The battle between the two vessels must have ensued---after several
minutes the enemy carrier disappeared from the projection globe---but
Brunner saw and heard none of it. He remained silent with his head
down, palms leaning heavily on the console. Crying. The next thing he
was aware of was Dubcek's steadied voice, once more amplified, once
more, he assumed, on an open channel to all ships. He looked out of
the portal, but there was no afterglow. Nothing. Dubcek's voice.
"All ships' personnel not engaged or on standby readiness, this is your
commanding officer. The carrier J.S. Bach and all its crew have been
lost." Pause. "There is nothing that can bring them back, or justify
their death. They will be sorely missed.
"But know this: that they died not in any act of aggression, but
defending their homes, and the ones they loved. It may be small
consolation, but we have hurt our enemy badly. They no longer have the
position or the firepower to seriously threaten us. I won't lie to
you. More men and women will die before our reinforcements arrive.
And there is no more fairness to who dies in battle than there is to
who is struck down by fatal illness, and who is left to die of age.....
We can only continue, and hope that our acts will one day be
remembered, and our sorrows vindicated.
"My strategy from this point forward will be to engage the enemy as
little as possible, which is only now a viable option. Take heart in
the fact that this is now a fight he cannot win, unless he holds some
card that is hidden from me. The colonies, the people you guard, are
safe. And if we keep our courage and our wits about us, we will see
him beaten before the day is passed."
Dubcek signaled the communications officer to shut him off, said to
Masaryk, "I'll be in my quarters. I don't think he'll try to attack
again soon, but call me if he does." And left the battle room.
Brunner gathered himself, sat down before the console and tried to
think.
*
After perhaps fifteen minutes he got up and asked Commander Masaryk to
be relieved, saying that he felt ill. The executive officer, who knew
a thing or two, looked hard at him and said, "If you've got any sense,
you'll be careful what you say to him."
Brunner nodded, and walked slowly out into the main corridor, then
through several passages before reaching the short hallway that ran
before his Commanding Officer's chamber.
Remaining a short distance from the doorway, he hesitated. He gathered
his courage, turned the corner and entered the room.
"Sir, may I speak---" He stopped, seeing the older man sitting quietly
at a wooden table, a bottle and glass in front of him. "I'm sorry,
sir..... Excuse me." So far as he (or anyone) knew, the Colonel never
drank.
"No, no. Come in. You have not discovered a terrible secret. I have
an artificial liver; didn't you know? I can turn it higher whenever I
wish---the first sign of combat---and be sober in two minutes time. A
waste of good liquor, really. Please. Sit down." Brunner approached
hesitantly, sat in the wooden chair opposite.
"Besides," the man continued. "Didn't you know that all good field
commanders were drunks? Take the famous Ulysses S. Grant. They say
that on the day of a battle he was rarely sober by mid afternoon.
Probably why he was so successful: he could send his men off to the
slaughter without a second thought. Some even go so far as to say he
tried to end all his battles in a single day, so that the next morning,
when he was apt to be sick, he could sleep and give no orders. But you
look surprised. Is all of this new to you?"
"I was never much on the American Civil War," said the young man
evasively, not liking (or understanding) the tone of sarcasm in the
older man's voice.
"Oh, really? That's too bad. It is filled with such irony. For
example, the saying, 'War is hell.' Very true, but do you know who
said it? The equally famous General Sherman. And he should know,
since he did everything in his power to make it so---burned and
pillaged like a regular barbarian. A nation of 'heroes'." He cleared
his throat, continued.
"And these same, gentlemen soldiers---Grant (then President, no less),
Sherman, Sheridan and Custer, next turned their expertise upon the
pesky Native Americans, who had the gall to defend their land, their
women and their children. Wasn't it Sheridan who said, 'The only good
Indian is a dead Indian?' Massacred and starved an entire population
into submission, innocents slaughtered without a second thought."
"Colonel....."
"But here, I'm boring you. What did you want to discuss---literature,
fine art?" He took another drink from the glass, hurting his throat
with too large a gulp, showing that he really was not a drinker, or not
a practiced one.
"Two things," said Brunner stiffly. "First as an officer of the
bridge. Then as a man."
"It sounds serious. Well. What is your report as my analysis officer?"
"Yes. I only wanted to reinforce what I said earlier: that the
enemy's strategy, ever since the main engagement began, makes no sense.
He had attained a strong attacking position; his weaponry is at least
the equal of our own; and yet he attacks without design, and trades
forces with no apparent gain. I know, from my studies (this last he
added almost as an apology), that battles are often chaotic.
Commanders become confused, lines of communication break down, soldiers
and officers panic. But none of this, so far as I can see, has been
the case here. For example, why accept the sacrifice of our carrier?"
He reddened, forced himself to continue. "Just because we brought it
forward, hardly forced him to attack. I wish I could believe that the
enemy is really that foolish. But I can't. They have spent years of
preparation, and nearly all their resources. . .for what? Only to let
some impatient general throw it all away? The only explanation I can
find is that they are trying to lull our sense of caution and weaken
our defense, for another fleet that is yet to come. I know that by all
current technology this is impossible. Yet I feel that it could
happen."
At the words 'current technology' Dubcek stirred uncomfortably. The
young man had sensed his darkest fear. He remained quiet for a moment,
mulling this over.
"You have done what I asked," he said finally, "and done it well. Now.
What do you have to say to me as a man?"
Now it was Brunner who could find no comfort in his chair.
"I wish to resign my commission," he said with an effort. "I do not
think I was made to give orders."
"Do you hate me so much?"
Brunner winced. "No, Colonel. It is true, I hated you at first---"
He looked up, horrified at his own words.
"Come on. Out with it. It won't matter much if you resign." Dubcek's
manner was unruffled, but the lieutenant thought he caught a gleam of
pain, or something, in his dark eyes.
"There was a moment when I hated you---when I first realized you had
sacrificed our carrier for theirs. But I don't feel that way now."
"Then why?"
"I just can't do it. I tried to put myself in your place. . .and I
can't. This way of life, of thinking..... I can't."
"You think I send men to their death without feeling." It was not a
question.
"No." But Brunner would say no more.
"No, but that was cruel of me. Young men are so much more, SENSITIVE.
You think you could never send men to theirs, that you are not the
right kind of man---cold, calculating. You think too much, feel too
much, is that it?"
"No..... I don't know."
"Save war for lonely old men?"
Brunner looked hard at him, defiant. This time he was sure. There was
something quietly desperate in his commander's eyes. It was fear. Not
the fear of age or death, but that of a far greater hurt: the pain of
life's final reckoning, of uselessness and barren seed. "Can I tell
you something, 'as a man?'" Dubcek turned his eyes away, poured the
bottle into the glass.
"Yes." Brunner too looked away.
"I wasn't always old, or alone, with no other calling." He breathed
heavily through his nose. "But my wife died some years back, and we
had no children. Some men can go on from such a thing: find another
wife, start again. But I am not one of them. I had never loved
before..... But that is beside the point." He drank the glass again.
"I found myself alone, in the military, with no real skill other than
being a soldier, a good officer. My father had been a working man.....
So I put all my energies into advancing my career, trying to fill the
emptiness. Telling myself." He gave a short, disagreeable laugh.
"Telling myself that if I could only rise high enough through the
ranks, that I could SAVE lives. I was going to make certain the old
war-mongers who ran the armies of the world did not subject innocent
people to the kind of loss I'd known. I was going to see to it that no
task force was ever advanced needlessly, no ship ever mindlessly
sacrificed to gain a tactical advantage." He stopped, as some other
emotion rose up in him.
"You say you hated me when you learned I had sacrificed a thousand men
and women. What would you feel if we had lost, and left the colonies
unprotected?" He rose in a rage, as Brunner stood and backed away.
"How would you judge me while some Belgian officer was raping your
pretty little wife?"
Brunner's eyes flashed murder at him, but he said nothing.
"Yes. And how would you have liked me when the political executions
and imprisonments began? Forget your romantic notions! When it comes
to occupying armies, there are no morals left to judge." He steadied
himself, took a breath.
"Behind us lie the three planets of our people, our home. One hundred
million inhabitants. Nothing else stands between them and us. And
maybe our enemies don't even want them. Perhaps they would be just as
happy to destroy the entire system, or even use radiation bombs: empty
the inhabited planets of life without destroying the cities, the
beautiful landscape. Do you think this is a fucking game?"
"You misunderstand. I am not judging you."
"And you misunderstand," said Dubcek bluntly. "Why do you think I take
an interest in you? Why do you think you are here?"
"I don't KNOW!"