Oberheim (Voices) Part 46

There was no time to lose.

IV

The Coalition had decided to attack the Belgians and Swiss at the place they were now weakest---the occupied Dutch holdings at Larkspur. There were several other considerations behind this choice.

For one thing, it was unexpected. For another, it placed the field of battle on neutral ground, where if the a.s.sault was beaten back, or the fighting became intense, there could be no reprisals, or increased danger to the civilian populations. Lastly, and of no small importance, the Soviets insisted upon it. Apparently something had developed in their search for Hayes and they could not, so they said, spare sufficient force to insure victory at the tri-colonies of Athena.

At least not yet.

After their most recent a.s.sault against Joint Africa, at the heart of the Kurtz quadrant---the one that had triggered, or at least legitimized the Soviet response---the Alliance had drawn themselves into a more defensive posture. But they were still, by all reconnaissance, overextended. Their expected help from the German States, both in weapons systems and personnel, had not materialized, and upon last contact with Hayes, himself now a renegade, he had told them flatly to, "Go play soldier in a barn."

At the outset of the conflict, the relative strengths of the Alliance and the Coalition had been approximately equal. After the Schiller debacle and concurrent destruction of the Coalition First Combat Fleet, the scales had for a time been heavily tipped in favor of the Belgians and Swiss. But with Soviet s.p.a.ce now backing their rival, the (legitimate) American forces now hostile because of Hayes' earlier complicity with them, and the German States coolly indifferent, they found themselves in a position where not only was offense impossible, but defense became equally precarious. The overall anarchy which they had counted on to cover their tracks, was now on the wane, as United Nations peace-keeping forces---mostly j.a.panese, British and Australian, along with the implicit aid and cooperation of the Commonwealth---were dispatched to patrol the troubled areas.

The prowling leopard was caught in its tree, alone, surrounded by foes.

But a treed cat is far from a dead one. Teeth and claws and sinew it still possessed, along with the added ferocity of desperation. And not all of those on the ground below it were unified, or come with the same purpose.

The fight was far from over.

V

For all his medicines and reckless determination, by the time the Coalition/Soviet fleet came within striking distance of Dutch Larkspur, Captain Brunner was a physical and psychological time-bomb.

He knew this, did not know how to change it, and for all his efforts at callousness, could not keep creeping fears from sprouting in his mind.

He was like a man on a tight-rope through dense fogs of desolation.

Did hope lie forward, or back? It might have been easy but for thoughts of Ara that still came to him in his despair. If only she would come and kneel beside his deathbed, kiss his brow and say it was all right. Then he could surrender his spirit and be at peace. But she did not come, and because of it, the tiniest part of him still held on.

Four days out from Dutch Rembrandt/van Gogh, his mind and body together reached an impa.s.se. His intestines throbbed with a dull ache that pervaded all with weakness and chills. The sleep lozenges he counted on to end the horror of each day had begun to show side-effects, and he could hardly take one in mid-afternoon. So he struggled on, eyes wincing yellow weakness as he stirred uncomfortably in his Group Leader's chair, amid the upper bridge of the first destroyer. Whatever that might mean. Until a surge of liquid anguish overpowered him, and he knew he could not go on.

So that was the way of it. At the bitter last his pride was broken, and his will rendered useless.

He got up from the chair, leaning one arm heavily on the padded rest, and waited for the tiny squares to pa.s.s from before his eyes. Then mumbled something to his exec about IN MY QUARTERS, CALL ME IF THERE IS ANY NEED. And turned and walked weakly, sweatily from the enclosure.

As he made his way down the long corridor to the elevator leading downwards, he tried dully to reckon the number of lozenges it would take to end his life. He had perhaps fifteen. That would have to cover it. . .only. . . the convulsions would be unpleasant if he failed. He stepped into the wide double cylinder, mumbled "Six," and felt the world fall away beneath him.

That he was not thinking clearly he knew. That his death was at hand he also knew, but could not make the words form into any kind of meaningful pattern in his mind. All was dark, blank, and unintelligible. Not the slightest emotion stirred inside him.

Stepping once more into a formless corridor, he walked past floating gray shapes he imagined must be men, and came to the portal of his latest h.e.l.l. The door opened silently before him.

Looking into room he saw upon his dresser the vial, the photograph, and the nearly empty gla.s.s of water. He studied the trinity for a time before entering. Almost it would have seemed poetic, something from the epics.....

Coming closer he looked first at the one, then at the other, then back again. To the photograph. . .of his lover. Why was she so d.a.m.ned beautiful? Even now.

Through countless layers of dust, his heart throbbed a single pang of pain and remorse, causing in its turn the irritation of a parched corner of one eye. From some unseen source, where he had been sure that no moisture lay, there came a gurgling bubble of mud, followed by a tiny flow of water. A desert spring in the midst of choking sands.

He lifted the frame, brought it gently, then crushed it to his chest, and let out a sob of life that told him he could not yet die.

He drank the water in the gla.s.s, down to the bitter and confused sediment. Then with tears, real tears in his eyes, he heard as if from far below the ground his own voice, set loose this utterance.

"I cannot do it. It is not for me to say when all is lost. Dear G.o.d, please help me hold on."

He set down the empty gla.s.s, looked around him, tried to think. Then made his way to the Infirmary.

The new doctor examined him thoroughly, including a scope of his intestines that the first had considered unnecessary. He sighed to himself as he studied the computer screen.

"What is it?" asked Brunner impatiently.

"You no doubt had an intestinal virus, but that only exacerbated the more serious problem."

"Which is?"

... "Crohn's disease."

"What? What is that?"

"An inflammation of the intestines: similar to arthritis, and that the body incorrectly identifies a part of itself as an alien invader, and sends out anti-bodies to attack it.

Brunner felt the breath catch at his throat. "Am I going to die?"

The doctor shook his head firmly. "No. The disease, though incurable, need not be fatal. There are some fairly effective medicines, and at final need, surgery. But until we can reduce the swelling, you must avoid all further stress."

He started to reply that this was impossible, but 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 s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.s 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.