you, you ought to be thinking about 
settling down. You think you have all the time in the world, 
but life's not always like that."
"I've already discovered that. The Lord has His own plans 
for us, not exactly what we might have intended." That was 
certainly true enough, reflected Trystin, and he might as well 
keep building the background for his plan and his escape.
Orr gave Trystin the faintest of quizzical looks. Trystin 
waited calmly.
"I heard from an old friend. You might have met him. Jon 
Smithson."
Trystin raised his eyebrows. His guts twisted. Did he run, 
or play it out? Did they really know, or was it all cat and 
mouse? How much time did he have? Or did they think he 
might lead them to others? "I might have."
"Big beefy fellow. He works in Dalowan-small town 
south of Wystuh."
"Is he a peace officer?" Trystin asked with a hint of 
curiosity. "I see you recall him." "I only met him once. Very 
briefly." "He said you saved some children." Trystin forced a 
short laugh. "I did what had to be done." He'd known that 
saving the two might come back to haunt him, but he hadn't 
thought it would happen quite so quickly.
"Most folks wouldn't know how to react quick enough." "I 
am a pilot, and that's something we're trained in." "So I'm 
told." The waitress set a tall glass by Orr. "Thank you. 
Sister." Orr turned back to Trystin. "You fought the golems. 
Brother Hyriss. Are they machines, or are they human?" 
softly asked the white-haired man in the pale bluejacket, a 
blue so pale it was nearly white, so pale that probably only 
Trystin's enhanced vision could spot the difference.
"I don't know," Trystin answered slowly, trying to answer as 
a returned missionary, a thoughtful one, might. "The Prophet, 
bless his name, spoke of abominations, and there are 
abominations throughout the mansions of heaven."
"I'd call that a safe answer, and it's true enough. Yet. . ." 
The other shook his head. "The Prophet said that the Lord 
works in mysterious ways." He shrugged. "He said that we 
can't always fathom His ways 'cause His ways are not our 
ways. Me . . . I've found that learning the ways of men is a 
mite bit easier."
"That's certainly true." Trystin tried to remain composed, 
faintly amused at Orr's folksy tone, but knowing it concealed 
a sharp mind.
"This fellow appears from nowhere, and he looks like a 
brother. He talks like a brother, and he knows what a brother 
should know. And by the Prophet's tongue, his eyes even 
have that faraway look in them. Heck, I've seen enough of the 
returned to know you can't counterfeit that. Does that make 
him a brother?"
"It would seem so." Trystin continued to smile, still 
amused in spite of himself, in spite of the situation, in spite of 
the sweat that ran down his back.
"That's what I said to myself. I told Jon that, too. And, you 
know, without a thought for your own safety, you rescued 
two children you didn't even know. That's certainly the act of 
a good brother."
"One does what has to be done." Trystin didn't miss Orr's 
deliberate switch from the impersonal to the personal.
"I've got a problem, Brother Hyriss, a real problem. Maybe 
you could help me out. I'm not sure, not real sure, but from 
what Jon said, you moved faster than even a top pilot, and 
that bothers me. Now, I know it shouldn't. You saved those 
kids." Orr pushed his white hair back off his forehead. "But it 
does. If you were a golem, one of those reflex-enhanced 
Ecofreaks, you wouldn't have saved the kids." He shook his 
head. "But . . . if you weren't . . . strange . . . somehow . . - 
you couldn't have done it."
Trystin had to talk his way out of it. He needed time, and if 
he went into a Revenant medical facility for tests, he wasn't 
likely to emerge-not as a whole and sane individual.
"Strange? Is it so strange that I wanted to save a child? 
Does a name mean that something is so?" Trystin picked up 
the knife. "I could call this a lily, but does calling it a lily 
make it one?" He set the knife down and picked up his glass, 
looking at the limeade for a moment. "What one believes 
makes all the difference." Again, he wished the drink were 
tea rather than limeade. He carefully sipped some until the 
greenish liquid filled only half the crystal, then lifted the 
glass. "Is it half full or half empty?"
"That's an old riddle, but I'm not sure I take your 
meaning." Orr squinted at Trystin.
Trystin forced a shrug, although he felt as though he were 
walking on the edge of a cliff. "True enough. But one man 
could look at the glass and say it was half full, another, half 
empty. Both would be observing a truth." He almost nodded 
as he lifted the glass and swallowed the last of the limeade in 
a long, long swallow before setting it down. "Now . . . is the 
glass full or empty?"
"Most folks would say it was empty. " Orr grinned. "I get 
the feeling you're not most folks. Brother Hyriss."
"You've seen through me," admitted Trystin. "The glass is 
full. Full of air. We live in the open air, and we don't see the 
air, but we need it. So which is worth more-the glass full of 
liquid or the glass full of air?"
"You're a tricky fellow." Orr shook his head ruefully. 
"Almost makes me think of the way the dark ones speak and 
write."
Trystin felt as though he had stepped off the edge of the 
cliff and that it was only a matter of time before he smashed 
far below. Instead of bolting or even wiping his forehead 
against the sudden heat he felt, he nodded. "I know that, 
Brother, and arguments are only words. Logic doesn't mean 
truth." He frowned, and he didn't have to force the gesture. 
"But an elder in the dark of airless heaven who needs another 
minute to complete his mission may have more need of the 
glass of air than the liquid." "I've always believed that the 
Lord provides." "Indeed He does," answered Trystin. "He 
provides, and we must use what He provides. But is what we 
see what He sees? Is a label a measure of what is? Or should 
one judge by actions rather than by labels?"
Orr laughed and pushed back his chair. "You make 
interesting points. Brother Hyriss. Most interesting. Will you 
be attending the Ceremony of Remembrance at the Temple 
tomorrow?"
"I had planned to." Trystin managed to nod, even as he 
realized he was being pushed into implementing his half-
assed plan whether he wanted to or not. He didn't sense Orr 
was lying, and that meant he had until tomorrow, but not any 
longer.
"I'll look forward to seeing you there." The older man 
stood. "It's time for me to head home. The wives are already 
probably more than a little irritated. Peace be with you." 
"And with you."
Trystin waited for the waitress and the stew. Was he being 
a damned fool in not disappearing? Could he trust Orr's 
implied promise? If he couldn't, how could he disappear? The 
Service had been right. The whole world was an intelligence 
network. It seemed, just because he'd saved the children, that 
Orr was giving him a chance-of sorts. Was he telling 
Trystin to disappear? Or hoping that Trystin could enter the 
Temple without being incinerated?
Trystin didn't know. What was also clear to him was that 
the only way he'd get off Orum was if they thought he were 
dead, and most times, dead men didn't go anywhere.
This time was going to be the exception-he hoped-at 
least if they let him play it out his way. If his keys worked . . . 
if his alternative identity worked for a bit... if his theology 
was correct ...if...
He took a deep breath. After dinner he had more 
memorizing to do-the whole stack of papers he'd written 
out. The last thing he needed was to forget his lines in the 
middle of the Temple-assuming he got that far. The Service 
would get its assassination, and so would the Revenants. He 
hoped he could deliver even more. He had to. He also hoped 
he didn't have another nightmare-sleeping or awake-but 
that was probably asking too much.
He hoped, again, he was reading Orr correctly, and that 
Brother Khalid had been right about the Revenants seldom 
lying.
66
Through the night, every sound, every rustle seemed 
magnified, but no one pounded on the door
to his room, and in time, Trystin slept, if not nearly so 
well as he would have wished, with the words and phrases he 
had committed to memory running through his mind. He tried 
not to dwell on the shakiness of what he planned-or the 
suspicions that somehow he'd been programmed to do it by 
Rhule Ghere.
In a way, neither mattered, now that Orr had effectively 
unmasked him. He had one chance, and that was it. So he 
slept and woke, slept and woke.
He struggled through an early breakfast-without any 
appearances by Brother Carson Orr-and the words and 
phrases he had committed to memory still ran through his 
thoughts, and kept recurring as he gathered himself and his 
equipment together.
At ten-thirty, Trystin parked the car on the street, two 
blocks off the square. The fabric clothes bag was out of sight 
in the trunk, although he had not officially checked out of the 
Promise Inn. After parking, he got out and walked toward the 
Temple. He was early, early enough so that if matters went as 
planned, which they probably wouldn't, he wouldn't be at the 
very back of the Temple. The ten-meter-wide sidewalks 
allowed quick movement and understated the large number of 
white-clad Revenants headed toward the Temple. Then again, 
he looked like any other white-clad Revenant, except he had 
certain equipment fastened in, around, and under what he 
wore. Like most of the men, around his neck was the brown 
sash of the returned missionary. Unlike most, he wore the 
gold stripe signifying service in the Fleet of the Faithful. His 
hip still twinged from the bruise received in his rescue of the 
two children, and he still wasn't sure whether the rescue had 
bought him time or brought him to the attention of the 
Revenants sooner than necessary-or both.
Ahead of him walked a gray-haired patriarch accompanied 
by three sisters, all three sisters with the elaborate swirled 
braids that seemed the norm, and all in long white dresses. To 
his left were two sisters walking side by side, although they 
wore long white trousers and long white jackets.
Trystin listened, hoping behind the faint smile on his face 
that his redesigned mission would shake up the almost blind 
faith of the Revenants. It probably wouldn't, but he had to try, 
and at least he should be able to accomplish the letter of the 
mission.
". . . always like the Farewell celebration for the 
missions..."
".. . told you that those girls needed more time at the lower 
school . . ."
". . . going on twenty years . .. Clyde should be returning 
soon..."
". . . won't look much older, they say . . ." ". . . hard to have a 
returnee not much older than the eldest wife's grandchildren . 
. ."
The flow of Revenants swept across the avenue into the 
square, and Trystin kept pace, turning his implant up full, 
ignoring the faint burning buzzing that invaded his whole 
nervous system. He was going to need the implant's full 
capacity, and that might not be enough.
The Temple gates were flung wide-all eight of the 
massive gates-each one opposite an Ark. Beside each gate 
was a pair of uniformed Soldiers of the Lord, but none bore 
obvious weapons in their dress white uniforms, trimmed with 
brass gleaming like burnished gold.
Trystin turned toward the gate opposite the Ark of 
Producing Waters, almost feeling immersed in the flood of 
quiet conversations.
". . . Jayne says they're going to name her son after some 
old composer. . ."
". . . add another room to the house once he marries Sitter 
Mergen..." "All the high admirals will be here . . ." ". . - just 
people of the Lord like us..." ". . . wish we didn't have to 
come. Mother . . ." Trystin forced a pleasant smile on his face 
as he looked up at the white shimmering walls of the Temple. 
Even from fifty meters away, he could sense the energy flows 
in and around the massively towering snow-white stone 
structure. He reached out with the implant. "Brother Hyriss!"
Trystin turned. There stood Carson Orr, walking toward 
him with a broad smile. "Brother Orr." Trystin extended a 
hand. "Brother Hyriss . . . I wondered if you would be here. 
Some returnees from the far lands find the Temple so 
overwhelming that they don't make it through the gates." Orr 
slipped into step beside him. "Like I said, though, you're not 
most folks."
"The Lord has called me." Now Trystin was definitely 
committed, and he resolved that his language had better 
match his actions, since he had no other options but to make 
his burnt offerings to the Prophet, so to speak. In the process, 
the Coalition would get its neutralization-if he had guessed 
right. If not, he was dead, one way or another.
If successful, whether he would plant enough doubts with 
the faithful was another question. "In what way. Brother 
Hyriss?"
Trystin used his implant systems to scan, as he could, Orr, 
but the man radiated no energies, and carried no energy 
weapons. Somehow, Trystin doubted that Orr carried 
something like a slug thrower, which meant that Orr was 
either relying on the gates to take care of Trystin-or 
something else. Or Trystin would simply be scooped up and 
taken care of after the ceremony, so that the Revenants could 
figure out how he entered the Temple.
"Each man is called in his own way. Brother," Trystin 
temporized, not wanting to reveal too much until he was 
actually inside the Temple, where he doubted that the 
Revenants would try to drag him away.
"Perhaps, but few of the returned are called again." Orr's 
eyes glanced to the right, and Trystin followed them, catching 
a glimpse of nearly a dozen white-clad men standing at the 
edge of the swirling flow of worshipers.
Trystin repressed a grin, then didn't have to make the 
effort. Even before he walked up to the Temple gates, the 
gates that pulsed with forces and the hidden systems that 
most Revenants never knew existed, Trystin knew that all the 
effort of the Eco-Tech science, false identity and all, even his 
basically Revenant gene patterns, would not be enough. 
Behind the shimmering white walls lay a system powerful 
enough to reveal him as the fraud he was... unless his risky 
scheme worked.
He'd been warned about the chance of being incinerated on 
the spot, but somehow it seemed more immediate, much 
more immediate, especially with Orr at his elbow. If he broke 
and ran, he didn't have much hope either-not that weapons 
were that much in evidence, even with the white-clad 
Soldiers of the Lord. But Carson Orr had his forces out and 
deployed, and even with full augmentation, Trystin wasn't 
going to win any contests of force-not for long. Besides, the 
fact that Orr was accompanying him and that the 
reinforcements were standing back might give him 
opportunity enough.
"I have returned." That was enough, and ambiguous 
enough. But he was sweating, despite the breeze that kept 
those around him cool.
Orr glanced sideways at him. "You look disturbed." Trystin 
definitely needed a key to the Temple. He swallowed. At this 
point, he could only hope he had the actual protocol. 
Otherwise he was dead, far sooner than he needed to be.
"What must be must be." Trystin looked at Orr. "Do not 
deny me what must be." He hoped he had the rhetoric close 
enough. If he were right, every word he said in the Temple 
would be recalled and studied.
Orr's brow crinkled, and his eyes darted back toward his 
troops-associates, whatever they might be, then back to 
Trystin.
As they approached the gates, Trystin stumbled and 
brushed the wall, staggering. "Are you all right Brother 
Hyriss?" "I think I tripped on something." Trystin stopped 
and massaged his leg, casting his implant toward the net that 
began a few meters before him. The mass of data was 
enormous, and he staggered, again, wiping his forehead as 
he straightened. What part of the key?
His father's explanation surfaced-"just like a Service 
protocol"-and he projected the key toward the net. 
"WELCOME, SON OF THE PROPHET!" The unseen and 
unheard greeting rolled through him, and he picked up the 
response, lying behind the greeting as if in plain view, and 
projected it back, both vocally and through the implant. "I 
greet the Souls of the Eternal and -the Revelations of the 
Book."
Beside him, Orr swallowed, hard and visibly. "Seems like 
I said, maybe, just maybe, you're not what you seem. At 
times . . . it sure is hard to figure how the Lord works."
Trystin stepped into the stone arch of the gate and the 
energies that swirled around and through it, using his key to 
the huge open-weave system to override the weapons , and 
energy detectors. His thoughts raced along the command 
paths, trying to analyze the checkpoints as he kept walking . . 
. and sweating. Orr kept close beside him.
"As you may behold," Trystin replied. "The Lord is the 
Lord, and none may deny Him or His works." Now was not 
the time to be cautious, because, one way or the other, he 
was committed.
He could sense the confusion from the main system 
network as a series of interrogatories flooded the system, 
but, with the override control he and his father had 
developed, he shunted them aside, touching the short-range 
improvised laser grip in his pocket. A slug thrower or a 
standard laser would have been far easier-he could have 
just bought a hunting weapon-but it wouldn't do what he 
had in mind.
A crooked smile crossed his face as he recalled the 
mission profile-the idea of keeping it simple. He almost 
laughed. Despite all the rhetoric about the need to keep 
things simple, simplicity usually didn't get the job done, not 
in complex societies.
Of course, there would be hell to pay, whether he 
succeeded or failed, but he only had to worry about it if he 
succeeded. And, as Brother Orr's presence had shown, he 
couldn't have succeeded with the Coalition's straight 
assassination-not and had any chance to escape.
Then, as he had come to realize over the past few days, he 
doubted that he'd ever been intended to escape. Officers who 
looked like Revenants were getting to be embarrassments in 
the Coalition, unless they died gloriously. He'd see what he 
could do about that.
The next set of arches contained the ultrasonic cleaners that 
vibrated dust and dirt loose from clothes, as well as- the 
gentle suction that whisked away all remnants of 
uncleanliness.
From what Trystin recalled, in the old days of Deseretism, 
all entrants to the Temple actually changed all their clothes, 
and the neo-Mahmets had left their shoes outside the 
mosques. Technology had simplified those aspects, at least.
". . . what will be will be. . . " subvocalized Orr. "And it will 
be the will of the Lord," Trystin added, as he picked up Orr's 
words.
"You are a surprising fellow," Orr said after a quick 
swallow.
"Surely you do not doubt the Lord and the sanctity of the 
Temple?" Trystin asked, as they continued past the second 
arch and into the vaulting antechamber to the Temple proper. 
His words were both for Orr and the recorders that 
monitored the Temple. ". . . not His will, but yours. . . " Orr 
said subvocally. Trystin would have agreed, but his plans 
didn't include admitting frailty at the moment, only planting 
more seeds for what he had planned, for his efforts to shake 
the entire faith of the Revenants. "His will be done." Orr's 
eyes glanced toward the right portal. "Through the left portal, 
Brother Orr." Trystin kept his head high, as would any 
returnee, proud to be able to bring thanks to his Lord. "Many 
returnees would prefer the right." "I stand on the left hand of 
the Lord." Especially since your statement tells me that you 
have some support arrangements on the right, Trystin 
reflected.
They slipped through another curtain of unseen energies 
and into the Temple proper, the white stone columns rising 
into an arch nearly fifty meters above the rows of straight-
backed white pews.
Trystin's eyes flicked across the Temple interior, and he 
jumped his reflexes and reactions a notch, as he tried to 
determine the location of the admirals and the bishops and 
archbishops and caliphs.
The information clicked into place as his eyes scanned the 
front of the Temple.
Trystin headed toward the left side of the center section, 
stopping beside a place almost on the wide side aisle. He 
stepped back. "After you. Brother Orr."
Orr looked at the aisle seat. "I was thinking I'd defer to 
you. Brother Hyriss, seeing as how you're more recently 
returned."
Trystin smiled. "After you. Brother. For you are honored 
and should sit on the right hand. Remember that in times to 
come." He didn't think that Orr would see the implied 
command exactly as an honor.
As he spoke, Trystin's commands, through his pilot implant,  
finally managed to unravel the open-weave channels enough 
to reach the control center. He ignored the sweat running 
down his back.
The older man paled for the first time. ". . . Lord help 
me..."
"He will. For is it not written that the work of the Lord is 
the work of all faithful souls?"
"I'm having a mite bit of trouble determining who's a 
faithful soul at the moment." Orr's folksiness seemed forced.
"Do not presume to know me, or the ways of the Lord," 
Trystin said quietly, but not quietly enough, for a sister in the 
pew in front glanced back at them. The whispers died away, 
to be replaced with music. Trystin didn't know if he were 
really ready, but he kept his implant merged with the 
Temple's open-weave system, ready to override the system, 
even as he continued to trace out the basic controls for 
lighting and the decorative lasers and sparklebeams.
The music swelled from the organ, augmented by underlying 
subsonics, designed to instill the feeling of awe.
Orr shifted his weight, and Trystin tried not to, even as his 
efforts with his implant sent another round of prickling and 
burning through his system. He had the feeling he was 
operating at the edge of his capabilities, as if he had much 
choice with Orr standing beside him and presumably 
knowing Trystin was a Coalition agent, albeit a strange one.
As the organ died away, a figure in white, enhanced by the 
sparklebeam that enshrouded him, stepped into the podium 
on the right front side of the Temple. He raised his hands, 
then lowered them as he began to speak. "We are gathered 
here in the name of the Lord, and of His Prophet, to celebrate 
and commemorate the sacrifice and the accomplishments of 
His missionaries, to consecrate ourselves, our souls and 
bodies, to the end that His work and the teachings of His 
Prophet shall not perish but ring through all the mansions of 
the Lord's domain. . . ."
Trystin let the bioimplants do their work, letting his eyes scan 
the row of archbishops to the side and below the Revelator's 
podium, until the pictures matched, and he identified 
Archbishop Jynckia.
"Let us pray . . .O Eternal Father, creator of bountiful 
worlds and endless heavens, maker of all things visible and 
invisible . . ."
Trystin's mind continued to work, running through the 
Temple's net system until he had the overrides well in hand, 
including the locks on the control systems-someone had 
designed the system to be able to lock out the technicians in 
the upper booths . . . and Trystin was going to use that ability.
Orr shifted his weight as he stood beside Trystin, head 
bowed.
". . . determiner of all that can be determined. . . knower of 
all that can be known. . . . Grant us Thy peace." "Amen."
After the prayer, the Revenants sat down, and Trystin 
followed their example. "The Revelator of the Prophet!" A 
series of trumpet notes, cascading from nowhere, filled the 
Temple, and the unheard subsonics rumbled and created more 
awe.
Just as the Revelator rose, so did Trystin, setting his hand 
on Orr's shoulder, and whispering. "Be of good courage, and 
deny me not, for what will be is the will of the Lord."
Orr clutched at Trystin, but Trystin slipped from the older 
man's grasp with the speed of enhanced reflexes and 
metabolism.
Calling on the laser sparklelight to surround him, to give 
him the aura of a saint, he walked up the aisle. He also locked 
out the speaker to the podium where the Revelator stood. 
"...oh..." ". . . not in the program ..."
Forcing himself to carry himself as a stately figure, not 
quite ponderously, he walked the ten meters to the base of 
what he would have termed a sanctuary, then ascended the 
two steps. A faint murmur ran through the faithful as he 
turned, ignoring the Revelator at the podium.
"You have called upon the Lord, knower of all that can be 
known. Do you not think that He knows those among you 
who have profaned His will? You have called upon the Lord 
the creator. Do you not think that if they cast down this 
Temple, the Lord would rebuild it, almost before your eyes?" 
Trystin wasn't above using the hidden amplifiers to boost his 
voice, or jacking up the subsonic overtones. He just hoped his 
memory would hold all that he had planned and memorized. 
He was also, belatedly, very glad he had reread Chaplain 
Matsugi's handout after Commander Folsom's long-ago 
tongue-lashing . . . and that he had been required to bring a 
Book of Toren with him-necessary for the details behind his 
speeches.
A whispering began to fill the Temple, and Trystin boosted 
his voice to almost booming power.
"Once was a son of God betrayed, and once was a prophet 
betrayed, and yet in the years in which we live another has 
been betrayed . . . betrayed by hatred and betrayed by another 
false god. Our God is a God of love, and He has stood by us 
while we have followed hatred and destruction, for He is a 
God of love. He has stood by us while we have hunted down 
our fellows . - ." ". . . heresy . . ." ". . . get the controls .. ." ". . 
. they're locked . . ."
Trystin kept a straight face even as he could hear the 
priests muttering, then he turned and pointed at the two 
behind the Revelator.
"You have betrayed the Prophet, and the son of God and 
man, who sits at the right hand of the Father." As he spoke, 
he tweaked the controls, and the red-light laser flared across 
the two, illuminating them, but not harming either. "For lo, 
another will come to sit at the left hand of the Father."
Luckily, juggling the multiple controls mentally was not 
nearly so difficult as juggling the inputs on a translation ship, 
but how the results of his juggling would impact the 
Revenant beliefs-that would be another question.
Trystin turned toward Archbishop Jynckia, and another 
cone of sparklelight surrounded the white-haired archbishop 
with the tanned face and kindly smile. "You have been guilty 
of hatred and hypocrisy-even so, the Lord will take you 
unto Him."
The desperate mutterings and adjustments from the control 
booth simmered through him, and he tried to put them out of 
mind, even as he held to the control locks. ". . . madman . . ."
". . . Kersowin and Jynckia . . . have your heads . . ." Trystin, 
under the cover of the sparklelight, removed and powered the 
laser handpiece and grip, then raised his hands, directing the 
sparklelaser focus around him so that he shimmered and 
shone.
"The Lord has offered you love, and you have rejected that 
love. The Lord has asked you to love thy neighbor as thyself, 
and you have not. How can you bring the word of the Lord to 
your neighbor when you kill that neighbor before you come 
close enough to speak? How can you kill and speak of love in 
the name of your Lord? Yet, in the name of the Lord will I 
love you as I love myself-so I can do no less for me than for 
you."
As he spoke, he pointed the small, comparatively wide-
focused laser on Jynckia, and with a precision only possible 
through the implant and enhanced reflexes, swept it down the 
white-clothed figure, raising a shower of sparks and ashes. In 
little more than instants, the flames rose from the antique 
wooden box where the archbishop had been sitting.
Trystin didn't let himself feel any relief. The trickiest part 
was yet to come-portraying himself as prophet and sacrifice 
. . . and escaping it.
Trystin turned back to the stunned congregation, 
continuing with his prepared text and boosted speech.
"You know the Lord, and the Lord knows you in your 
hearts. Judge not, lest you be judged, and yet, I say unto you, 
even as He will raise this Temple in less than three days, yes, 
even in the quickness of time, will He also give me for you, 
for someone must speak for you. You who would not speak 
for love. For you, someone must speak. For you, someone 
must offer forgiveness. Someone must atone for you-both 
now and in the fullness of time."
Someone had to do something-that he knew, but he still 
fought the sense of hypocrisy all the way through the words. 
With the last syllable, Trystin triggered his reflexes into high 
speed and called in both the light cloak, and the projections. 
He stepped back behind the cloak of blinding light, and 
pointed the laser at the golden carpet, letting the smoke and 
fire grow, while the projections showed only flame.
Light flared through the Temple, light so brilliant that all 
the Revenants blinked, and their eyes watered. As they 
blinked and as they wept in spite of themselves, a figure in 
white blazed into smoke right on the steps between the 
podiums. That tall figure seemed to grow, to glimmer with 
golden light. Then it crumpled and vanished into trails of 
smoke, leaving only a burned circular space and ashes 
drifting through the air.
At the same time, Trystin filled the Temple with the 
deepest of the subsonics, then slipped through the back door 
into a sort of robing room, even as the lights dimmed, and 
those in the Temple rubbed their eyes again.
His hands were reddened, lightly burned, because the 
sparklelaser generated heat when it hit metal, and they hurt. 
Still . . . unless someone had smuggled high-tech recording 
equipment into the Temple, the Revenant worshipers should 
have been left with the lasting impression that one Brother 
Hyriss had offered himself as a sacrifice for them. With luck, 
Orr and the others would not be looking for a dead man.
With luck . . . but Trystin wasn't sure he could count on 
that, and he still had to get out of the Temple and off Orum, 
plus make some appearances as he departed-safe 
appearances ahead of the desperate dragnet that would be 
after him.
He dropped his reflexes down to one notch above normal, 
ignoring the pounding headache he already had developed, 
and used the Temple system to scan the area. No one was 
around, although he could sense the continuing efforts of the 
system technicians to unlock the Temple system.
He ran along the empty corridor and around two corners, to 
the staircase the system said was there. He bounded down 
three flights, moving as fast as he could to exceed the 
expectations of normal human ability. He'd pay later, but for 
now, he needed speed.
He made it to the ventilation and power-access tunnel that 
led under the square of the Ark of Healing even before the 
system registered the opening of the doors to the Temple.
He nodded and began to run along the catwalk. 
Unfortunately, the easy part was over, he feared, trying to 
breathe deeply and easily to force more oxygen into his 
system.
The access tunnel led into the maintenance room in the 
base of the Ark of Healing-an empty room, although he 
could sense voices in the adjoining area, presumably support 
staff of some sort. ". . .just another ceremony .. ." ". . . not so 
loud . . ."
Trystin smiled, but even that gesture hurt. He wiped his 
steaming forehead with the big handkerchief and eased his 
way to the maintenance staircase. Three flights up he broke 
the lock and stepped out onto the grounds. He was on the far 
side of the Ark of Healing, not all that far from the edge of 
the square.
He could see a few white-clad Soldiers of the Lord by the 
one gate in his field of vision, but they had not left their 
station in the few moments it took him to leave the square 
proper.
Walking briskly, he started toward the car, grateful that the 
streets and sidewalks were not totally empty, even as he 
could sense the growing roar from the area around the 
Temple behind him. From what he could determine, no one 
was following him. In a way that made sense. Traffic was 
controlled by access to Orum, and by the Temple. Few 
outsiders could escape the orbit-station screens. Anyone who 
did and who didn't go to the Temple sooner or later was 
suspect, and that assumed they were good enough to avoid 
raising immediate Revenant suspicions. Since the Temple 
had the power to destroy outsiders, sooner or later the culture 
destroyed all outsiders-without such amenities as extensive 
secret police. A few smart officials like Orr were probably all 
the Revenants needed.
He rubbed his forehead, which relieved some of the pressure 
there, but reminded him of the tenderness of his lightly 
burned hands. Sparklelasers did have some energy, which 
was why those who used them did not carry metals. He kept 
walking.
After covering the two long blocks away from the Temple, 
he slipped into the car, using his implant to check for added 
and explosive circuitry, but found none. He started the 
vehicle and pulled out into the sparse traffic, turning at the 
first corner. Behind him, he could see people beginning to 
boil out of the Temple Square area.
He headed down South Kingdom toward the Promise Inn, 
detouring at Loyola to stop behind a restaurant with an 
outside disposal unit in the alley. The laser and the powerpak 
went into the unit, and Trystin darted back to the car.
While they'd doubtless find the equipment, he didn't want 
to carry it, since it was burned out anyway, and if he were 
picked up, there was a slight chance they would be somewhat 
confused if he didn't have any weapons. That made him only 
slightly less of a damned fool.
Wystuh was essentially a weaponless city, and that might 
help. Then, again, it might not.
Trystin kept driving, wondering if Orr would believe his 
eyes or his feelings. Trystin was afraid the man-too smart 
for Trystin's good-would keep looking while everyone else 
remained in a state of cultural shock. Still . . . Orr was smart, 
and high enough in whatever organization to call his own 
shots-literally and figuratively.
Trystin nodded to himself and guided the car toward the 
Promise Inn. Orr would either come alone, or not at all.
67
When Trystin reached the Promise Inn, he checked the area, 
but everything looked normal. He parked back around the 
comer of the building on the far end away from the office, 
then walked back toward the empty office, passing his former 
room. In some ways, he wished that Orr or Sister Myra or 
one of the other wives would return quickly, or he would 
have to leave, and he really needed a witness or two, one who 
knew him and who would not be a threat.
After a time, a blue car appeared. Trystin forced a smile, 
waited, and, after jamming his reflexes, metabolism, and 
hearing into high, scanned the area. He could sense no one 
but Orr and no unusual electronics. It might be worth the risk. 
He walked down the side of the building toward the vacant 
room he had left earlier. He opened the door and stood 
outside, waiting.
"Brother Hyriss, I'd sure be pleased if I might have a 
word." Carson Orr walked toward Trystin, his hands clearly 
in the open. A slow grin crossed his face. "Two returns in a 
lifetime . . . that's not something you see often."
Forcing his speech to be normal-so slow, it seemed- 
Trystin gestured to the door and answered, "People see what 
they want, not what is."
Without hesitation, Orr stepped inside. Trystin shut the 
door. Orr wanted something, besides Trystin's head, and that 
was a start. The Revenant security officer offered a rueful 
grin as he turned to Trystin. "Most folks, now, would take 
death as permanent. I was right, there, about you not being 
like most folks."
"I said the Lord would rebuild this Temple." Trystin 
shrugged.
"I'm not much on Scripture," Orr confessed, "but I recall 
that someone else said that, and I'm not convinced that 
you're exactly on the same side as that fellow. But I'd like to 
give everyone a fair chance."
"I am what I am." Trystin intended to play it out as well 
as he could, since Orr was clearly trying to convey 
something-and it wasn't something he wanted to share, 
since the Revenant had come alone. Trystin's implant and 
his enhanced senses could find nothing surrounding Orr, 
except for the small recorder trained on Trystin, and Trystin 
was going to use that to his own advantage to plant the seeds 
of doubt.
"Heck, that's almost like you're saying you're another 
prophet." Orr's tone turned rueful. "Folks like that tend to 
get locked up, you understand?"
Trystin shook his head slowly. "I claim nothing. All too 
often men and false gods claim. What matters a claim to the 
Lord? You have claimed you do the will of the Lord when 
you slaughter others. They claim the will of their Lord when 
they slaughter you. An older prophet said to consider the 
beam in your own eye before the mote in your brother's. The 
Lord is what the Lord is, and I am what I am."
"You're a young fellow to be a prophet, not a white hair 
on your head. Now, poor Admiral Jynckia, he looked like a 
prophet, you might say. Still can't figure out what he did that 
would have upset the Lord." Orr shrugged. "Or anyone 
else."
"Those who seek to destroy with fire can themselves be 
destroyed by fire. Destruction of those who could be' brothers 
and sisters is not a demonstration of love. And -the Lord has 
always been a God of Love."
"I'm not sure. . . what did that accomplish?" Orr's voice 
turned harder, and his eyes fixed on Trystin. "I don't 
understand. You can't say that the death of one admiral-"
"I was sent by a higher authority to deliver a message. The 
Lord does not beg, but He will instruct." Trystin smiled. 
"Now . . . I have done what I was sent to do, and those who 
have eyes to see and ears to hear may learn more of the will 
of the Lord."
"I'm thinking you'd better wait and come with me, young 
fellow."
"My time has come." Trystin moved, and Orr's hands came 
up, but far too slowly, as Trystin flashed around behind him, 
delivering two quick blows that the hidden recorder would 
not pick up-blows more dangerous than fatal ones if they 
failed, but the agent, for Orr could be nothing else, crumpled. 
Trystin needed no more dead bodies. Too many belonged to 
him already.
Trystin deactivated the recorder, and then laid Orr out on 
the bed.
For the second time, he left the room. "Brother Hyriss, is that 
you?" Sister Myra came out as Trystin glanced toward the 
office.
He smiled. Step two. "The Temple has been razed, and 
restored. Remember-the Lord is a God of Love." The sisters 
turned and looked at each other. "But . . . you were burned. 
We were at the Temple." Trystin offered what he hoped was 
a gentle smile. "I am as real as you." He extended an arm. "Is 
this not flesh?"
Finally, Sister Elena touched his sleeve, and then his hand. 
"He feels real. His hands are red, as if they were burned and 
are healing." "Were your hands burned?" asked Sister Myra. 
"You saw the fire, didn't you?" Trystin asked, evading the 
question. "All men must burn, sooner or later." "But..."
"I have come to do what I was charged with, and now I 
must return." That was certainly true, and he felt better when 
he could stick to the literal truth. Again, the two exchanged 
glances. "For a time, I will go as others do, and then I will 
return to my place in the Lord's mansions." Again, his words 
were mostly true. "You were destroyed in fire."
"Did I not say that the Lord would rebuild this Temple?" 
Trystin forced himself to keep the smile in place, although he 
could feel the burning spreading through his body.
The first steps were complete in planting the seeds of 
doubt about the infallibility of the Revenants' revealed 
religion. Perhaps Sister Myra and Sister Elena would help 
spread those doubts.
68
AS he crossed the terminal, Trystin avoided the Orum Rental 
counter. Sister Arkady Lewiss or not.
The rental car would have just mysteriously returned, 
and Trystin smiled at the thought.
His smile vanished as he walked and thought about Orr. 
He still didn't quite understand the man's game. Orr had 
dropped the folksy tone, almost as if to force Trystin into 
either disabling him or killing him. Why?
As he pondered, he glanced around casually. There were 
advantages to looking average. Trystin passed several other 
tall blond men in the terminal as he headed for the interstellar 
terminal. At least he didn't stick out the way he would have in 
Cambria.
His thoughts about Orr would have to wait as he stepped 
up to the passage counter, where, not surprisingly, there was 
no line. He offered a worried look. "Is there any way I could 
get on the Braha ship?"
"They're loading the shuttle now. Brother . . . and with the 
clearances . . ." "I understand. - . ." Trystin let his face hang. 
"You see. .. it's my sister's son. I just found out. It's his 
Farewell, and I only returned myself. . . ." The sister behind 
the counter nodded sympathetically. Trystin slipped the 
databloc and card onto the counter. "If you could do 
something . . ."
"I'll try, Brother." She took the databloc that identified him 
as Brother Stannel Svensen.
Trystin kept his hearing intensified, despite the buzzing 
and flashes of burning through his system.
"Let him go, Doreen," said an older sister behind the 'counter. 
"There's space, and you know the directive we got..."
"Let me flash the shuttle." She picked up the handset. 
"Shuttle two, we have another passenger for Braha. We can 
get him there in five."
" . . five we can handle. . . " Trystin could hear the tinny 
voice at the other end.
"Brother Svensen, you're in luck. We need to hurry. " She 
flashed him a smile, handed him back the databloc and credit 
strip, as well as a folder and a keycard, and slipped from 
behind the counter, walking almost at a run.
Trystin tucked the folder into his jacket pocket, and kept 
pace easily as they went up a back set of stairs and along a 
narrow corridor. He'd been hoping that leaving somewhere 
might just be easier than entering. So far, so good.
"You're lucky. Brother. The star traffic is down these days, 
and an extra passenger sometimes means a lot." She opened 
the staff door to the upper concourse. "There's the shuttle."
"I do want to make this Farewell," Trystin said, another 
statement with a great deal of literal truth. "You shouldn't 
have any problem. Here we are." Trystin handed the square 
keycard to the shuttle attendant and ran his second phoney ID 
through the reader. The light blinked green.
The sister who had helped get him on the shuttle flashed a 
smile and waved. Trystin smiled back. "You're cleared, 
Brother," said the shuttle attendant.
"Please take a seat, any free seat, as quickly as you can. I'll 
take your bag and stow it." She closed the door behind him 
and followed him down the shuttleway.
"This the last one. Sister Liza?" asked the junior single-
suited pilot just inside the lock. "He's the one. Gives you 
fourteen." "So long as we're over breakpoint I'll take his 
gear." Trystin slipped past the two, amazed in a way that the 
pilots had no net system and ran the shuttle through purely 
manual controls.
The interior of the spaceplane smelled clean, the same 
scent of lavender and pine, and the same tiredness associated 
with the equipment. The interior was a pale off-green shade, 
and that meant a different tired spaceplane nearing the end of 
its service life.
He strapped into the first open seat, a wall seat. There were 
no ports or windows, and an older white-haired man shifted 
his weight to let Trystin sit down. "Please make sure your 
harnesses are securely fastened." "They always say that," 
observed Trystin's seatmate. "You'd have to be a fool not to 
strap in." Trystin completed clicking his harness in place. 
"You the one they held the shuttle for?" "I think so. It took 
me longer to get to the port from Wystuh than I'd planned." 
"You drive?" "Unfortunately." "I took the trolley. It's much 
faster." "You travel this route much?" Trystin asked. "Not so 
often as I used to. They keep jacking up the prices. 
Everything's more expensive. I can remember when you 
could go out to dinner at a fancy place like the Peaks or 
Krendsaw's, and all it cost was three dollars for a couple."
Trystin reflected as the shuttle lurched backward from the 
terminal-he hadn't seen a meal for less than about eight 
Revenant dollars for one person. "And it wasn't that long 
ago." "You can't do that now," agreed Trystin.
"You can't even come close. I don't know how you younger 
people will manage. Now that they're allowing six wives . . . 
it's been hard enough for us, and I was only blessed with 
four."
A muffled roar rose into a high-pitched whine, and the 
shuttle began to accelerate down the long runway, the noise 
drowning out all possibility of normal conversation. The 
sound burned through Trystin, and he frantically dropped his 
sensory perceptions to normal, but some of the buzzing and 
burning remained, enough that a residual burning gnawed at 
him.
With a deep breath, Trystin leaned back and closed his 
eyes. Acceleration or not, noise or not, he was exhausted, and 
most of the noise seemed to die away. Out of a gray fog a 
spear of light flashed. "Abomination of the Lord.' . . ." A 
Soldier of the Lord pointed a laser at Trystin as he tried to 
scramble from the seat, even as he knew it was a dream.
He tried to shake his head, trying to swim out of the 
fatigue-induced nightmare, but his head did not want to 
move. Lances of light bracketed him.
"Doubter . . . how can you doubt the will of the Lord."' His 
hip burned, and so did his eyes-
"Please remain in your seats until docking is complete. 
Please remain in your seats until docking is complete."
Trystin jerked fully awake. The words had buzzing 
overtones that worried him. He was the one having the 
doubts, not the Revenants, and it shouldn't have been that 
way. As he shifted his weight, the bruised hip throbbed. 
"They always say that," observed Trystin's seatmate. 
"Probably because people don't stay in their seats." "Wasn't 
like this years ago. People had better manners, and a smile for 
everyone."
"Why do you think it's changed?" Trystin asked, taking the 
handkerchief and wiping his forehead. A soft clunk ran 
through the spaceplane. "The Ecofreaks. It takes so much 
energy and so many resources to support the missions there. 
Look at this shuttle. It's old, like me. "The other shrugged. 
"Something has to change."
"Docking is complete. You may leave the shuttle and claim 
your bags."
"It's begun to change. Brother," Trystin said. "God is the 
Lord of Love." He smiled. "If you'll excuse me. I'm on my 
way to an important Farewell." "Oh . . . certainly." "Thank 
you."
Trystin scurried forward and grabbed the light fabric bag 
from the racks and rushed through the lock. .So far, it looked 
as though the Revenants hadn't put together his death and 
resurrection-at least no one but Orr had, and the agent 
probably hadn't been found yet.
Trystin worried his lip. What had Orr been trying to tell 
him? Had the agent wanted him to escape? Why? He kept 
walking.
The Orum orbit station still smelled like a mixture of 
plastic, metal, warm oil, ozone, and people. Trystin added 
one more smell-fear-his. He just hoped it weren't as 
apparent to others as to him as he headed toward the tube 
slide to the upper level where the Braha transport waited.
At the top of the tube, he waited behind a thin mid-aged 
sister with heavy gold rings on her fingers. The Soldier of the 
Lord handed her back her card and databloc, and nodded. 
"Next."
Trystin put his bag on the belt, and then slid his keycard 
and ID across the counter. Both went into a console that 
winked green. The Soldier handed them back to Trystin. 
"Next."
Trystin walked through the gate and then picked up his bag 
and headed toward alpha four, where the Braha transport was 
scheduled to be loading.
About a dozen people walked or sat in the hard plastic 
chairs along the corridor wall. Trystin was grateful for the 
station's half-gravity, and for the nap on the shuttle, but he 
still felt light-headed and hot. Was he getting sick?
He forced himself to concentrate until he sat in one of the 
vacant plastic chairs, waiting for the announcement to board 
the shuttle. When he closed his eyes, red flashes seemed to 
cross the inside of his lids. If he left his eyes open, they 
burned.
He alternated opening and closing his eyes while he waited 
for the boarding announcement to come-hoping it would 
before anyone came looking for him. He half wondered if 
anyone cared. Then he shook his head. Orr had certainly 
cared. . . yet he hadn't brought a whole crew of agents with 
him, and the scene outside the Temple had indicated that Orr 
certainly could have.
"We are now ready to board the Braha transport. You are 
limited to three bags. Please carry them with you and give 
them to the crewman in the baggage section of the transport. 
Board through the lock marked alpha four. Alpha four for the 
Braha transport."
Trystin stood and ended up in the middle of the two dozen 
souls waiting outside the lock tube for the attendant to reread 
their keycards. Then, with the others, he filed down the lock 
tube to the transport heading to Braha.
"You're traveling light," observed a man not much older 
than Trystin.
"Going to a Farewell and then where I've been called." The 
other nodded, handed two large bags to the crewman, and 
walked forward. Trystin handed over his single light bag.
"I wish we got more of these," said the crewman with a 
smile.
"I wish I had more to put in it," countered Trystin. He 
turned and walked forward into the cramped passenger 
compartment. As on the transport he had taken on his way to 
Orum, the seats were clean, but old, with scratches in the 
heavy plastic parts polished over.
Trystin sank into a seat and waited, trying to ignore the 
burning and buzzings that spread from his implant through 
his entire body, still trying to puzzle out Orr's game . . . and 
the role the Farhkans had played. It almost seemed as if Orr 
had wanted him to succeed after the mess in the Temple, yet 
Orr had been ready to drag him in for interrogation 
beforehand.
What did the Farhkans get out of it all? One assassination 
more or less couldn't have concerned Rhule Ghere in the 
slightest. Yet the Farhkan had claimed he was Trystin's 
patron, whatever that meant.
Trystin had played prophet for a religion he didn't believe 
in, helped by an alien who'd stolen the open-weave net keys 
without ever offering the slightest guidance-except . . . had 
the Farhkans played with his mind? Could they do that?
He winced, and the buzzing in his head got even worse, 
and, again, he struggled with pure physical pain, almost a 
relief after the moral questions.
69
"Can violence and the use of force to effect change upon the 
universe be left to the young? Do they see
what was, what is, and what might yet be? Have they 
suffered, watched evil fall upon the good, or good upon the 
evil?
"Or should the burden of violence be left to those who can 
bear it most lightly-upon those who have closed their minds 
or their feelings? How then can they understand the suffering 
that they must inflict?
"Should the burden of force be laid upon the short-lived, 
who will not see the consequences of their actions? How can 
they dispense force with compassion if they can escape the 
knowledge of what they do? . . .
"The greater the force brought to bear, the older and wiser 
must be the entity who wields it. Wisdom allows sorrow. Age 
allows experience, and knowledge reinforces wisdom and 
experience....
"Those who would bear the burden of force must be those 
who are strong and do not seek it, for those who seek force 
would misuse it, and those who are weak would shy from 
what they must do. . . ."
Findings of the Colloquy [Translated 
from the Farhkan]                             
1227E.N.P.
70
Ignoring the faint buzzing that had hovered in and around 
him since well before the translation from the Jerush system 
to the Braha system, Trystin blotted his forehead with the 
handkerchief that had become almost as damp as the sodden 
white shirt under his white suit coat. Sitting more than three 
hours in the poorly ventilated transport had left all the 
passengers looking wilted.
He blotted his forehead again, wondering how much longer 
before the transport would dock at Braha station. A flicker in 
the ship's system tingled through his implant, and the burning 
through his nerves intensified fractionally, then dropped. Was 
that part of the penalty for becoming an assassin, or just an 
inadvertent by-product? Assassin. . . he still didn't like the 
term, but he'd done it, and whether Jynckia had been an 
admiral or not, killing him in the Temple had been different 
than in a perimeter battle. Trystin just hoped his 
modifications had made it worth more than a meaningless 
assassination.
The minute fluctuation in the artificial gravity signified some 
power change, hopefully the final deceleration into the 
station. Trystin took a deep breath. Since messages had to be 
carried between systems, it looked as though he actually had 
a good chance to escape-unless a fast courier were right 
behind the transport. Once more he blotted his face as the 
ship's net revealed the approach to the orbit station. He 
massaged his forehead in an effort to reduce the throbbing in 
his temples.
The transport shivered with a faint thump, and Trystin 
straightened in his seat.
"We have docked at Braha station. Before leaving your 
seat, please collect your belongings. Then move to the 
baggage bay behind the rear of the cabin to claim your bags 
before leaving the transport. Please make sure you have all 
your belongings. "
Trystin unfastened the harness and eased to his feet, 
nodding politely at the middle-aged Revenant in the seat 
across the aisle. He walked stiffly back to the baggage bay, 
arriving behind two other men. As they took their bags, 
Trystin grabbed his single bag and lifted it off the rails. He 
staggered when he went through the lock into full station 
gravity, but caught himself. His hip throbbed from the sudden 
lurch. "Careful there, ser."
"Thank you." Trystin forced himself erect. Pursuit or not, 
there were limits to how far he could push himself. He 
needed something to eat, something to drink, or he wasn't 
going to have the energy to do anything, or the ability to 
think through anything. He dragged himself toward the main 
corridor. The Eatery wasn't much more than four tables and a 
counter dispensing rehydrated food and juices, but Trystin 
didn't care as he leaned against the counter. "The pasta, 
please."
"Rough trip. Brother? What do you want to drink?" "Some 
limeade and some water. It was hot. It seems like it gets 
hotter every time."
"That's what a lot of people say. Sit down. I'll call you." 
Trystin slumped into a plastic chair at a plastic table bolted to 
the plastic-covered station deck. In the corridor outside, a 
string of people walked briskly by, intermittently, some in 
uniform, others in shipsuits. A few men wore white suits, and 
a few women wore checked dresses. "Pasta's ready." Trystin 
stood and handed over the credit strip.
"That'll be fifteen."
He winced at the cost, not that it mattered in a way. 
"Everything has to come up by shuttle. Brother." "I know, 
but-"
"You've got to eat." The counterman smiled 
sympathetically.  "You get to leave. I'm here all the time. 
This is my off-shift job. Takes two to make ends meet, these 
days." "Sorry." Trystin had been hearing that a lot. "We all do 
what we have to."
"Right." Trystin juggled the squarish plate and the two 
plastic tumblers over to the small table and began to eat. The 
pasta had a consistency somewhere between soggy paper and 
rubber eggs, with a taste combining the best of each. The 
sauce tasted like glue flavored with lemonade. Trystin ate it 
all, and drank all of the bitter limeade and the large glass of 
water.
The worst of the headache began to subside even before he 
finished the pasta, but the burning that ran from the implant 
throughout his body only receded to a tingling. Maybe he just 
needed rest-and quiet-but it was going to be a while 
before he got that.
He sat for a few minutes after he finished, but only for a 
few minutes. Then he picked up his bag and headed for beta 
three and the Paquawrat. The courier/trader was supposed to 
be waiting. He hoped it was. He was tired, and it probably 
wouldn't be too long before a courier arrived at the station 
with a pickup order for Wyllum Hyriss, or anyone looking 
like him.
He shifted the bag from his right hand to his left and kept 
walking along the gently curved corridor.
Beta three seemed deserted. The seals across the lock door 
remained intact. Trystin glanced in both directions and 
walked straight down to the lock, using the implant to open 
the ship's lock. Crack!                         . The seals splintered as 
the lock opened partway. Trystin stepped up to the lock, then 
paused and turned as a faint vibration, barely sensed above 
the renewed burning and static from the implant, warned him.
"What are you doing there, Brother?" The Security Guard 
lumbered toward Trystin, the stun rifle pointed in his general 
direction.
"Nothing. Came down here to find a friend. . . ." Trystin 
held up his hands. He should have guessed the Revenants 
might have had at least a cursory watch on the Paquawrat. "I 
was standing here. I was just standing here. See?" He pointed 
toward the partly open lock door. "It just opened."
The guard's eyes flicked toward the door. "Peace be with 
you." Trystin accelerated and used his speed to rip the rifle 
out of the guard's hands and to turn it on the guard. Thrum.
His arms burned as he set the rifle beside the unconscious 
guard. But he had no time to waste as he cranked open the 
lock door manually, just wide enough to slip inside. His guts 
wrenched upward as he left the station gravity and entered 
the almost null gee of the ship.
He ignored the stale air and his tendency to float away 
from the lock mechanism, but he didn't know how long 
before the alarms would bring another set of guards or 
soldiers running. So he jammed his feet under the hold bar 
and kept cranking. Then he slammed the manual locks in 
place and float-stumbled into the cockpit, where he used the 
remaining power in the accumulators to start the fusactor.
Once the fusactor was running, he put on minimal gravity 
and hurried back to the lock to release the mechanical 
holdtights. That left the ship held to the station only through 
the magnetic holdtights.
He stood behind the pilot's couch and stripped off the still 
damp and smelly white suit, shirt, and Revenant 
undergarments, even while he used the implant to begin the 
departure checklist. After pulling on dry undergarments and a 
dry shipsuit, he dropped into the pilot's couch and completed 
the checklist.
His headache had returned-not the best of signs-but he 
needed the speed and reflexes. He checked the 
representational screen and the ship's position.
Once everything seemed in the green, he pulsed the station. 
He might as well try to do it openly. He called up the canned 
flight profile that outlined the flight from Braha to Alundill.
"Braha Control, this is Hyndji ship Paquawrat. Request 
clearance for departure this time."
"Hyndji ship Paquawrat, this is Braha Control. Request 
flight profile. Interrogative flight profile."
"Braha Control, Paquawrat, profile follows." Trystin 
pulsed the profile to the station control, then demagnetized 
the holdtights, watching the screens. Even without thrusters, 
the ship should slowly begin to separate from the station.
"Roger, Paquawrat. Request pilot clearance code." Trystin 
mentally fumbled with Svenson's pilot code, then answered, 
"Braha Control, pilot number is S-S, that is Sierra, Sierra, 
one, four, five, four, two, Cat. Sierra, Sierra, one, four five, 
four, two. Cat." He wiped his forehead, not liking the pilot 
number request. While it wasn't that untoward, his briefing 
materials indicated that number requests were seldom made 
for outbound vessels, and Svenson was only on file as a 
backup, which could raise other flags. "Paquawrat, please 
stand by."
Mental alarms went off, and Trystin gave the attitude jets 
and the thrusters the faintest of pulses to orient the ship clear 
of the station and perpendicular to the system's ecliptic.
"Hyndji ship Paquawrat, this is Braha Control, do you read? 
Do you read? Request your intentions this time."
"Braha Control, this is Hyndji ship Paquawrat. Awaiting 
clearance this time. Awaiting clearance this time." Trystin 
watched the gentle separation from the station, hoping his 
minimal single-time use of thrusters and jets had gone 
unnoticed and that he would have adequate clearance before 
Braha Control realized what he was doing. "Roger, 
Paquawrat. Request you stand by."
"Roger, Braha Control." Trystin could sense almost twenty 
meters had opened between the Paquawrat and the station.
"Paquawrat, request you return to beta three this time." 
"Braha Control," stalled Trystin, "Hyndji ship Paquawrat 
berthed at beta three." The separation was now thirty meters 
and had to be obvious to Braha Control.
"Paquawrat, request your immediate return to beta three 
this time. You are not cleared for departure. I say again. You 
are not cleared for departure."
"Roger, Braha Control, proceeding with departure this 
time." Trystin pushed the thrusters up to five percent- close 
to the safe limit so near the station-and the Paquawrat 
began to accelerate away from the system.
"Hyndji ship Paquawrat, return to Braha station 
immediately. Return to Braha station immediately."
"Braha Control, say again your last. Please say again your 
last." The trader continued to move away from the station, 
and Trystin eased in more power, trying to keep the thrust as 
high as possible without bringing the cutting range of the 
thrusters close to the station.
"Paquawrat, return to Braha station. If you do not return, 
you will be fired upon. If you do not return, you will be fired 
upon."
Trystin upped the thrust to thirty percent, waited, and then 
went to eighty percent. He scanned the screens, especially the 
EDI indicators, for signs of Revenant warships.
The EDI remained unchanged, and he added full thrust 
through the implant, again massaging his head at the burning 
that resulted.
Three minutes passed, then five, and Trystin waited as the 
Paquawrat barreled toward the upper fringe of Braha system 
perpendicular to the ecliptic. No matter where the Revenant 
ships were, no matter how fast, they couldn't get an angle on 
the Paquawrat. It would be a stern chase all the way.                     
-
Trystin didn't want to think about the translation error he 
was going to pile up, not at the moment.
Two points of light flared on the EDI-bright blue-white-
and dotted tracks flared from off the fifth planet.
"Scouts," he muttered to himself, as he checked their 
speed. Both were already running at slightly over a hundred-
percent normal flank speed.
"Hyndji ship Paquawrat, this is Braha Control, do you 
read? Do you read? This is your last warning. Request you 
return to Braha station. If you return, you will not be fired 
upon. I say again, if you return you will not be fired upon."
Great to be so popular, reflected Trystin. Still . . . maybe-
Just maybe-his plan had worked. There were only two 
scouts on his tail, and that was standard for an unidentified 
commercial ship. Then again, they didn't need more than two 
for an unarmed ship, although they wouldn't have known that 
the shields were military strength.
His body burned almost continually now-clearly the 
result of overuse of his implant and high reflex and metabolic 
rates.
The EDI traces showed the steady closure of the scouts. 
Trystin checked the dust density. Still too high for 
translation, but thinning rapidly.
Another ten minutes passed, and the two Revenant ships 
were closing, even as the Paquawrat had begun to warp the 
time envelope, ever so slightly.
There were no further transmissions from the Revenants, 
just the steady closure of the two scouts.
Trystin's thoughts seemed crystal clear beyond the pain, yet 
he knew he wasn't thinking clearly. What would happen when 
he returned? If he returned? He recalculated the closure rates 
and plotted them against the dust density. Close-it would be 
close.
Too close. He upped the fusactor to one hundred ten percent 
and clicked off the time. Basically, he had five minutes at that 
level before he started to degrade the system, and he should 
have applied the additional acceleration earlier. The apparent 
clarity of his thoughts was a definite illusion. The scouts 
inched closer on the representational screen; the dust density 
edged downward; and the minutes passed.
After four minutes and fifty standard seconds of one-
hundred-ten-percent power, Trystin dropped the fusactor 
output to one-hundred-percent normal rated maximum 
output.
The rate of closure had grown smaller. Had the Revenants 
strained their systems too much in the beginning?
If he did make it back, to what could he look forward? Would 
it be a suicide command in the Parvati system? Or a quiet 
disappearance? The subject of riots in Cambria every time he 
stepped outside? Would the Revenants launch some sort of 
all-out attack? Would he be the scapegoat for it? Had he 
jabbed at their religion too hard? Or would anyone care? His 
lips tightened as he thought about the key to the Temple. ...
The dust density dropped to the point of allowing emergency 
translation. Trystin checked the ranges. The Revenants were 
still out of max torp range.
He kept calculating-range versus dust; dust versus range.
"Initiate translation sequence." Trystin pulsed the order to the 
system. "Sequence initiating."
As he monitored the power buildup, another thought - struck 
him. There had to be holos of him in the Temple, and the 
Service would want to know how he'd gotten there. He 
swallowed, and another spear of pain lanced through his 
skull. What could he do? Surprisingly, words flashed through 
his mind, old words. "There's a rumor. If you slew the ship 
and apply power just as you translate-it increases the 
translation error severalfold, maybe more."
Trystin applied full power to the thrusters, and thanked 
Ulteena, knowing he probably wouldn't see her again, or 
perhaps anyone he had known in the Coalition, and regretting 
that. He hadn't realized how much he would miss her, how 
very much. There was a lot he hadn't realized.
His fingers were shaking, and each computation seemed to 
take longer, and longer. Strings of equations danced along his 
fingers, and rings of light surrounded everything his eyes 
rested upon. Every movement of his head burned, and if he 
turned quickly his booted feet twitched.
Just before he pushed the translation stud, Trystin 
remembered to touch the false stud and flick the thruster 
tuning switch. He hoped it wouldn't be that critical with the 
translation error he was piling up. Then again, he was headed 
to Farhka, and who knew how they felt about time?
He slewed the Paquawrat and triggered translation . . . ... and 
black became white, and white black . . . and for that endless 
moment the ship was in translation, he was bathed in ecstasy, 
the pain gone, pleasure running through him with the black 
light. Thud!
With the drop into real time, the haze of burning red pain 
returned-intensified-as the Paquawrat thrust through 
normal space outside Farhka . . .somewhere .-. . somewhen.
With the blurriness of his vision, and the stabbing in his 
skull, focusing on even the representational screen was 
difficult, but necessary since the Paquawrat was high above 
the ecliptic and on an angled course away from Farhka that 
he had to correct, without dropping inside the orbit of the 
sixth planet.
"There . . ." There. . .there. . . there. . . His own words echoed 
inside his skull and ears, and his eyes watered. He closed 
them and felt as though he were twirling upside down. He 
opened his eyes, and knives of light stabbed through them..
Silently, slowly, he refocused his attention on the approach 
course to the outer Farhkan station. The briefing profile had 
cautioned against going inside the orbit of the sixth planet. At 
least the outer orbit station showed on the screens, almost like 
an energy beacon, and he aimed the Paquawrat toward that 
beacon.
Then he leaned back in the couch and tried not to see 
anything, nor to hear anything. Nor to think-not about the 
images of Soldiers of the Lord, nor an archbishop whose fault 
had been to be in the wrong place with the wrong name, nor 
Quentar who'd thought the only safe Revenant was a dead 
one, nor James who'd saved his neck more than once with his 
knowledge and never asked for acknowledgment, nor 
Ulteena, who'd taught him the value of anticipation and never 
asked. . . .
The accumulators hiccuped, and the hiccup jolted down 
his spine. Both feet twitched, and his boots thumped the 
cockpit floor.
He sighed, and his, breath sounded like a hurricane 
whistling through his body. He tried to tamp down his 
sensitivity, but nothing happened. His breath still rumbled 
and whistled, and his feet twitched.
Slowly, he studied the system readouts. He had another 
two hours of torture before he reached the outer Farhkan 
station.
The time passed slowly, the red haze swelling and ebbing, 
his feet occasionally twitching, and each sound slashing at 
him. With his eyes open, the cockpit light as low as he dared 
leave it, his eyes burned. If he closed them, he seemed to 
whirl in space.
Periodically, he checked the ship, his position, and his 
progress. How much translation error he'd piled up he had no 
idea, because Farhkan systems didn't provide human-style 
comparators. He supposed the Farhkans could tell him.
Finally, after almost two hours, he straightened and 
transmitted. "Farhka Station one, this is Coalition ship 
Paquawrat, code name Holy Roller." Trystin took another 
deep breath. "Request approach clearance and lock 
assignment."
"Human ship, this is Farhka. Reason for your porting ' is 
what?"
"Request assistance. . . Coalition ship Paquawrat, code name 
Holy Roller, requesting refueling and assistance."
"Have you a patron? Please state the name of your 
patron."
Patron? What the hell was a patron? Patron. . . patron ... 
patron...
Trystin closed his eyes and wished he had not as the 
cockpit seemed to whirl around him. Patron?
Ghere! He'd said "patron" twice, emphasizing it. Trystin 
opened his eyes and said the name slowly. "Rhule Ghere. Dr. 
Rhule Ghere."
A hissing sound carried through him, a sound with knife 
edges. Then there was silence. Trystin began to decelerate, 
calculating his own approach. Five minutes passed . . . then 
ten. "Human pilot, please state your name. Please state your 
name."
"Trystin Desoll. Trystin Desoll. Major, Coalition Service."
Another hissing rushed through him, knife-edged, and he 
stepped up the deceleration. His feet twitched, and his jaw 
developed a tic.
He slowed the ship more, noting the two Farhkan craft that 
bracketed him, unable to do more than watch, half wondering 
if even the return flight profile had been a setup to ensure he 
never got back. Escaped assassins were embarrassments, he 
suspected, again, too late.
"Human pilot Desoll, you are cleared to dock. Follow the 
energy beacon. Follow the visual green light. Follow the long 
audio signal on your emergency frequency."
"Thank you, Farhka. I have the green light. . . ." Trystin 
winced as the sounds overpowered him, and he waited for 
them to pass. "I have the beacon."
Edging the ship up to the small lock was agony. Even the 
signals from the magnetic holdtights slammed through his 
implant as they locked the ship to the Farhkan station's hull.
Holding on to the edge of the couch, then bracing himself 
on the bulkhead, he shuffled toward the lock. His fingers 
trembled, and his arms shivered as he opened the lock.
In the locking port stood four Farhkans. Two trained some 
sort of heavy weapons on Trystin.
Trystin stepped from the ship, and the heavier gravity 
clawed at him. He tottered there for a moment, the strange 
clean and musky smell of Farhkans around him, the strange 
weapons they did not need pointed at him, when he could 
scarcely even walk.  He wavered for only a long moment 
before the darkness reached out of his brain and smote him 
down. 

71
"Without a deity the universe is uncertain. But, once the 
deistic faiths have been analyzed, they provide no greater 
certainty, nor is there any verified evidence that deities per se 
have improved humanity or its institutions. Certainly, 
improvements have occurred, but those improvements have 
been accomplished in purely human fashion. These 
accomplishments have proved that people can bring greater 
certainty, greater goodness, greater understanding into the 
universe, and, while they may have been inspired by faith, 
those good people have done so without the physical help of 
a deity.
"Thus, it can be argued that the invention of a deity only 
serves as a pretext for human beings to believe in a set of 
values beyond those rooted merely in self. Yet, most societies 
in history have chastised those individuals who have 
attempted to acknowledge publicly that need for a set of 
values beyond those rooted merely in the individual's needs, 
or that a 'mere' human being could consider and develop such 
values. Thus, great truths have always been presented in the 
guise of divinely inspired guidance.
"Yet theologies exist which claim that men and women 
will be as gods, or equal with god, upon their physical death, 
and they have proved immensely popular and successful, 
despite the inherent contradiction. How, logically, can death 
transfigure a man or woman into a being that much superior 
to the one who lived on earth? Such a theology avoids the 
need to admit that individuals can develop and live by a 
moral code with 'higher' values, as well as the need to admit 
the effort required in doing so, by providing a deity with the 
wherewithal to accomplish a theological transmutation 
almost magically. . . .
"That is the greatest danger in theology and deities- that 
they create the impression that goodness cannot be created or 
maintained by mere humans without divine help. This allows 
all measure of excuses . - . and strange contortions to explain 
perfectly logical occurrences. . . ."
The Eco-Tech Dialogues 
Prologue
72
In the darkness, angels with knives of fire seared his flesh, 
peeled back his skull, and flayed him with
whips of raw pain. Then they laid him upon an altar under a 
blazing sun and chuckled . . . chuckled . .. chuckled...
In the light, lashes of darkness froze his skin, stabbed 
through his thoughts, and . . . burned . . . burned . . . burned...
In the icy wastes of an unknown storm, he shivered as he 
burned, trying to explain without words while his words 
drifted unheard.
In the depths of an unknown ocean, he floated, not 
breathing, not drowning-just floating-while green-tusked 
whales hovered around his corpse. ...
Trystin groaned, amazed that he could speak, and that the 
sound did not deafen him. Finally, hoping that the cockpit 
was not too much of a mess-or had he actually reached the 
Farhkan station?-he opened his eyes.
Nothing spectacular. He half lay, half reclined, in 
something that looked like a cross between a bed and a long 
reclining chair. He wore nothing, but a loose sheet was 
draped over him. The reclining chair/bed rested in a cubicle 
perhaps three meters on a side.
"Do not be alarmed. Someone will be with you soon." The 
words scrolled through his head.
Trystin grinned, despite the strange surroundings. For the 
first time in years, there was no underlying static, no buzzing, 
no pain associated with the implant. And he felt good. He sat 
up and let the silky sheet slide back to his waist. He looked 
thinner, with some loss of muscle mass, but not a lot. That 
had to be expected from lying around whatever it was that 
passed for a Farhkan hospital. He hoped it was a Farhkan 
hospital.
The door irised open, and two Farhkans in shimmering 
gray fatigues stepped into the room. One carried a square 
satchellike bag. "Major Desoll?" "Yes? You're Rhule Ghere, 
aren't you?" "That is correct. This is Ruyalt Dhale. He is . . . a 
specialist." "In aliens like me?" "Yes." There was no humor 
in the response. "I'd like to thank you both. I was in pretty 
bad shape." "Yes." Ghere looked at Dhale. "You died. 
Neurosensory breakdown. It is said to be painful." "I died? I 
don't feel dead."
"You are very alive." The second Farhkan's "voice" carried 
a tinge of what Trystin could only have termed humor. "You 
will be alive for a long time. Please be still for a moment."
Trystin remained still as Dhale opened the satchel and 
focused an odd-shaped instrument on him, then another, and 
another.
Finally, Dhale straightened, packed his instruments back 
into the satchel, looked at Ghere, and departed.
"You may wish to wash before you resume your normal 
coverings, although I can assure you that you have been kept 
scrupulously clean." Ghere pointed to a standard-looking 
door. "Those are human facilities, built for your use." "Where 
are we?"
"You have remained on station one. That was more . . . 
expedient. I will wait outside. The main door will open as 
you near it." "My clothes?"
"In the facilities room." Ghere walked out as silently and 
stolidly as he had walked in.
Trystin eased off the hospital recliner and padded to the 
facilities room. Hanging on oblong hangers on the wall were 
undergarments and the gray shipsuit and accessories-all 
spotlessly clean. There was also a huge gray towel next to a 
narrow shower.
After using the facilities, Trystin felt his face-
cleanshaven. He showered and dressed quickly. Then he 
went to find Rhule Ghere.
Ghere, sitting in a large loungelike chair in a larger room 
outside the cubicle where Trystin had awakened, motioned 
to the other large chair. Trystin sat, feeling somewhat 
swallowed by the chair, and edged forward in it.
After a long moment of silence, Trystin said, "I don't know 
where to begin. I'd like to thank you again." "You may not 
wish to." "Why not?"
Ghere shifted his weight. "You died. We repaired you. 
But we could not repair you as you were. You have been on 
Farhka station for nearly two of your standard years."
Trystin swallowed. Then he asked, "I piled up some 
considerable translation error. Do you know how much?"
Ghere gave the impression of a shrug. "Not exactly. We 
did not know precisely . . ." "Just generally," Trystin pressed. 
"We calculated approximately thirteen of your years." Fifteen 
years! Gone. Trystin's mind blanked for a moment, but Ghere 
continued. ". . . because of your participation in the study, I 
did have your medical records. You are as close to what you 
were as was feasible to create you." "Create me?"
"You are a partly regrown version of you. Your entire 
neural system had to be replaced. Your memories were stored 
and replaced. Some of them may seem hazy at times." 
Ghere's voice floated through Trystin's thoughts, almost as 
though unrolling on his mental screen, but more completely 
and more quickly. "Do you know why we were required to do 
so much?"
"No." Trystin did not speak, just let the thought flow. "You 
should. In order to cope with the pressures of the Revenants' 
assaults, your people have used biotechnology, 
nanotechnology, and high technology to allow every officer 
in your Service to handle neural data loads beyond what one 
might call your design capacity." The mental equivalent of a 
chuckle followed. "Most have died young."
"What else could we have done? We don't have all those 
bodies. Over any length of time, no ecosystem will support 
that. The Great Die-off proved that, but the Revenants don't 
want to believe history."
"It is sad. Still . . . you have changed matters greatly. . . as 
you will find. . . ." Ghere projected a laugh into Trystin's 
thoughts. "For this we thank you."
"For what?" Trystin's lips tightened. "For being able to 
mess with my mind? To program me to get into the 
Revenants' Temple? What the hell else did you do to me?" 
He paused, then added, "And while you're at it, would you 
tell me why? Why, for god's sake?"
"You do not believe in god." Again, there was a semblance 
of a mental chuckle that ended quickly. "We did not program 
you, or exert any compulsion on you. Such compulsions are. . 
. unethical. They also do not work, because they restrict the 
one compelled. Such restrictions create failure."
"Fine. You didn't compel me. You sure set me up." "We did 
not make you a pilot. We did not make your choice to 
become an Intelligence agent-" "How did you know that?"
"In rebuilding neural systems, one learns much. Only Ruyalt 
Dhale and I know those things. No one else will know, and 
we do not lie."
The Farhkans didn't have to, Trystin thought bitterly. "So 
you gave me the keys to the Temple and asked enough 
questions to point me in the right direction and watched the 
fun? How many Service officers in Intelligence did it take 
before you got me?"
"One hundred and thirty-one officers over twenty years. 
There were but four who were given the Temple protocols, 
and you were the only one who could transcend his culture." 
"The others?"
"None of them used the keys. They were executed." Trystin 
shivered. "How did you get to Orr?"
"Orr?" Ghere's mental voice revealed puzzlement. "Never 
mind. So what was this great thing I was so fortunate to 
accomplish?"
"We would not use the term 'fortunate.' Would you?" 
Ghere offered another wry-feeling laugh.
"Sorry. Wrong word. You still didn't say why you did all 
this. Why did you give us technology? Why did you 
manipulate me? Why have you been following me around for 
two decades?" A long silence followed the question. Finally, 
Ghere answered, with long pauses between phrases, as 
though he had not rehearsed the exact answer, or as though 
he were groping for a simple way to explain something very 
complex to a child. At that, Trystin bristled even as he 
listened.
"Complex technology brings greater use of force. Unless a 
culture actively resists, force always attracts those less ... 
ethical. Technology also allows greater . . . populace growth. 
Use of machines pushes most intelligences toward more . . . 
rigid . . . social controls. Rigidity creates greater conflicts, 
requiring more force. This fuels conflict, and conflicts are 
first turned toward other cultures."
"So why didn't you just bounce on the Revenants 
yourselves?"
"We did so," answered Ghere. "But alien intelligences are 
never accepted as valid, and more and more force would 
have been required-enough force to destroy the corace you 
term Revenants. Force corrupts the user, and we could not 
afford that degree of corruption."
"Oh . . . you wanted to pawn off the corruption on us, on 
good old Trystin?"
"You would turn the destiny of your race over to us?" 
asked Ghere.
Put that way, Trystin didn't like it at all. "So why was I the 
fortunate one?"
"As I once feared, you have been unfortunate," Ghere 
admitted bluntly. "For that we are thankful. You have learned 
from that, and you will learn more. It is best you discover 
why we are thankful after you return to your people. They 
will be pleased to see you"
"To lynch me?" What had happened after he'd left the 
Jerush system? Ghere had kept avoiding an answer to that 
question.
"No. You are . . . a figure of some ... note. We do not 
deceive. We are thieves. Major, but not liars. Now, you must 
go." There was a finality to Ghere's thought that discouraged 
further inquiry there.
"You still haven't answered my questions, and you've done 
something to my implant."
"Once you return to your people, you will know enough to 
answer your own questions. You no longer need the implant, 
although it remains in place. We integrated those facilities 
into your system." Ghere offered a smile. "Your Service will 
doubtless deactivate the implant at some point, but that will 
not change you. Not now. Not ever. Also, to ensure that you 
did regenerate properly, we had to make some other 
modifications."
"Such as?" Trystin looked at his hands. They looked 
normal, except his vision seemed pretematurally clear. "You 
will age slowly, if at all." Trystin glanced at Ghere, looking 
over the calm, square, and impassive face. "Why did you 
decide I was worthy of the . . . this blessing?"
"I did not make that decision alone. We . . . all the doctors 
. . . felt that such a decision would be beneficial . . . and 
might repay you."
"Repay me? For being an assassin of other humans? For 
being your tool?"
"You killed many before, to little effect. What you have 
done this time has been of great benefit." "To whom? The 
great Farhkan empire?" "You need not be so bitter. You have 
done well, as you will  discover, for your own race. You have 
also helped our understanding of your race greatly, and that 
will benefit us all."
Trystin took a deep breath, the calm certainty of the 
Farhkan flooding over him. "Great. You make me sound like 
I'm worthy of something . . . and you won't tell me what. And 
you still haven't really answered my questions."
"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 self-gratifying 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 yon 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 twenty-
one 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 slid 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 they 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. "You 
don't look even a mere six years older." "You're gallant, but I 
read a mirror as well as a screen, and I don't look nearly so 
well-preserved as you."
"Farhkan surgery and translation errors." He lifted the plate 
of cakes to her. "So what do I do? Disappear?"
"You don't have to. No one knows that Commander Desoll 
was the Prophet. I've got your uniforms." She appraised him. 
"You'll certainly still fit in them. You change before you 
leave the office. You take early retirement with the incredible 
compound retirement you earned and deserve, and you use 
that and that trust you set up-we know everything-to grow 
flowers, teach, do anything you want." She shrugged. "And 
keep your mouth shut." "Or I disappear?"
"That could happen, but most probably the Coalition 
would just brand you as harmless and mentally unhinged by 
excessive translation-a poor sad veteran." "And if I 
persisted-an institution?" "Probably . . . but what would be 
the point? To prove the hypocrisy of religion when every 
thinking individual understands that hypocrisy and when 
those who don't think wouldn't ever understand?"
Trystin nodded slowly. Ulteena had always made sense. 
"What about you?"
"I grow old in the Service-if they let me." 
"Maybe you should retire?" "Is that a 
proposition?"
"Right now it's a suggestion. I'm in no shape to make 
propositions . . . and I don't know . . . where you . . . I'm still 
in shock."
"Good. Formalities first. Always first," she added 
sardonically. "You need to change into your uniform. I took 
the liberty of adding all your combat decorations, plus the full 
commander's silver triangles. You'll look impressive. You do 
have one last job before you head to Cambria." "What?"
"Just parade around the station in full dress uniform and 
talk a little about the old days and the Maran battles. If 
anyone asks you about what you were doing, just smile and 
shake your head. Add a few words about how highspeed 
angular translations add up to fifteen years in a hurry. That's 
it. Then we'll send you home on a fast courier." "That's it?"
"That's it. Disappointing, isn't it? Your uniform is in the 
adjoining room. I won't peek." She smiled. "In fact, I'll be out 
in the corridor laying some groundwork." The commander 
stood.
So did Trystin, watching as she left, enjoying the sight of 
her, realizing he had missed her-and not known how much 
he had. He shook his head slowly, and took a deep breath. So 
he wasn't done yet?
Would he ever be done? Not if Rhule Ghere was right. He 
looked at the door, but Ulteena was gone. Once again, the 
important things had gotten lost in the details- Ulteena was 
important, and he hadn't even told her, and, with her 
reluctance, it was up to him, if she ever let him get close 
enough

74

Endless stars in His mansions, then one must realize how 
mighty is all creation. . . ."
"I am what I am. The Lord has seen what I have seen, and 
I have seen brothers and sisters killing each other. The Lord 
has said to bring His word to those who do not believe, yet 
how can someone who is dead hear the word of the Lord? 
Even Toren the Prophet wrote 'do not say, better I my cousin 
than my neighbor, for all men and women are neighbors in 
the eyes of the Lord.' "
"The Lord has His own plans for you and for me; we are to 
be molded for His use, whether we will or not."
"Does a name mean that it is so? Does calling a knife a 
lilly make it one? Arguments are but words, and the logic of 
the scholars often bears little truth, only fine structure, like a 
well-built palace of sin."
"Be of good courage, and deny me not, for what will be is 
the will of the Lord. Cast down this Temple, and the Lord 
will rebuild it, almost before your eyes."
"You know the Lord, and the Lord knows you in your 
hearts. Judge not, lest you be judged, and yet, I say unto you, 
even as He will raise this Temple in less than three days, yes, 
even in the quickness of time, will He also give me for you, 
for someone must speak for you, you who would not speak 
for love. For you, someone must speak. For you, someone 
must offer forgiveness. Someone must atone for you-both 
now and in the fullness of time."
"I am what I am. I claim nothing. All too often men claim. 
What matters a claim to the Lord? You have claimed you do 
the will of the Lord when you slaughter others. An older 
prophet said to consider the beam in your own eye before 
the mote in your brother's."
"Those who seek to destroy with fire can themselves be 
destroyed by fire. Destruction of those who could be 
brothers and sisters is not a demonstration of love. And the 
Lord has always been a God of Love."
"I was sent to deliver a message. The Lord does not beg, but 
He will instruct. I have done what I was sent to do, and those 
who have eyes to see and ears to hear may learn more of the 
will of the Lord."


"I am as real as you. Is this arm not flesh? You saw the 
Fire, did you not? The ashes, did you not? All men must 
burn, sooner or later. I have come to do what I was charged 
with, and now I must return. For a time, I will go as others 
do, and then I will return to my place in the Lord's 
mansions."
Most Quoted Excerpts The 
Book of the Prophet (Revised 
and Annotated)
75
Under the gray skies of late afternoon, Trystin set his bags 
beside the closed gates. A stiff cold wind whipped through 
the limbs of the Norfolk pines. A single adult heliobird 
fought the gusts, finally streaking down into the garden and 
out of Trystin's sight.
He used the key from the Pilot's Trust to open the 
wrought-iron gates, wincing at the squeaking of the hinges. 
Then he picked up the two bags and walked a good dozen 
paces along the stones covered with the thinnest film of soil.
The sage still remained, if tattered, in the stone bed he 
had built more years ago than had passed for him. His eyes 
crossed the gardens, and he looked up the winding walk, 
pausing to study the bonsai cedar in the circular planter 
where the walk split around it. The cedar had grown-far 
too much-even though the limbs were perhaps only twenty 
centimeters out of place from when he had last visited the 
house.
But the symmetry was wrong, somehow. Were there still 
pruning shears in the garden shed? Time to prune? He 
would have that, too much time to prune and think. He had 
decided to say more to Ulteena before he had left Chevel 
Alpha, but she had disappeared, and no one could tell him 
where. He'd left a note with his address, and a comment that 
he wasn't below begging.
Now, he wondered if it had been too flippant . . . but it 
was as though she were embarrassed that she'd ever 
confessed to caring. He took a deep breath. If the note didn't 
work, he did have the time and funds to find her-if she 
were interested in a retired commander and prophet-and 
he would ask her. He grinned. After all, they were both 
commanders now.
His eyes dropped to the dull stones of the walk, and the 
smile disappeared. They had always been polished before, 
as a family custom, often for disciplinary reasons, but the 
professional gardeners hired by the Pilot's Trust to take care 
of the house and grounds didn't polish stones.
Trystin couldn't put it all back the way it should be, not all 
at once, but he'd certainly have the time. Yes, he was going 
to have plenty of time. Perhaps he should follow his 
mother's example and go back to school for another 
degree-a doctorate. He had more than a little thinking to 
do-about a lot of things.
He carried the bags up to the front porch. The keycard 
worked, and the lock clicked. After opening the door, he set 
the bags on the polished tiles of the hall floor-the in-side 
of the house was clean, lifeless, like a museum.
Leaving the bags, he walked toward the kitchen. His boots 
clunked.
  On the center of the kitchen table was a folder sealed in 
plastic-the first time Trystin could recall plastic around the 
house. He rummaged through the drawers to find the 
scissors, then neatly cut the sealed envelope along the edge. 
Inside was a short computer-generated note.
17octem795 Trystin,
As we promised, everything will be kept for your 
return. Prophets always do return. That is something 
we consultants know, but I must admit I never 
thought I'd father a great religious figure.
All my work remains in the system, for you to use 
or dispose of as you see Fit. I can tell-implants are 
good for some things-that my days are limited, 
and, if you find this, obviously, my diagnosis was 
correct. I will have the master suite cleared. To come 
back to that would be asking too much of you, and 
you need a fresh start, at least in the bedroom.
Enjoy the gardens, and your thoughts, and 
whoever you find to share them with. Do find 
someone. I have faith that you can and knowledge 
enough to insist you should.
I could wax long and sentimental, a weakness of 
age and frailty, but I will not. You know how I feel. 
I am proud of you, and I always have been. Our 
thoughts and love are with you, and may the gardens 
give you the pleasure they have given me.
The words "love" and "Father" were scrawled under the 
printed words. Trystin's eyes burned, and he could barely 
swallow.
He left the folder on the table and walked toward the 
window, pulling back the shades and sliding open the glass, 
letting the cool dampness of the late fall slip into the house.
After a moment, he walked down to the office, standing 
in the archway and looking at the silent systems, the blank 
screens, and the row of old-fashioned wooden cases that 
held antique bound paper books even more dated than the 
cases. For a time, he just looked, then turned. He did not 
look into the room that had been Salya's. The master suite 
was empty, as his father had written. He shook his head. His 
father had lived by his word. Trystin only hoped he could 
manage as well.
The great room seemed unchanged-the old chess table 
was still in place, and Trystin ran his fingers over the 
smooth wood. Maybe it did really date back to old Earth. 
He slid open two more windows, enjoying the damp chill.
A buzz sounded.
Trystin paused, then hurried to the kitchen where he 
fumbled with the console on the faintly dusty counter. 
"Yes?"
"This is Ulteena. May I come in?" Trystin swallowed, 
then answered, "Of course. The gates are open." "Thank 
you."
Even through the speakers, her voice sounded formal, . 
and Trystin found he didn't like that. Then, he had sounded 
formal. And he liked that thought even less . . . far less.
  He hurried out the front door and down the path to find 
her looking at the bonsai cedar. "It needs work," he 
explained. She turned. "You look so young." "I don't feel 
young." "I shouldn't have come."
Trystin looked at the one woman who had always 
anticipated  everything. He smiled. "Yes you should have. 
I need you."
  She glanced toward the cedar as if she had not heard his 
words. "I'm glad you kept the house and the garden." Her 
voice floated more lightly than the faint fall breeze, 
coming to him with the mixed scents of the last miniature 
yellow roses of the year, the rysya, and the ancient pines. 
Abruptly, she turned to him. "What did you say?" "I love 
you, and I need you," he repeated, his eyes blur-ring 
again.
"You've never . . ." She shook her head, as if in 
disbelief. 
  "I've always . . . I just was afraid . . . because you were 
always so competent. I told you that, on the outer orbit 
station, remember?" He let the tears stream down his face, 
as he saw the matching dampness streak her cheeks. He 
laughed roughly. "And you were always senior. You 
didn't let me forget it, that first time."   "That was stupid." 
Her eyes met his.
"That was a long time ago, and I was always stupid about 
you. I thought you didn't care."
"I almost didn't come," she insisted. "If you hadn't left the 
note . . ."
"I would have found you-this time," he answered, 
taking her hand firmly as they stood in late fall and the long 
twilight.