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  “To be honest, I don’t have a lot of trust in myself,” Yang replied flatly. “But unless I trust you, the plan itself will be over before it starts. So I’m going to trust you. That’s the big prerequisite.”

  “I see,” von Schönkopf said, though the look on his face said he hadn’t necessarily taken Yang at his word. The commander of the Rosen Ritter regiment glanced toward the young senior officer again with a sort of look that was partly trying to penetrate Yang’s real intentions, partly trying to figure out his own.

  “May I ask you one question, Admiral?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The orders you were given this time were utterly impossible. They told you to take half a fleet—with undisciplined troops equivalent to a rowdy mob—and bring down Iserlohn Fortress. Even if you’d refused, there wouldn’t have been many who would’ve blamed you. So the fact you agreed to this must mean that you already had this plan in mind. However, I’d like to know what was going on in your head underneath all that. Lust for honor? Or for advancement?”

  The light in von Schönkopf’s eyes was sharp and ruthless.

  “I don’t think it was any lust for advancement,” Yang said. His reply was indifferent, as though he were talking about someone else altogether. “If I’ve got people calling me ‘Excellency’ before I turn thirty, then that’s enough for me already. ’Cause first of all, if I’m still alive at the end of this mission, I intend to get out.”

  “Get out?”

  “Yeah, well, I get a pension, and there’s also a retirement allowance … It should be enough for me and one other to live a comfortable, if modest, lifestyle.”

  “You’re saying you’ll retire under these conditions?”

  Yang smiled at the sound of von Schönkopf’s voice; it as much as said he was struggling to understand.

  “About those conditions: If our forces occupy Iserlohn, that will cut off what is pretty much the empire’s only route for invading us. As long as the alliance doesn’t go and do something stupid like using the fortress as a platform for its own invasion of the empire, the two militaries won’t be able to clash even if they want to. At least not on a large scale.”

  Von Schönkopf listened, silently.

  “At that point, it’ll be up to the diplomatic skills of the alliance government, and since we’ll have gained an advantageous foothold militarily, they may be able to manage a satisfactory peace treaty with the empire. As far as I’m concerned, I can retire with peace of mind if that happens.”

  “Though I wonder if that peace can be lasting.”

  “Lasting peace has never existed in human history, so I’m not gonna hope for that. Still, there have been peaceful and prosperous stretches lasting several decades. If we have to leave some kind of heritage for the next generation, the best thing we can ultimately give them is peace. And maintaining the peace that the previous generation handed to them will be the next generation’s responsibility. If each generation remembers its responsibility to future generations, a long-term peace will be maintained. If they forget, then they’ll squander that inheritance, and the human race will be back to square one. And hey, that’s okay, too.”

  Yang lightly placed the beret he’d been playing with back on his head. “In short, all I’m realistically hoping for is peace for the next several decades. But even so, a peace that long would be a million times better than a wartime period one tenth as long. There’s a fourteen-year-old boy living in my house, and I don’t want to see him dragged into the battlefield. That’s how I feel.”

  When Yang closed his mouth, silence fell. It didn’t last long.

  “Forgive me, Admiral, but you’re either an exceptionally honest man or the biggest sophist since Rudolf the Great.” Von Schönkopf flashed a wry smile. “At any rate, that’s a better answer than I was hoping for. That being the case, I’ll do my utmost as well. For a not-so-everlasting peace.”

  Neither of the two men were the type to clasp the other’s hand in deep emotion, so from there the conversation delved immediately into businesslike matters, as they discussed the details of the operation.

  III

  There were two full admirals of the imperial military at Iserlohn. One was the fortress commander, Admiral Thomas von Stockhausen, and the other the commander of the Iserlohn Fleet, Senior Admiral Hans Dietrich von Seeckt. Both were fifty years of age, and while tallness was also a trait they both shared, von Stockhausen’s waistline was a size more narrow than von Seeckt’s.

  They were not on friendly terms, but this had less to do with individual responsibility than with tradition. They were two commanding officers of equal rank in the same workplace. It was a wonder when they didn’t lock horns with each other.

  Emotional conflicts naturally extended even to the troops under their command. From the standpoint of the fortress’s garrison, the fleet was like an obnoxious houseguest that would fight outside, then come running back when things got dangerous, looking for a safe place to hide—a prodigal son, as it were. And if you asked the fleet crewmen, they would say that the fortress garrison troops were a bunch of “space moles” holed up in a safe hideout and amusing themselves by playing at war with the enemy.

  Two things just barely bridged the rift between them: their pride as warriors “supporting the impregnable fortress of Iserlohn” and their enthusiasm to do battle with the “rebel army.” In fact, when enemy attacks came, they competed for success unyieldingly, even as they despised and cursed one another. This resulted in the achievement of enormous military successes.

  Whenever the military authorities proposed combining the offices of fortress and fleet commander to unify the chain of command, the idea was squelched. This was because a decrease in the number of commander-level positions presented a problem for the high-ranking officers and also because there were no prior examples of the conflicts between the two leading to a fatal result.

  It was May 14 of the standard calendar.

  The two commanders, von Stockhausen and von Seeckt, were in their conference room. Originally, this had been part of a salon for high-ranking officers, but as it was equidistant from both their offices, it had been remodeled as a fully soundproof meeting room. This measure had been taken because neither was fond of going to the other’s office, and since they were both within the same fortress, it wouldn’t do to rely solely on televised communications.

  For the past two days, communications in the vicinity of the fortress had been garbled. There was no room for doubt that a rebel force was approaching. However, there had been nothing like an attack yet. The two commanders were meeting to discuss what to do about this state of affairs, but the conversation had not advanced in a necessarily constructive direction.

  “You say we should launch since they’re out there, Commander, but we don’t know where they are, so how are you going to fight them?”

  Thus spoke von Stockhausen, to which von Seeckt countered:

  “That’s exactly why we should go out: to find out where they’re hiding. If the rebels do come to attack, it’s likely they’ll mobilize a large force.”

  At von Seeckt’s words, von Stockhausen gave a nod of complete self-assuredness. “Which will end with them being beaten back again. The rebels have attacked us six times, and six times they’ve been repulsed. Even if they’re about to come again, it only means six times becoming seven.”

  “This fortress is truly amazing,” the fleet commander said, implying, It’s not because you’re particularly capable.

  “At any rate, it’s a fact that the enemy’s nearby. I’d like to mobilize the fleet and go find them.”

  “But if you don’t know where they are, you’ve got no way of finding them. Wait a little longer.”

  Just as the conversation was beginning to go in circles, there was a call from the communications room. It said that a strange transmission had been picked up.

  Althoug
h the jamming was fierce and the transmission faded in and out, at last it revealed the following situation:

  A single Bremen-class light cruiser carrying vital communiqués had been dispatched to Iserlohn from the imperial capital of Odin but had come under enemy fire inside the corridor and was presently being pursued. They were seeking rescue from Iserlohn.

  The two commanders looked at one another.

  In a growl from the back of his thick throat, von Seeckt said, “It’s unclear where in the corridor they are, but at this point we have no choice but to move out.”

  “But is that really a good idea?”

  “What do you mean by that? My troops are a breed apart from space moles who only want security.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The two of them arrived at the joint operations meeting room and took their seats, disgusted faces side by side.

  Von Seeckt gave orders to launch the fleet to his own staff officers, and von Stockhausen stared off in another direction while he was explaining the situation.

  When von Seeckt finished speaking, one of his staff officers stood up from his seat.

  “A moment, please, Your Excellency.”

  “Ah, Captain von Oberstein …” said Admiral von Seeckt, without one iota of goodwill in his voice. He hated his newly assigned staff officer. That salt-and-pepper hair, that pale, bloodless face, those artificial eyes that emitted a strange glow from time to time—he didn’t like any of it. He’s a very portrait of gloom, he thought. “You have some opinion?”

  At least on the surface, von Oberstein seemed unperturbed by his superior officer’s halfhearted tone.

  “I do.”

  “Very well, let’s hear it,” von Seeckt prodded reluctantly.

  “Well then, I’ll tell you. This could be a trap.”

  “A trap?”

  “Yes, sir. To draw the fleet away from Iserlohn. We mustn’t go out. We should observe the situation without making a move.”

  Von Seeckt snorted with disdain. “So what you want to say, Officer, is that if we go out, the enemy’s waiting, and if we fight, we’ll be defeated.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “Well then, what did you mean? We’re soldiers, and fighting is our duty. Rather than seeking our personal safety, we should think proactively about destroying the enemy. And more importantly, what can we do if we can’t help a friendly ship that’s in trouble?”

  He felt antipathy toward von Oberstein, and he also had to consider his appearance in front of von Stockhausen, who was observing this development with an ironic smile. Also, von Seeckt was a guns-and-glory sort of leader, the kind who couldn’t bear to wait on the sidelines when the enemy was before him; it was not in his nature to stay holed up in the fortress and wait for an assault. He believed that if he did that, a career spent on battleships would have been a waste.

  “I don’t know, Admiral von Seeckt—your staff officer does have a point. We know the precise positions of neither our enemies nor our allies, and the danger is great. How about waiting just a little bit longer?”

  It was von Stockhausen’s opinion from the sidelines that decided the matter.

  Von Seeckt said so flatly.

  At last the Iserlohn Fleet, composed of fifteen thousand ships large and small, commenced leaving port.

  Von Stockhausen watched the departures via the screen of the port traffic control monitor in the fortress command room. The sight of the battleships like huge towers on their sides and sleek streamlined destroyers launching in orderly formations, departing for a battlefield in the void, was truly magnificent.

  “Hmph. I hope you come back smarting,” von Stockhausen murmured to himself. He could not bring himself to say things such as “die” or “lose,” not even as a joke. That was his own way of exercising moderation.

  About six hours passed, and then once again a transmission came in. It was from the Breman-class light cruiser in question, and the following words were teased out from the static: “We’ve finally arrived near the fortress but are still under pursuit by attacking rebel forces. Request artillery bombardment to cover our approach.”

  As he ordered the gunners to make preparations for covering fire, von Stockhausen wore a deeply bitter expression. Where had that imbecile von Seeckt gone off to? It was a fine thing to talk a big game, but was the man not even capable of helping an ally who was all alone out there?

  “Ship reflections on-screen!” reported one of his men. The commander gave orders to augment and project the image.

  The Bremen-class light cruiser was approaching the fortress with all the unsteadiness of a drunkard. The multiple points of light that could be seen in its background were, of course, enemy vessels.

  “Prepare to fire!” von Stockhausen ordered.

  However, just before entering firing range of the fortress’s main cannons, the ships of the alliance force halted altogether. They were floating—timidly, it seemed—beyond an invisible border, and when they saw the Bremen-class light cruiser heading into port, guided by a signal from the fortress’s port traffic control room, they began turning their noses around in apparent resignation.

  “Prudent fellows, you know it’s hopeless.”

  The imperial soldiers broke out into raucous laughter. Their confidence was as unshakeable as the fortress was impregnable.

  Having entered port and been moored there by magnetic fields, the Bremen-class light cruiser was a tragic sight to behold. Just by looking at its exterior alone, it was possible to make out a dozen or so damaged areas. White shock foam was sticking out of rents in the hull like the intestines of some animal, and the number of hairline cracks was impossible to count, even with the fingers and toes of a hundred soldiers.

  Hydrogen-powered cars loaded with ground crew came racing toward it. These were not fortress troops, but troops under the Iserlohn Fleet’s commander, and they sympathized from the bottoms of their hearts when they saw the ship’s wretched condition.

  A hatch on the light cruiser opened, and a youthful-looking officer appeared, white bandages wrapped around his head. He was a handsome man, but his pale face was sullied with a caked, reddish-black substance. “I’m Captain Larkin, commander of this ship. I’d like to see the commander of this fortress.”

  He spoke the official language of the empire clearly and articulately.

  “Yes, sir,” said one of the maintenance officers, “But what in the world is going on out there?”

  Captain Larkin gave a frustrated sigh. “We aren’t too sure ourselves. We came from Odin, you know. However, it looks like somehow your fleet has been destroyed.”

  Glaring sharply at the ground crew as they swallowed hard and peered at him in disbelief, Captain Larkin shouted, “It appears that somehow the rebel forces have come up with a new way to pass through the corridor. This threatens not only Iserlohn but the survival of the empire itself. Quickly, now, take me to the commander.”

  Full Admiral von Stockhausen, who had been waiting in the command room, rose from his chair when he saw five of the light cruiser’s officers enter the room surrounded by security personnel.

  “Explain the situation—what’s going on out there?” As von Stockhausen walked toward the captain with long strides, his voice was pitched higher than usual. He had been informed already, and if the rebel forces had devised a way to pass through the corridor, it meant that the very significance of Iserlohn’s existence would be called into question and it would be up to him to develop some way to counter the movements of rebel forces.

  Since Iserlohn was itself a fixed-point construction, it was exactly for times like these that the Iserlohn Fleet was needed. And von Seeckt, that wild boar, had gone charging off with it! Von Stockhausen was having trouble maintaining a calm demeanor.

  “This is what’s happened …” The voice of this Captain Larkin was
low and weak, so von Stockhausen, feeling impatient, drew near to the man. “This is what’s happened: Your Excellency von Stockhausen, you have become our captive!”

  A frozen instant melted, and by the time the security guards had with sharp curses drawn their blasters, Captain Larkin’s arm was wrapped around von Stockhausen’s neck, and a ceramic firearm—invisible to the fortress’s security system—was pointed at the side of his head.

  “Why, you …” growled Commander Lemmrar, head of the command room’s security detail, his ruddy face growing even redder. “You’re friends with those rebels. How dare you try such an outrageous—”

  “I’m going to ask you to remember me. I’m Captain von Schönkopf of the Rosen Ritter regiment. I’ve got both hands full right now, so I can’t wash off the makeup to greet you properly.” The captain laughed as though invincible. “To be honest, I didn’t think things would go this well. I made sure to forge an ID card before I came, but nobody even checked it. That’s a good lesson to learn—that no matter how secure the system, it all depends on the people running it.”

  “And who is that lesson for, I wonder?” With these ominous words, Commander Lemmrar aimed his blaster at both von Stockhausen and von Schönkopf. “You planned on taking hostages, but don’t think that you rebels are the same as imperial soldiers. His Excellency the Commander is a man who fears dishonor more than death. There is no shield here to protect you!”

  “His Excellency the Commander seems annoyed at being so overestimated.” Smiling scornfully, von Schönkopf shot a glance toward one of the four men encircling him. That man produced a ceramic disc, small enough to hold in his hand, from beneath his imperial uniform.

  “You know what that is, right? It’s a Seffl particle emitter.”

  Von Schönkopf spoke, and it was like an electric current had run through the wide chamber.

  Seffl particles were named for their inventor, Karl Seffl. A researcher in applied chemistry, he had synthesized the particles for mining ores and performing civil engineering work on a planetary scale, so—to put it briefly—these particles were like a gas that would react to a set amount of heat or energy, setting off an explosion within a controllable range. Humanity, however, had always adapted industrial technologies to military use.