Ara
What is my life without you?
To be your knight
to fight for you
Is all that holds my will together
Unraveled, and dispossessed
by Distance, time and empty suffering
Now you are taken from me,
One comfort only can I find:
That I loved you then, not less than now
And thanked dear Heaven
you were mine.
............................
A year, a month, a day ago he might have cried; but this was not the
time. Emotion and sentiment would not bring her back to him, nor would
dashing his heart upon the rocks. The mind was the stronger instrument
now, a bit cold, but maybe that was best. He gave it free rein to
pursue its ends.
The poems showed him that indeed, both elements, love and hatred,
yielding and aggression, lived inside him. And both were needed.
Hadn't he felt them? Hadn't their constant battle for use and mastery
tormented him? Yes! That was what had made him so miserable. Fool!
It was simply (or merely) a question of knowing which to listen to at a
given moment---exerting supreme effort when called for, and having
enough faith in God, or life, to accept the consequences of what was
beyond human will to affect. Faith and disillusion, professed as
different creeds, were one and the same, either half without the other
like a man trying to stand on one leg.
With that he became calm again, knowing he must save his strength.
Later that night he lit the candle and set it beside the picture of his
wife, and prayed a short, fervent prayer to Whom he did not know. His
own image was no longer important. He vowed to find his wife, however
long it took, and to do what he could in the war, though he detested
violence and a part of his prayer was that it would soon end.
The next day, the second of his confinement, passed without serious
(personal) incident. That night he took one of the lozenges, knowing
he would be unable to sleep without it. For the Morannon system,
code-named Dracus by the Belgians, would be reached the following day,
and they no longer moved in secret. The Alliance, apparently piercing
their detection shields, had detached a fighter-destroyer group to
intercept them. As near as anyone could tell, battle would be joined
somewhere within the system itself.
In the morning he rose, and reported to the bridge, and with a hard
bitter determination that grew out of and suppressed his anxiety,
prepared himself for the fight. Because for all his introspection and
self-doubt, there was another side of him, as yet only half realized.
Not for nothing had Dubcek made him his pupil; and not for nothing was
he second officer to Mandlik. His military and psychological testing
had revealed that whatever other characteristics he might possess, when
cornered and left no option, he responded with a resourcefulness and
tenacity that were almost off the scale. This fact was so striking in
one of his (outwardly) skittish nature, that more than one of the
military leaders who reviewed it (including Dubcek) went back to the
examining psychologist to ask for an explanation.
The psychologist had told them simply, "It's no mistake. In ordinary
circumstances he is much like Hamlet---wavering, indecisive,
introspective to a fault. But when pushed to the final need, somehow
he raises himself to another level, and reacts with a courage and
cunning that are. . .remarkable."
And that was well, because the fight came, hard and long, and in it the
upper bridge was wracked by internal explosion, killing Mandlik and
half his officers. Without the Soviet cruiser, which the Belgian-Swiss
had not detected, the battle would almost certainly have gone against
them.
Brunner's first order, upon assuming command, was to stay near,
and protect the planet's prison complex, which in their late
desperation he feared the Alliance commanders might try to destroy.
And he was right.
* * *
The browning, grapple wrist, raised stiffly before him like a manikin,
or a marionette, preceded the old man from the chamber. The entire
body moved with it in stiff, convulsive strides, out onto the porch of
the Parthenon, between the pillars and onto the marble steps.
One not of that place might have been shocked by his appearance,
distorted as it was by bony growths, the jaw torn to one side by a
madman's rock. Some half-buried sense had drawn him---sight it might
be called---to stand there and watch the night sky.
Distant lightnings played before his eyes, soft bursts of light and
almost, a pool fancied, distant sounds. Perhaps Mars had come at last,
to liberate and destroy them. Through the dull horror of his
marrowmind, twisted like the frame, he recalled verses from a book long
ago, that set his knife-tattered soul on edge.
From Olympus mighty thunderbolts rain down
As futile, Titans reach to steal the crown
Of He whose strength and glory forged the lands
For greater power, rests within His hands.
His broken mouth produced a strange, pitiful utterance, as an
unbearable anguish of hope came over him.
* * *
As the last Alliance vessels retreated, or were caught and subdued by
the tractor beams of the Leningrad, Brunner's thoughts returned quickly
to the planet below. Though his battle fury was still running
hot---his own vessel was badly damaged, and there were wounded to look
after---his mind would think of nothing else. He started to assign
damage and medical crews, but found the work was already being done.
And their primary mission was, in fact, the release and rescue of the
prisoners.
But with the main bridge knocked out and the lower malfunctioning, he
could gather no news of the inhabitants of the prison-domes on the
planet's surface. "Getting very confused readings," his scanning
officer told him.
"Signs of life?" A momentary panic.
"Yes, Lieutenant, but they cannot be right."
"Why?"
"Well, sir, Intelligence reports over two million inhabitants were
shipped here, and the internal structures are certainly large enough to
house that number. But I register less than two hundred life-forms."
"WHAT?"
"It's got to be the equipment, sir: they don't even register as human.
The calcium content is much too high." Even as he spoke the console
went dead with a smell of burned fiber and sparks.
"Communications Officer." He could not remember her name. "Have you
contacted Colonel Joyce?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. The viewscreens are out, but we still have audio."
"Very well. Put me through."
She handed him a headset.
"Colonel Joyce. Brunner. Do you still intend to call for Soviet
reinforcements?"
"They are on the way."
"Will they be here soon enough to secure the area?"
"Yes."
"And will you provide transports for the prisoners?"
"That will not..... One thing at a time, Olaf."
"What do you mean? Those people have been separated from their
families for months. What the hell are you waiting for?"
... "Is your scanning equipment working?"
"No, the upper bridge was destroyed. That's why I contacted you."
"And Mandlik?"
"Dead."
"You have assumed command?"
"Yes."
"Then I think you should organize a landing party and come to the
Leningrad. Have you an operational shuttle?" Brunner turned to one of
his officers, who nodded.
"Yes. For God's sake, what is happening?"
"I will tell you when you come."
"Sergei. My wife....."
"Not like this. Gather your party and come."
Brunner ordered the landing party assembled, and met it at the shuttle
dock. Among those he found there was the nurse, the only medical
persona that could be spared, whom he had been so aware of two days
before. He tried not to look at her. With a knotting throat and a
rising anxiety he could not contain, he guided the ship himself into
the open receiving dock of the Leningrad.
One other shuttle craft entered behind them, landing also on the dull
white metal floor, but no more. The bay doors were closed slowly and
the dock began to repressurize. But in his drunken state the very
sound of it was like her name hissed by witches.
As a double-line of Soviet personnel---in breathing suits and
armed---emerged from an opened passage and made their way to the two
large landing vessels, one of them a hospital ship, he opened the hatch
of his own vehicle and moved weakly down the steps.
Colonel Joyce approached him with another, as if for support. Brunner
recognized him from an earlier visit---Chief Scientist Stoltzyn. He
had no patience left.
"Why only two Coalition parties? Didn't you contact the other ships?"
"Two will be enough. . .to represent your peoples."
"Represent? What the HELL IS GOING ON?" Some of the Soviet
technicians within the enclosure---there were perhaps two dozen,
wheeling in odd gear, among its contents special breathing masks for
the Czechs---looked over in surprise to hear a Soviet Colonel addressed
in this way.
But none were more taken back than Joyce himself. He seemed unable to
look Brunner in the eye or speak the words he had to speak, a thing
which he had never experienced. Finally it was Stoltzyn who spoke.
"There's been some kind of plague."
Brunner felt his heart heave, then fall in upon itself like collapsing
leprous flesh. His voice a fainting whisper.
"What? Sergei?"
Joyce finally master himself and spoke, though slowly. "Of the two
million inhabitants, perhaps two hundred still live. Five of the six
domes are emptied of life. You will be going to the sixth. But I. .
.want you to be prepared."
"Tell me."
Joyce strode back and forth a few times, irritated, agitated, then
faced Brunner almost angrily.
"Stoltzyn will tell you the rest. I am sorry, Olaf. I can say no
more." He turned and left the enclosure.
The chief scientist was more composed. "There will be many corpses.
Also, those who still live may be gruesome to look upon, and almost
certainly will not be rational. Something in the atmosphere has caused
the rapid growth and multiplication of bone cells and calcium
deposits....."
Stoltzyn would have continued but the young German lieutenant had lost
consciousness and slithered to the floor.
When Brunner came to he found the nurse, the one he did not wish to
think about, looking into his face full of concern. All this took only
a short time, so that as she and another helped him to his feet, the
Soviet and Czech chief scientists (the latter with considerably less
detachment) had only begun to discuss the dangers and consequences of
such a landing.
"No," said the Russian. "There is no threat of contagion or epidemic.
It is not a disease we are dealing with but a bodily reaction to impure
atmosphere. We are safe so long as we retain the breathing gear, and
probably without it for short periods, though we will not take that
chance."
"And if the survivors are mad and beyond healing, as you suggest? What
do we do then?"
"That is the purpose of this expedition---to determine."
"Do the others know?" The Czech made a gesture with his head and left
shoulder, taking in the other shuttle but implying all the remaining
Coalition forces.
"They know what their equipment has told them, and will be briefed by
the rest of us as soon as we know ourselves. Lieutenant Brunner, if
you are unwell perhaps you should remain behind."
"His wife may be down there, you idiot."
... "I am sorry, Brunner, I did not know. Please don't think me
cruel. It is not the first time such a thing has happened, and we may
have a very difficult decision to make. Democratic German
representation will also be needed---"
"Why didn't the domes protect them?" he said in a savage whisper.
"I believe they were meant to. Apparently they were breached. That is
all I can say now. Please outfit yourselves accordingly and come to
the first landing vessel when you are ready."
*
The two landing craft emerged from the whiteness of the Soviet vessel
into the blackness of Space, then shortly again into the curved
daylight of the desolate planet, reflecting back in a brown haze of
impure atmosphere its yellow sun.
The domes drew nearer---six humps of clearish white spread unevenly
across the flat desert floor, standing up from it like supported
blisters of the planet itself.
But the blisters had been pierced. Fissure-holes and cracks, some
larger, some smaller, were spread across them. The land too, upon
closer inspection, was pocked with craters, and littered with ugly
shapes of pocked and polished iron.
"Meteors," muttered a voice. Brunner turned to see Second Lieutenant
Shellenback seated behind him, head hunched and eyes close, chewing
mournfully at his hands, remembered vaguely that he was not the only
German to have come looking for family. The faces of the Czech flyers
were grave as well. Yes---he was not alone in his plight. Yet there
was little comfort in the fact.
"Why weren't the domes protected?" came an angry voice. But even as
his mind registered the sound, Brunner saw the huge black tower that
stood amidst the growing bubbles, the meteor-repulse cannon at the top
of it. Stoltzyn, who stood near the front of the windowed fuselage
like a stewardess, responded.
"They were, but insufficiently. The Alliance must have assumed that
the meteors that speckle the surface had arrived singly or in small
groups, which is not the case. Apparently they knew very little about
the planet before choosing it as a prison site, since it is also prone
to violent earthquakes." He went on to explain some phenomenon that
occurred there every twelve years, something to do with the planet's
duel orb, coming into line and affecting the magnetic field.....
But it hardly mattered. Nothing mattered. His wife was dead and a
strange voice inside him told him he was glad. This slow awakening of
all the wrong sentiments was too painful so he shut it off, closing his
eyes and waiting sickly for the ship to land.
There was a slight delay while the craft relayed back exact
measurements, and waited for the Leningrad to punch a safe and adequate
hole in the final dome. For some reason it bore only smallish cracks
in one or two places near the bottom. Then the ship passed through and
set down in the midst of a courtyard or wide street.
Then the ship passed through and set down in the midst of a courtyard
or wide street. Brunner opened his eyes. Stoltzyn was standing before
them as before, giving final instructions as the Soviet crew members
examined the breathing gear of the others. Brunner shook off the
private who leaned over him, but the man persisted until the facemask
was tested and in place. Just as the hatch was opened Stoltzyn
remembered something and began to explain what the plastic pouches set
at the chin were for. But this seemed to upset one of the Czechs
because he pushed him aside and sprang down the steps.
Brunner was one of the last to exit, feeling numb and at the same time
torn to pieces. Clearing the final step he became aware that here and
there in the street suited men---they must be of the landing
party---were doubled over on their knees, holding their stomachs. He
supposed this did not surprise him except that among those kneeling and
right in front of him was the Soviet chief scientist, who had torn
aside the mask and kept repeating to no one in particular,
"How could this happen?"
The East German raised his eyes to look around them. Yes, there were
many corpses, quite hideous. Most were facing downward with spines
that looked like dinosaurs, but there were those who faced upwards as
well. It was all gruesome enough, the skulls and chests swollen and
distorted, the skin stretched thin and pink to accommodate, or
punctured outright by bony growths, all mottled, discolored, in various
stages of decomposition. Eyes mashed and half hidden. Horrible.
But Brunner felt in that moment that nothing could hurt him because he
was already dead. Sunk this deep into the nightmare without waking why
should he care? The thought came dully that his mind and heart were
like the flesh and organs of the diseased: crushed and cut by flat or
jagged bone, until they simply surrendered and died.
"The peace that surpasseth all understanding."
But the black humor of despair could not last. Movement on a side
street---was there a sound as well?---drew his eyes from the dead and
back to the living. The dead had not been able to rouse any feeling of
true pity inside him. At least their suffering was over. But to see
the twisted and bulging figures walk in flesh.....
Two bodies stood there that had not yet surrendered. One of them must
at one time have been a woman: long dark hair straggled from the dried
blood of a knotted forehead---
LONG DARK HAIR. Like a thunderclap the reason for his journey came
back to him. Where was his wife? Was Ara here? Dear God! Dear God!
She had often worn such a coverall.
He started toward the street between the buildings. But the female
gave an almost-shriek and the two pogoshuffled pitifully away.
He felt something grasp his arm. He turned in fear and involuntary
loathing, but it was only the nurse (the one he did not wish to think
about). She was crying and shaking like a leaf. She was not what
narrow men might call pretty. . .but to see her there with her hair and
eyes and skin unblemished was like water at a last dying need. A
breath of the free air beyond that place came back to him, and with it,
like a sob, a final desperate hope of courage and the need to act.
He remembered they were wearing masks; how would they..... But seeing
the hoop at her ear brought it back. He embraced her quickly and said
through the microphone. "I am searching for my wife. Will you help
me?"
She nodded rapidly and clung to his arm. They began to move. Some
member of the party called to them but they walked slowly down the
street toward a large square, where a whitestone marble building at the
farther end was built like the Parthenon Library at Athena. Why it had
been built and by whom (by the Alliance, to show their humane and
considerate treatment of the prisoners) he did not know or care. If it
was also a library then perhaps there would be records. It was a
feeble thought, but it drew him on because he had no other.
As his heart pounded unbearably he heard the same prayer repeated over
and over inside him. DEAR GOD FORGIVE ME I KNOW I AM SELFISH BUT
PLEASE DEAR GOOD PLEASE IF I MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU DON'T LET HER BE
HERE. I WILL DO ANYTHING JUST DON'T LET HER BE HERE. Then almost
against his will the post script, BUT IF SHE IS HERE MAY SHE PLEASE
PLEASE PLEASE NOT HAVE BEEN TORTURED AND AT LEAST BE DEAD NOW.
"No, no!" Almost he started to run, but the weight at his arm checked
him fiercely. The girl stood still with terror in her eyes, and
pointed to a figure at the top of the marble steps.
An old man with graying hair, not so horrible as the rest but still
dreadful to look upon, stood by another who lay sprawled at his feet on
the steps. Something red stood out clearly against the marble and
Brunner saw that it was blood, coming from an open wound in the
prostrate man. There was blood also on the knife the old man clutched
awkwardly in his left hand. If the two had still been human, the scene
might have been tragic---something from the epics of Homer. But as it
was it was ghastly and brutal, the afterglow of a vicious reptilian
death struggle. The standing man's jaw was torn to one side, exposing
teeth the size of walnuts.
The woman would have fled, but Brunner watched the old man intently.
He saw the weapon in the hand of the other as well---it had not been
outright murder. And also the man did not run, but returned his gaze
with troubled curiosity. At last some form of recognition seemed to
come over him, because with a twisting gesture of the right arm which
he could not lower, he beckoned them towards him.
"Come on," he said to the nurse.