IV_Oberheim (Voices): A Chronicle of War

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 assault 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 assault 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 Space 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 Japanese, 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.

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 impasse. 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 pass 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 hell. The door opened silently before him.

Looking into room he saw upon his dresser the vial, the photograph, and

the nearly empty glass 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 damned

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 glass, 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 God,

please help me hold on."

He set down the empty glass, 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