Oberheim (Voices): A Chronicle of War, Christopher Leadem [recommended reading TXT] 📗

checked himself, fighting off his fears at the unknown malady, and trying to reverse the negative mind-set in which he found himself immersed. Somehow he must find a way. If not for himself, then for Ara.

Being Commander of a Battle Group was not the same as commanding a single vessel. The ship had its own captain as well, and he was not needed for day-to-day functions. So he thanked the doctor, received the new medication and withdrew.

He gave temporary command to his Executive Officer, saying he would return in three days—-his doctor had advised two weeks—-went to his quarters and slept, hard as it was, avoiding drugs and self-pity when possible. He spent time in the library reading, or (on his cabin's viewscreen) observing quietly and without interference the interaction of his staff upon the bridge—-learning, letting life take its course as it led them into battle. So effortlessly.

Occasionally he spoke with Joyce, still leader of the Soviet presence, though he detected a new coolness in the Russian's tone and manner, which increased as they drew nearer their objective. He thought he had an idea what this might mean, but it was not for him to act or pass judgment upon. Four hundred lives were now entrusted to his care, as well as some small part in the eventual overthrow of the Alliance, and subsequent liberation of his home. He had no illusions about being on the side of good, but only being caught up in the insanity of war—-the pinnacle of man's inhumanity to man.

If this overthrow and liberation could be accomplished, if she was still there on Athena, he would build his life on new foundations. If only she was there.

And he could survive until then.

……………………………………….

HEARTS OF FIRE

The battle of Rembrandt/van Gogh saw the most bitter fighting of the entire war. Even at Schiller, where the Coalition pilots were forced to continue a battle they could not win, after perhaps the first three hours came the grim realization, the last human outlet, that death awaited them. Here there was no such comfort, nor did the torment end after five hours only.

Here the collision of forces and opposing wills was so even—-the determination of the Coalition fighters to liberate, avenge and overthrow, the determination of the Belgians and Swiss to survive, and not be enslaved by the Soviets—-that the conviction of the one and the desperation of the other crashed together time and time again without any clear result. And added to the white-hot intensity of their struggle, was the question that for thirty-six hours could not by either side be answered: was victory still possible?

If one is cold and hard enough to perceive it, he will see that in a truly fatalistic world there is a limit to the terror of the wretched souls caught inside it. Always death is there as a final end to all. But where death is not an alternative, because hope remains, where the questions: "Will I survive? Can I still live and find peace? Or is my very struggle in the world of flesh ended forever?" remain unanswered, tipping first one way and then the other on the blind scales of Justice, or Fate, or some damnable, unnamable thing….. Here, there is horror.

The world which the existentialists present to us—-where all is meaningless, nothing is lasting, and death and mutilation of dreams inevitable—-was here, as in countless battles of flesh and blood, rendered empty and false. For where is the terror in such a predetermined world? Let the man who sees the black truth, end his life and have done. As if the multitude of Life and Universe around us could be supported by some trick of cruel gods!

The true intensity of Man's existence—-real, physical, undeniable—-lies in the fact that success and victory are possible, if like everything else in our finite lives and understanding, limited and passing. Health, happiness and love (in varying degrees, and depending largely on outlook) are too many times evident in those around us to merely to say, THERE IS NO HOPE, THERE IS NO CHANCE, THERE IS NO GOD. The man dying of terminal disease, or imprisoned without hope of escape in a living hell not of his own creation, has the right when pain and fear become unbearable, to give in to despair. We have not. Because for the rest of us, the fact remains that victory and success (if the goal is just, and based on reality) ARE possible, however terrible the price, or the roads which lead to it.

A man is forced to ask himself, as he is borne down the swift water-gap of crisis, toward the razor knifing across his path, CAN I SURVIVE THE VERY TIP OF THAT BLADE, AND PASS THROUGH? IS MY RAFT OF FLESH STRONG ENOUGH, MY SHIELD OF WILL AND UNDERSTANDING SUFFICIENT? And while caught on that blade, how multiplied the anguish by the fact that his hope never leaves him. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."

But even this would not make the struggle so overpowering, if it were a false hope, and we knew it. But all around us there is the rumor of triumph (and tragedy), of those who have survived personal hells, accomplished the impossible, and stand now on a more permanent footing, if only in posterity. How then can we, caught in the midst of the fray, despair, and surrender our dreams? We cannot.

Age approaches us, inevitable death, suffering that cannot be avoided. And yet there is also the eternal Spring of youth inside us, that hope, that yearning, if not for peace in this world, then at least for some last accomplishment before release into the great unknown: some reason for having been here.

For this Battle is not fiction. It is not words, nor one man's opinion. It is life: LIFE, the beautiful and terrible.

How can a man survive?

*

Olaf Brunner experienced more physical, emotional, and spiritual torment in those thirty-six hours than he would have thought possible for any man to bear, let alone himself, and in his weakened state. The physical anguish came from sickness and fatigue, and from the intolerable heat upon the wounded bridge, the emotional, from the loss of ships and lives that had been given him to protect, and the spiritual, from the Godless red carnage that lashed back and forth like a writhing, bloodied serpent: the death and mutilation he saw with his eyes and heard through the earpiece. And from the Goddamnable and agonizing question of whether or not they could still break through.

The dual colonies having no substantial defense shields or stations (those of the Dutch had been destroyed in conquest, and not sufficiently rebuilt), the Bel-Swiss had chosen to counter-attack, and to make their stand in the open Space around them. Meanwhile the Soviets, epitomizing their policy of conditional help, held their own forces back, lending only long-distance firepower in times of greatest need.

After the first twenty-four hours, Brunner had realized grimly that his poor physical health and personal trauma were no longer a deterrent—-that many men with strength and good fortune he did not possess, would have faded and given up long before. And he knew also, for all his introspection, that he BELONGED on that bridge, in that fight. HE WAS NOT A QUITTER OR A LOSER! Like a savage wolf defending its fallen mate he remained there, as rationality slipped farther and farther from sight, till in the end he truly was a wolf, as the hyenas around him lunged ravening about the helpless form of his wife, which he alone defended.

And this feeling of desperate and unyielding righteousness communicated itself not to him alone, or to the men who served under him. In those late hours all the Coalition felt it, and the more unattainable victory seemed, the more bitterly they steeled themselves to attain it. The Belgians and Swiss began to waver, and at last the Soviet battleships moved in.

The question had finally been answered. The field of battle and the
Islands beyond, belonged to those who had wanted them more desperately.

*

When the matter was clearly in hand, and those Alliance vessels which could not flee had surrendered, Captain Brunner turned the helm back over to his subordinates, placed his destroyer group (what remained of it) under the command of Col. Liebenstein, and retired to his quarters. Taking a sleeping lozenge he collapsed onto the bed, where his limbs trembled slightly and his eyes moved feebly in their sockets, until it began to take effect. Then at last his eyelids closed, and he knew nothing more for three hours.

He was jolted back to life by a young officer tugging urgently at his arm. "Commander Brunner. Commander."

He rose suddenly and, between the still pronounced effect of the drug and the liquid-shock state of his nerves, felt certain that something terrible had happened.

"What? What is it?" The victory of so few hours before seemed not at all a sure memory. "Have the bastards broken through?"

The officer, himself as taut and fatigued as a violin-string on which some mad symphony had been played, had no trouble interpreting his words. "No, Commander. It's your wife."

These words did not at first make any impression on him, since he was sure there was some mistake. If the man had told him that the stars had all turned black, his mind could have accepted it more easily. But slowly his eyes narrowed upon the serious face of the adjutant.

"Where?" He had not the courage to ask in what condition. And besides, it could not possibly…..

"At the former headquarters of the Alliance High Command." These words not seeming to make an impression, he added, "On Rembrandt. Our envoy went to negotiate terms of surrender."

"Ara Heidi Brunner?" He pronounced the words slowly, with rising and uncontrollable emotion. "You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. She asked for you specifically, if you would be allowed—-"

"I've got to go to her!" He rose and started for the door, but lost his balance and stumbled down on one knee. He pushed away the adjutant, who was leaning over him.

"It's the sleeping pill. Tell the doctor I need a stimulant, and find out about a landing craft." He waved his arm vaguely.

"Colonel Liebenstein has said to meet him aboard the Kythera in half an hour. They will be sending a party to the capitol at that time."

"Have we a functioning shuttle?" The deja-vu was almost too powerful.

"Yes, Commander."

"Go. Go." The young man left the room as he strained to right himself and recover some semblance of calm. Realizing the latter was impossible, and that the stimulant would make it worse, being so far beyond any choice….. He sat helpless on the edge of the bed, and gave himself up to the Sea which had dashed him so mercilessly, yet now was bearing him, heedless, toward all his desire. "If only she is all right!" His head dipped again beneath the drowning swells, and he struggled for breath.

A medic entered with a syringe and a distracted, irritated look on his face. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Brunner said nothing, rolled up the sleeve and pointed to his upper arm. Shortly afterward the adjutant returned. No longer shunning his help, he leaned heavily against him, and after the first mad adrenalin rush, made his way as in a three-legged race to the shuttledock.

"Can you fly a shuttle?" he asked as they entered. But seeing a pilot already at the helm, he asked instead, "Can you be spared from your duties?"

"Yes, sir. If you wish—-"

"I do." A complex series of emotions, such as only real life can provide, made him not want to be parted from this lad, so very little more than a boy.

The shuttle made its way to the Kythera, from which her summons had come. Upon arrival he and the boy boarded the larger landing craft, which then made for the soft and flowing hues of Dutch Rembrandt. Brunner's last rational thought of that voyage was that planets had been misnamed, since van Gogh at its distance was