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  Because of this, the realization of the Alliance Armed Forces’ plan—summed up in the words, “We’ve gotta invade imperial territory!”—was dependent on the fight to capture Iserlohn. Across four and a half centuries, they had dared six times to launch large-scale attacks to take the fortress, and repulsed every time, these failed attempts had birthed the imperial military boast, “The Iserlohn Corridor is paved with the corpses of rebel soldiers.”

  Yang Wen-li had twice taken part in operations attempting to topple Iserlohn. He had been a lieutenant commander at the time of the fifth operation and a captain at the time of the sixth. Twice he had witnessed massive fatalities and had come to know the stupidity of trying to push through on sheer force alone.

  We can’t take Iserlohn by attacking from the outside, Yang had thought in the midst of a fleet set to flight. But given that, how could we do it?

  In addition to being a fortress, Iserlohn harbored a fleet fifteen thousand ships strong. The commander of the fortress and the commander of the fleet were both full admirals. Could there not be some kind of opening there they could take advantage of?

  Count von Lohengramm’s recent incursion had also used Iserlohn as a forward base of operations. No matter what, Yang had to topple this ominous military stronghold of the empire. And moreover, he had only been given half a fleet to do it with.

  “Frankly, I didn’t think you’d accept this mission,” Rear Admiral Caselnes said as he thumbed through a troop organizational document. They were in his office at Joint Operational Headquarters. “The chairman and the director are both counting on this for their own respective reasons … Surely you can see through the both of them.”

  Sitting in front of him, Yang just smiled and didn’t answer. Caselnes slammed his papers down on the table loudly and looked with deep interest at his underclassman from Officers’ Academy.

  “Our forces have tried six times to take Iserlohn, and six times we’ve failed. And you’re telling me you’re gonna do it with only half a fleet?”

  “Well, I thought I’d give it a try.”

  The eyes of Yang’s former upperclassman narrowed ever so slightly at this answer.

  “So you do think there’s a chance. What are you gonna do?”

  “That’s a secret.”

  “Even from me?”

  “Getting to act all high and mighty about it is what makes you appreciate this kind of thing,” Yang said.

  “You got that right. Let me know if there’re any supplies I can ready for you—I won’t even ask for a bribe.”

  “In that case, one imperial warship, please—you ought to have one that’s been previously captured. Also, if I can get you to ready about two hundred imperial uniforms …”

  Caselnes’s narrowed eyes opened wide.

  “What’s the deadline?”

  “Within the next three days.”

  “… I’m not gonna ask you for overtime pay, but you’re at least treating me to a cognac.”

  “I’ll buy you two. And by the way, I’ve got one more request …”

  “Make it three. What is it?” Caselnes asked.

  “It’s about those extremists called the Patriotic Knights.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard. That must have been awful.”

  Since Julian was going to be at home by himself, Yang requested that arrangements be made for military police to patrol the neighborhood in his absence. He had thought about leaving the boy with some other family, but it was unlikely that Julian, the household’s commanding officer whenever Yang was out, would have stood for it. Caselnes said he would see to it right away, then looked at Yang again as though he had remembered something.

  “Oh yeah, the high commissioner of Phezzan—lately he’s been awfully curious about you.”

  “Oh?”

  The special entity known as Phezzan held an interest for Yang that was a little different from what it held for others. That dominion had been the creation of a great merchant of Terran birth named Leopold Raap, but many things about his background and source of funds were unclear. Had someone for some reason caused Raap to create the entity known as Phezzan? Yang, having tried and failed to become a historian, thought about things like that as well. Naturally, though, he had not spoken of this to anyone else.

  “Looks like you’ve caught the interest of the Black Fox of Phezzan. He may try to scout you.”

  “I wonder if Phezzan tea is any good?”

  “Flavored with poison, most likely … Incidentally, how is the planning coming along?” Caselnes asked.

  “Things that go according to plan are pretty rare in the world. That said, I can’t rightly not make one.”

  So saying, Yang departed. A mountain of work was waiting for him.

  It wasn’t just that the ships and personnel of the Thirteenth Fleet numbered half what was usual. Most of its officers and soldiers were surviving remnants of the Fourth and Sixth fleets that had been defeated so soundly at Astarte; the rest were new recruits lacking in combat experience. An up-and-coming rear admiral their commander may be, but Yang was still just a twenty-something kid … and seasoned admirals’ words of surprise, shock, and derision had reached his ears: It seems a babe not yet out of diapers intends to beat a lion to death barehanded—that should be fun to watch. If you’re forced into it, you’re forced, but to go willingly—oh, dear!

  Yang didn’t even get upset. You’d have to be one heck of an optimist to not have doubts about this operation, he thought.

  The only one who had taken up for Yang was Vice Admiral Bucock, commanding officer of the Fifth Fleet. An unsociable, white-haired admiral seventy years of age, he was known as a stubborn individual with a short temper. When saluted by the likes of Yang, he would return a disinterested salute with a suspicious look in his eye that all but said, “Where’d this greenhorn come from?” At the White Stag—a club for high-ranking officers—his fellow admirals had been using Yang and the Thirteenth Fleet as fodder for jokes when that “scary old man” had said, “I hope you all don’t end up with egg on your faces later. You might just be looking at a redwood sapling and laughing at it for not being tall.”

  They had all fallen completely silent. They had remembered the capability that Yang had displayed at Astarte and in battles prior. At the words of the elderly admiral, their group mentality had dissipated. The admirals had drained their glasses and gone their separate ways, an awkward feeling in the chest of each from having said something they couldn’t quite patch over …

  Yang, to whose ears that story had found its way, had made no particular effort to thank Vice Admiral Bucock. He had known that if he did attempt such a thing, he would be laughed to scorn by the white-haired admiral.

  Though the admiralty’s opposition had subsided for the time being, the overall situation had not taken that much of a turn for the better. The gloomy fact solemnly remained of the hybrid half fleet, composed of defeated survivors and green recruits, that was heading off to attack an impregnable fortress.

  Yang put a great deal of thought into the selection of his executive staff. For his vice commander, he chose Commodore Edwin Fischer, a skilled, seasoned officer who had fought well in the Fourth Fleet. For chief staff officer, he chose Commodore Murai, a man lacking in originality but possessed of a precise and well-ordered mind. For assistant staff officer, he named Captain Fyodor Patrichev, who had a reputation as a good fighter.

  Yang would get commonsense advice from Murai and make use of him as an advisor for ops planning and decision making. Patrichev he would have yelling at and encouraging the troops. And of Fischer, Yang wanted the fleet run steadily and soundly.

  I think I can be satisfied with the postings so far, but it wouldn’t hurt to find an aide-de-camp, Yang thought. He put in a request with Caselnes for an “outstanding young officer” and a communiqué arrived later that said, “I’ve got just the person. Graduate
d salutatorian from Officers’ Academy in 794—one heck of a better student than you. Presently assigned to the Data Analysis Department at Joint Operational Headquarters.”

  The officer who appeared before Yang shortly thereafter was a beautiful young woman with hazel eyes and golden-brown hair that had a natural wave; even a simple black-and-ivory-white military uniform looked pretty on her. Yang took off his sunglasses and stared at her fixedly.

  “Sublieutenant Frederica Greenhill reporting. I’ve been assigned to work as aide-de-camp to Rear Admiral Yang.”

  That was her introduction.

  Yang put his sunglasses back on to hide his expression, thinking there must surely be a black, pointy tail hiding in the back of Alex Caselnes’s uniform slacks. The daughter of Dwight Greenhill, assistant director at Joint Operational Headquarters, Frederica had a reputation as one who possessed astonishing powers of memory.

  And so it was that the personnel assignments for the Thirteenth Fleet were decided.

  II

  On April 27 of SE 796, Rear Admiral Yang Wen-li, commander of the Free Planets Alliance Armed Forces Thirteenth Fleet set out on the path to topple Iserlohn.

  Officially, this voyage was to be the new fleet’s first large-scale maneuver, to be held in a backwater star system in the direction opposite that of the alliance’s empire-facing border. They departed from Heinessen using 50-C pulse-warp navigation, headed in the direction opposite that of Iserlohn, and after continuing for three days, recalculated the route and executed eight long-range warps and eleven short-range warps, finally entering the Iserlohn Corridor.

  “Four thousand light-years in twenty-four days. Not bad,” murmured Yang. But it wasn’t just not bad; the fact that this hastily assembled, prefab fleet had been able to somehow reach its destination without a single ship going missing was downright praiseworthy. Of course, this success was all due to the experienced hand of the vice commander, Commodore Fischer, lauded for his masterly performance in the operation of the fleet.

  “The Thirteenth Fleet has an expert on that, so …” Yang would say, leaving relevant matters entirely up to Fischer. When Fischer said something, Yang would only nod approval.

  Yang’s mind was focused on one thing only: how to capture Iserlohn Fortress. When he had first revealed his plan to the fleet’s three executive officers—Fischer, Murai, and Patrichev—they had been at a loss for words.

  Fischer, in late middle age with silver hair and a mustache; Murai, a thin, nervous-looking man close in age to Fischer; and Patrichev, with long sideburns on his rounded face and a uniform that seemed fit to burst from the strain of holding in his body—all three of them for a while simply stared back at their young commander.

  The moment passed, and then Murai asked the obvious question: “And if it doesn’t work, then what?”

  “Then all we can do is run away with our tails between our legs.”

  “But if we do that …”

  “Then what? Don’t worry about it. Taking down Iserlohn with half a fleet was an unreasonable demand from the start. The ones who end up embarrassed in front of everybody will be Director Sitolet and me.”

  After he dismissed the three of them, Yang called for his aide, Sublieutenant Frederica Greenhill.

  In her position as his personal aide, Frederica had learned about Yang’s plan before the three executive officers, but she had raised no objection, nor even shown any sign of anxiety. No, far from that, she had predicted success with a certainty exceeding that of Yang himself.

  “What is it that makes you so confident?” Yang just couldn’t help asking, though he was well aware what a strange thing that was to say.

  “Because, Admiral, you were also successful eight years ago, at El Facil.”

  “That’s still awfully flimsy grounds, though, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe … but at that time, Admiral, you succeeded in planting absolute trust in the heart of one little girl.”

  Yang gave her a quizzical look.

  To her doubtful-looking superior, the officer with the golden brown hair said, “I was on El Facil with my mother at that time. My mother’s ancestral home was there. I clearly remember the young sublieutenant who was nibbling on a sandwich while commanding the evacuation proceedings; he had hardly enough downtime to eat. That sublieutenant, though, has probably long forgotten the fourteen-year-old girl who brought him coffee in a paper cup when he choked on that sandwich, hasn’t he?

  Yang had no ready reply.

  “And also what he said after his life had been saved by drinking that coffee?”

  “What did he say?”

  “ ‘I can’t stand coffee. Would’ve been nice if you’d made it tea.’ ”

  Feeling the start of a fit of laughter coming up, Yang cleared his throat loudly to drive it from his body. “Did I say such a rude thing?”

  “Yes, you certainly did. As you were crushing the empty paper cup in your hand.”

  “Is that so? I apologize. You need to find a better use for that memory of yours, though.”

  The words sounded reasonable enough, though they were nothing more than sour grapes. Frederica had once discovered six slides out of fourteen thousand taken of Iserlohn in which the pre- and postbattle images did not match; she had proven already how valuable her powers of memory could be.

  “Call Captain von Schönkopf for me,” Yang said.

  Exactly three minutes later, Captain Walter von Schönkopf appeared in front of Yang. He was captain of the Rosen Ritter, or “Knights of the Rose” regiment, which was affiliated with the Alliance Armed Forces ground battle commissioner’s department. He was a man in his early thirties with a refined appearance, though those of his own gender often considered him a “pretentious SOB.” Born to respectable imperial aristocrats, he would have ordinarily been standing on the battlefield in an imperial admiral’s uniform.

  The Rosen Ritter had been established primarily by the children of aristocrats who had defected from the empire to the alliance, and had a history going back half a century. That history was written partly in golden lettering and partly in blots of black ink. The regiment had had twelve prior captains in its history. Four of them had died in battle, fighting against their former homeland. Two had retired after rising to the admiralty. Six had fled to their former homeland—some stealing away quietly and others switching sides in the midst of combat.

  There were those who averred, “That guy’s unlucky. Since he’s number thirteen, he’s sure to become traitor number seven.” As for why the number thirteen was unlucky, there was no general consensus. One theory said it was because the thermonuclear war that had nearly eradicated humanity on Terra (and provided the impetus for the survivors to completely abolish nuclear-fission weapons) had lasted thirteen days. Another claimed it to be because the founder of an old, long-extinct religion had been betrayed by his thirteenth disciple.

  “Von Schönkopf reporting, sir.”

  His respectful tone of voice was a poor fit for his impudent expression. As Yang looked at this former imperial citizen three or four years his senior, he thought, Taking a contrived attitude like that might be his way of sounding out others. Though even if it is, I can’t bring myself to go along with it on every point …

  “There’s something I need to talk with you about.”

  “Something important?”

  “Probably so. It’s about capturing Iserlohn,” Yang said.

  For a few seconds, von Schönkopf’s line of sight wandered about the room.

  “That would be extremely important. Is it all right to consult a junior officer like me?”

  “It can’t be anyone but you. I want you to listen close.” Yang began to describe the plan.

  Five minutes later, von Schönkopf had finished listening to Yang’s explanation, and there was a strange look in his brown eyes. He seemed to be trying hard to suppress a
nd conceal utter shock.

  “Let me jump the gun and say this, Captain: this is not a proper plan. This is a trick—actually, it’s a cheap trick,” Yang said, taking off his black uniform beret and twirling it ill-manneredly on his finger. “But if we’re to occupy the impregnable fortress Iserlohn, I believe it’s the only way. If this doesn’t work, then it’s beyond my ability.”

  “You’re right—there probably is no other way,” said von Schönkopf, rubbing his pointed chin. “The more people depend on sturdy fortresses, the more they tend to slip up. A chance of success most certainly does exist. Except—”

  “Except?”

  “If, as the rumors suggest, I were to become traitor number seven, this will have all been for nothing. If that were to happen, what would you do?”

  “I’d have a problem.”

  Von Schönkopf gave a pained smile at the sight of Yang’s dead-serious look.

  “Yes, indeed—that would be a problem. But is that all it would be? Surely, you’d think of some way to cope.”

  “Well, I did think about it.”

  “And?”

  “I couldn’t come up with any ideas. If you betray us, I throw up my hands and run home right then and there. There’ll be nothing else I can do.”

  The beret slipped off Yang’s finger and fell to the floor. The hand of the former imperial citizen reached out and picked it up, and after brushing away the dust that hadn’t even clung to it, handed it back to the senior officer.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. So, you’re saying you have absolute trust in me?”