The wind, she blows extreme
My mind would scream
But for the discipline
That empty years have taught it.
Richard Dark, a denaturalized American citizen, had risen swiftly
through the ranks of the (People's Republic of) Chinese Army, and
because of his technical understanding and combat experience, along
with the marked favor of vice-Chairman Tam, had been put in charge of
the Outer Fences of the two settled planets of the Tsingtao system, now
under attack by Soviet-backed Cuban forces.
Viewed mockingly by some, since they were not accompanied by a powerful
Space Navy, these unique defenses were nonetheless a highly effective
form of planetary cover. Invented by Dark himself, in conjunction with
the exiled physicist Tolstoy (both men had chosen not to reveal the
full discovery to their native governments, and were therefore
outcast), they were based on a combined series of shields and orbiting
Artillery Stations, similar to, but more highly integrated than those
of the East Germans, in that the shields themselves were wrapped about
the great mace-shapes of the Stations like nets of energy strung
between harbor mines.
But what made them effective was the source of their power. Not only
did they feed off the sun, but also used the very energy of assaulting
blasts to strengthen the fields, and channel the drawn-off power into a
reverse stroke by the corresponding station---like an aimed mirror of
aggression. The harder an opponent struck, the harder was the blow
returned.
Though much of the final figuring had been Tolstoy's, the inspiration
and early experiments all belonged to Dark. The idea had first come to
him during one of his many visits to the Taoist monastery near his home
in Manchuria, where he had been raised by his father, a stern U.C. Army
Captain stationed there. Of all the things he had learned (the
Shao-lin had let him ask all the questions he liked, though they seldom
answered directly or in full), one precept of the Kung Fu style of
fighting had always intrigued him most deeply:
If a man, in hand-to-hand combat with another, could turn the force of
his opponent's assault back upon him, adding to it the strength of his
own spirit, why couldn't a machine, or even a defense field, do the
same? He had carried this thought through all the years of his
scientific and worldly education, and while serving in the Commonwealth
Space Navy during the Manxsome conflict, had seen first-hand the need
for such a defense: a way for the week to hold off the strong.
He had also been severely wounded, and nearly died, when his ship's own
force-shields had been broken, and the exposed vessel riven with
agonizing heat. The next four years had been spent in hospitals and
operating rooms where, remarkably, he had slowly recovered with no
permanent (physical) damage.
In fact, though his life totaled only twenty-nine Earth years, they had
been lived with such intensity and trauma, through no conscious choice
of his own, that while he was considerably younger than most of the
officers under him, he was, in his way, more experience, time-wizened
(and weary of life) than nearly all of them. If hope, despair, and
nearness to death are the great teachers of this existence, then here
was a student who knew the lists by rote.
He stood now in the engineering room of Power Station One, at the heart
of the Fences surrounding the planet Ten Hsiao-p'ang, examining damage
reports. The Cubans, after trying for a week to storm the defenses of
both planets at once, had decided to concentrate their forces upon Teng
along, believing, correctly, that once it fell, the power of the other
would be diminished as well. Though Dark's shields still held, the
outlook was not bright. For even a mirror may be destroyed by a well
aimed and determined laser; and the colonies had to hold out for
another month at least.
"I don't know why I try," he muttered to himself. He switched off the
last tracer diagram, leaned on the railing heavily.
IT'S FUNNY, REALLY. LIKE A STUPID GAME I CAN'T POSSIBLY WIN. I JUST
PLAY IT BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO. This assault had become
a symbol, and more than a symbol to him. If these planets fell,
crushing forever his last dreams of a home, then the efforts of a
lifetime had been wasted.
Here he had resolved to make his final stand. No more running:
fleeing from his body's weakness, and before the haunting loneliness,
the creeping paralysis of a life without love, companionship, or the
simplest human feeling of attachment. Here he would stand, until he
was either conquered or set free, or surrendered in death the slender
sinews that knitted his soul to flesh. A defeatist's attitude, some
might say, but for this important difference. He had spent a lifetime
learning how not to surrender, and he did not intend to lose.
An under-officer, the closest thing to a friend he had, approached him.
"Richard. Commander Chang says his station can hold them no longer.
They've singled him out and are pounding it apart. The fields are
overloaded and the power can't be channeled back fast enough."
"Tell him he HAS to hold them. I'll release the Harrier Squadrons as
soon as they're massed and I know it's safe. Then we'll try to rotate
him in; but no promises."
Kim looked dispirited, started to walk away. Dark clasped the thick of
his sleeve.
"Tell him I haven't forgotten them. It will just be a while longer."
When the time came, he released the Harriers. Their mission was
successful, and the more damaged stations were rotated back into the
inner circle, replaced by those that had not yet faced the enemy eye to
eye. But a dozen ships were lost and that tactic, by its very use, had
been rendered less effective. The adversary knew it now, and would
watch for signs of its reuse.
The progression slowly passed before the designated hours of his
sleep---he needed only eight in thirty-six---and the Cuban fleets
withdrew to regroup. He remained on the bridge until he was sure it
was not a feint, then sought out his own quarters, leaving message to
wake him if they tried anything new or unexpected.
Safe again within the darkness of his room he lay on his back, unable
to sleep. After a time he reached for the microphone beside the bed
and began a supplemental Log entry, which doubled as his personal
diary. He knew that his enemies might one day use it against him; but
he did not care. He spoke slowly, not letting the words run away with
him, pausing often, thinking out loud. This was the only way he had
found of drawing the real knowledge of internal warfare from himself,
and of rising above the constrictive circle of day-to-day thoughts and
concerns. A part of what he said is recorded here.
"God they're giving us a hell of a pounding. How do I tell them? How
do I tell my own men that they have to hang on?
"When you're under attack. . .and all the things that you believed in,
or wanted. . .and all your hopes, your reasons for continuing, seem to
disappear. Or seem to be cut off behind you. And you're left out
there. . . can't find any reason for the suffering, it makes no sense.
It's impossible to remember the other parts of your existence: all you
know is that. . .you're struggling, you're under attack. . .and there's
not a damn thing you can do but to hold on. Try to deal with it.
"Maybe I could write something out in the order of the day, if that
wouldn't be resented. Go back to Chinese history, and show that their
ancestors, when under attack or political repression. . .the thing they
all had in common were the things I mentioned earlier. The struggle to
endure without knowing why, and stubbornly. . .when the logical thing
to do, would have been to despair. And somehow. You know, what Prince
Andrei was going through: the way he. . .was just numbed and
overpowered by it all. And he couldn't find any reason or meaning
anywhere. How it went beyond words or thought so that, in his heart,
in the very fiber of his being, he disbelieved in all semblance of hope.
"Going through the motions. . .never believing that you really have a
chance for life or happiness."
He massaged his brow, the fingertips out of habit stroking the rough
straggle of his eyebrows. That had been the one area where the plastic
surgeons had been unable to restore living hair and skin---the forehead
and cranial cap. The new stuff looked real enough, but felt,
especially the hair, coarse and unnatural.
Flashing back, he saw in memory the thick gut of blue flame rush toward
him as the ship tore apart---closing his eyes in sudden, brittle shock,
striking the flames from his forehead with wild slaps of his hands.....
Not that such memories retained much terror for his waking mind. It
was in sleep, in the subconscious worlds beyond his control, that such
images were deadly.
He remembered also the first grim reawakening, the grotesque nightmare
of ruinous skin and flesh before the surgeons had begun their work.
The days of fever, the endless crises. He had not, like Prince Andrei
near death, felt a comforting presence calling his soul from this
life..... Though now at these memories he felt it shrink back, yet
again, from human existence. And seek escape in his work.
"And the desire to strike back, too soon, that the younger commanders
are always advocating. Urging attacks that can only end in ruin.....
But the impulse. Haven't I felt it? Lying there in that bed."
"The helpless, trapped feeling. . .the rage that rises inside you,
tearing through your fatigue. And you're just so tired. . .so worn out
physically. . . that some desperate instinct takes over, telling you to
attack. Half crazy from the constant pounding. So that you want. .
.not even want. . .that you're forced into this thing. Like your will
is being pushed out through the top of your skull. Something. And
saying no to that urge. . .almost sexual . . .seems so unfair, and
beyond the strength of any man.
"But it's wrong, an irretrievable mistake, and you know it. A fatal
error that you're just not allowed in that situation.
"Internal warfare. . .and its relation to....." At last the weariness
of true sleep was coming over him. But one more thought remained
unspoken.
"And the hardest thing, unlike before. It's not just my own life
that's at stake, but those of all my men..... My men. How did I ever
get into all of this? This power and responsibility. I never wanted
it. Just my own piece of mind..... Aahh."
Tomorrow was another day. Maybe in the morning things would look
brighter. Morning. How meaningless the pilgrimage from Earth had made
that word. There would be no dawn, no rising of the sun, only a
different angle facing it.
'YET DAWN IS EVER THE HOPE OF MEN.' TOLKIEN, THE TRENCHES, WORLD WAR
I. BULLETS POPPING IN THE MUD..... He rolled over onto the side on
which he slept, the microphone still in his hand. "Trench fever. The
veterans hospitals. Feeling he would never get well....." FEVER. .
.NEVER GET WELL. COLD FEVER. NEVER GET WELL..... NEVER. . .FEELING.
With that he fell asleep.
And the next day, he rose again to face the onslaught.