Several months had passed and much had changed for the increased and
solidified Coalition Fleet. As they drew nearer the tri-colonies of
his home, Brunner stood upon the bridge of the Kythera now only as an
observer. He had been relieved of command after the incident at
Rembrandt, and his case had not yet been tried.
But this was only a formality. In the light of recent events, the
resulting loss of the Soviets as an ally was now of relatively small
importance, while from the standpoint of pride and independence, much
had been gained.
Though he had never wanted it, and told himself it meant nothing to
him, Brunner had become a national hero. And to the Dutch, so often
stoic and reserved, his defiant stand aboard the Icarus had become
something of a legend. He found it all exceedingly strange, rather too
much of a contrast to the isolation and despair which he had felt such
a short time before. And he wondered how many other 'heroes' of the
past were simply men who had done what they had to do at the time,
thinking (and caring) not at all about posterity.
But such thoughts were very far from him now. He was concerned about
the approaching battle; and not at all in the way he always had been
before. For one thing his younger brother, who had joined the space
navy after the fall of Athena, would be present. He had done what he
could to protect him, getting him assigned to a friend's destroyer
group, but the added worry was not lessened because of it. Fighter
escorts were always in danger, and though Tomas was a good pilot, he
had never before flown in combat, and seemed overly determined to make
his mark before the war ended.
There was little enough doubt as to who would prevail. The Belgians
and Swiss, now bearing the brunt of the U.N. and Commonwealth
peace-keeping efforts (nothing like a pang of conscience), had drawn
off most of their forces to defend what remained of their original
possessions. Word had also been received that the French Elite, under
tremendous pressure both home and abroad, had withdrawn from Irish New
Belfast, and left it to its original keepers.
What troubled him now was that men on both sides would be killed, to
settle a dispute which every day became more academic. The Alliance
had been beaten, and yet their pride would not let them surrender
without a fight, what had never been theirs. The Coalition was
vindicated, but still bitter at its wounds, remained set upon claiming
the debt in full. He found both motives equally abhorrent, and had
retained enough humanity not to think of himself as East German first,
last and always. The words 'us' and 'them' still left an aftertaste.
His one consolation, and it was not a substantial one, was that he
himself would play no part in it. His supposed aptitude for (and
curiosity about) the ways of war had been more than quenched. If it
were humanly possible, he intended to resign from the military
immediately after his hearing, and never fight again. His earlier
revulsion to bloodshed had returned, redoubled in strength by
experience.
It was not easy to put such a past behind him, and the images of
victims and violence that had burned indelibly into his memory, still
troubled his thoughts of the future. And as he watched his son
continue to grow, his one prayer was that Man would finally, finally
come to his senses, and have done forever with cooperative mass-murder.
That it was normal for a father to want to spare his son from the pain
he himself had experienced, he knew. That in some respects it was
impossible, and wrong to try, he also realized. But THIS pain, this
Hell, he wished with every ounce of his being could be spared from all
the children of men from now until the end of time. His one regret was
that there wasn't more he could do to work in that direction. He was
no politician, could not even take them seriously.....
"Enemy ships approaching, Colonel. Ninety-six vessels, mostly
fighters, fighter-bombers and destroyers, clustered about four light
cruisers."
These words, and the ensuing battle-tension on the faces around him,
brought him sharply back reality. He moved to stand before the wide
sweep of glass and look out at the sea of Space before him. He studied
the relatively small force approaching their own, nearly three times as
strong.
And beyond them, he saw with love and sudden longing the rose and aqua
hues of Athena. His home. And beyond all, the white, crystalline
stars: perfect, pure and untouchable, untainted by the follies of men.
"Not much of a force," said Liebenstein to his exec. "And why give
battle so far beyond the grids?"
"Perhaps it's only a feint," replied the other.
"Forgive me, Colonel," put in Brunner, turning. "But I believe they
mean to give only mock battle and then fire out into warp. It would
also explain....."
"Thank you, Captain, that will be more than enough." Liebenstein knew
this as well as he, but had wanted to keep the edge of hardness and
keen attention among his officers. "Very well, Muller. Order the
fleet to spread out, and engage if he's willing."
Seeing with his now practiced eye what was unfolding before him,
Brunner felt real hope rise inside him as it had not done for many
months. Could it be this easy? Had his long trials at last been
rewarded: to retake his home with so little bloodshed?
Then the journey had brought him full circle. It was not far from here
that Dubcek (the remembrance saddened him, but he pushed on) had stood
before the glass, not so long ago that they had been startled and
undone by an Enemy that seemed so strong and unassailable, their own
chances against it, so desperate and hopeless. Yet somehow they had
found a way. And now.....
His assumptions had been correct. After scarcely twelve minutes of
half-hearted fighting, the Alliance vessels began to move off and fire
into light-speed. And he sensed also that this was not at all what
their High Command had intended. Some Belgian or Swiss general had
mercifully disobeyed orders, and given up the colonies with only mock
resistance. He looked up again at Athena, and now nothing stood
between him and that beautiful orb, filled with life. His HOME
There came the sound of cheering and fraternal congratulation all
around him, but he heard none of it. He was completely isolated within
his own emotions.
At first he could feel nothing but child-like joy, and a blissful
release from care and tension. This feeling grew, and deepened, until
he felt himself to be standing atop a high pinnacle, looking down on a
vast panorama of mountain, clouds and snow, at other peaks, and other
conquerors like himself. But in that moment none stood so high as he,
and his heart swelled to bursting with pride and gratitude, and love
for all men.
He was home! It was over. He had WON.
But then as this elation, almost sexual, faded, he grew thoughtful and
more deeply introspective. And though he tried to stop them, or at
least soften them with thoughts of his present happiness, memories
began to come back to him of the sorrow and suffering he had seen, and
of his comrades who had not survived. And from this same lofty
pinnacle, he saw with new and vivid bitterness the full insanity of war.
After all that---all the fighting, the hanging on, the despair and true
heroism, hearts breaking and breaking through..... This plethora of
human passions, pushed to their utmost limit, had not worked miracles
of unification and achievement, or even brought men to a new
understanding. There was nothing positive in any of it. All the
battles, death and anguish, had not paid their awful price for good,
but merely to resist an evil, and restore things to the way they had
already been.
How could anyone rejoice and claim victory? He saw then with
melancholy and absolute certainty that no nation anywhere, ever, gained
anything lasting from such a war. And though a personal victory might
be won, on any national or international scale this was impossible.
Human nature was not changed, and the seeds and roots of the scattered
weeds were not eradicated, but merely remained beneath the surface,
awaiting their chance to rise and reek havoc again.
And the spiritual quota was not even returned to its original starting
point. Hundreds of thousands of men, women and children were dead,
many more wounded, maimed, bereft or displaced. And for WHAT?
Nothing had changed.
Nothing had been accomplished.
And nothing was the same.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, whirled angrily. Seeing before him the
familiar face of Eric Dobler, a destroyer captain formerly under his
command, he tried to relax his features and his mind. But seeing the
restive sorrow in the other's face, he suddenly felt a new sense of
care and alarm.
"What is it, Eric? What's wrong?"
... "Your brother is dead. He kept asking for you, but there was no
time."
Brunner's mouth worked, but no sounds would emerge.
"He asked me to give you a message. To say..... He tried to be like
you. That he was sorry. Sorry he had failed..... He couldn't hold
them off."
Brunner hung his head in agony and shame. And the words of Joseph
Conrad sprang, so easily to his mind, seeming to sum up perfectly this
brutal sham of Man's creation. DEAR GOD.
"The horror! The horror!"
And the tears that his wife was so fond of, trickled bitterly down his
cheek.
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