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Yang murmured a casual “I see” to show he was listening, and a smile appeared on Marshal Sitolet’s face for the first time.

  “You sure can be dense sometimes. His rival isn’t somebody else—it’s you.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “But, Director, I—”

  “This has nothing to do with however you may evaluate yourself. The problem is in what Fork is thinking and the method he’s taken for achieving his goals. I have to say, it’s too political, in the negative sense of the word. Even if it weren’t for that”—here the marshal sighed—“you must have grasped something of his character from today’s meeting. He displays his talents not in actual achievements but in eloquent speech, and what’s worse, he looks down on others while trying to make himself look distinguished. He doesn’t really have the talent he thinks he does, though … Entrusting anyone’s fate to him other than his own is just too dangerous.”

  “Just now, you were saying the importance of my being here had increased …” Yang said pensively. “By that are you telling me to oppose Rear Admiral Fork?”

  “Fork isn’t exactly the only one. When you reach the highest position in the service, you’ll be able to hamper and weed out people like him by yourself. That’s what I’m hoping you’ll do. Though I know it’s nothing but aggravation as far as you’re concerned.”

  Silence clung to the pair like a heavy wet robe. Yang had to physically shake his head in order to shrug it off.

  “Your Excellency the Director is always assigning me tasks that are too big for me. Telling me to take Iserlohn was one of those, too, but—”

  “But you did it, didn’t you?”

  “That time, I succeeded, yes, but …” Yang broke off and almost fell silent again, but he pushed on, saying, “It’s not that I hold authority and military power in contempt—no, the truth is, those things terrify me. Most people who gain authority and military power turn ugly—I could give a ton of examples. And I don’t have the confidence to say I wouldn’t change as well.”

  “You said most people. Which is exactly right. Not everybody changes.”

  “In any case, I intend to be a man of discretion and stay the greater part away from valor. I want to do some kind of work within the range that I’m able and then live a relaxed, easygoing life—is that what they call lazy by nature?”

  “That’s right. Lazy by nature.”

  As he stared at Yang, who was at a loss for words, Director Sitolet broke into an amused smile.

  “I’ve long struggled with this myself. It’s not a lot of fun to work hard all alone and see other people living relaxed lives of ease. But first of all, if I can’t get you to do the hard work suited to your talent, that’s what I’d call unfair.”

  “… Unfair, sir?”

  Aside from grimacing, Yang knew of no other way of expressing his emotions. In Sitolet’s case, the director had probably decided to work hard willingly and of his own accord, but Yang didn’t think he was like that. At any rate, the one certain thing was that he had lost his chance to resign.

  V

  Before Reinhard were arrayed the young admirals attached to the Lohengramm admiralität: Kircheis, Mittermeier, von Reuentahl, Wittenfeld, Lutz, Wahlen, and Kempf, followed by von Oberstein. Reinhard considered them the best of the best from the imperial military’s human resource pool. However, he needed to assemble still more, of both quality and quantity. He needed it said of this admiralität that an appointment here meant recognition as a talented and capable individual. The admiralität’s reputation was already significant, but Reinhard wanted the superiority of his admiralität to be universally apprehended.

  “I’ve received the following report from imperial military intelligence,” Reinhard said, looking around the assembly, and the admirals straightened their posture just slightly. “Recently, the frontier rebels of the so-called Free Planets Alliance have succeeded in stealing the empire’s frontline base of Iserlohn. This much you know already, but since then, the rebels have been massing their forces at Iserlohn in vast numbers. According to our estimates, there are two hundred thousand vessels and thirty million troops—moreover, these are bare minimum estimates.”

  Murmurs of surprise and even admiration wended their way among the admirals. To command a giant fleet was a warrior’s greatest ambition, and despite this one belonging to the enemy, they still couldn’t help feeling impressed by its scale.

  “What this means is as clear as day, nor can there be an iota of doubt: the rebels intend to launch an all-out assault directed at the core of our empire.” Reinhard’s eyes seemed to burn. “I have secret orders from the minister of state: the duty of intercepting and defending against this military threat is to be mine. Orders from the emperor will come down in the next couple of days. As a warrior, there is no greater honor I could hope for. I expect a good hard fight out of you all.”

  Up to this point, he had been speaking in a hard, formal tone, but here he smiled unexpectedly. It was a smile filled with energy and spirit, although it was not the purehearted, transparent smile that he showed only to Annerose and Kircheis.

  “In other words, this means all the other corps are ornamental dolls decorating the imperial palace, and not to be counted upon. This is an excellent chance for promotions and medals.”

  The admirals smiled as well. Like Reinhard, they shared a common enmity toward highborn nobles who did nothing but gorge themselves on position and privilege; it had not been for their talents alone that Reinhard had selected these men.

  “And now I’d like to talk with you about where we should intercept the enemy …”

  Mittermeier and Wittenfeld expressed a shared opinion: The rebel attack would come by way of the Iserlohn Corridor, so why not hit them the moment they emerged from it into imperial territory? “We can ascertain the point where the enemy will appear, so it will be possible to strike their vanguard and create a half-envelopment formation, which will give us the advantage and make fighting them easy—”

  “No …” Reinhard said, shaking his head. He then proceeded to explain that the enemy would be expecting an attack at the point where they exited the corridor and poured into the empire’s core. Their elite forces would be positioned in the vanguard, and if the remaining force didn’t emerge from the corridor when they were attacked, his force would be left with no means of attacking them further.

  “We should lure the enemy in deeper,” Reinhard argued, and after a brief discussion, the other admirals agreed. “We lure the enemy deep into imperial territory, and then when their ranks and supply lines are stretched to the breaking point, we hit them with everything we have. I’d say that with such a strategy, victory for the defending side is assured.”

  “But that will take a lot of time,” said Mittermeier. He had a firm, if smallish, build and certainly looked like a sharp young officer. He had unruly, honey-colored hair and gray eyes. “As this is, in rebels of the alliance’s own words, the most daring feat since their founding, it’s sure they’ll cut no corners when it comes to the preparation of their ranks, equipment, and supply lines. It will take a considerable amount of time for their matériel to be exhausted and for their fighting spirit to wane.” Mittermeier’s rather concerned opinion was only natural, but Reinhard swept his gaze across his admirals, and then with a gleam of utmost confidence in his eyes, said, “No, it won’t take very long at all. I’d give it less than fifty days. Von Oberstein, explain the basics of the operation.”

  When called upon, the staff officer with the half-silvered hair stepped forward and began to explain. As he was doing so, an air of shocked disbelief spread out among the admirals without a sound.

  On August 22, SE 796, General Headquarters for the Free Planets Alliance’s Expeditionary Force to Imperial Territory was established within Iserlohn Fortress. Around that same time, thirty million troops from the capital of Heinessen and its sur
rounding star systems were assembling columns of warships and setting out toward a distant battlespace.

  I

  For the first month, a dazzling excitement was the constant companion of all the alliance’s space fleets. Then the warmth of that friendship cooled, and what remained was disappointment and, even worse, anxiety and impatience. There was a question the men began asking one another—the officers in places where no enlisted men would hear and the enlisted men in places where there were no officers.

  Why doesn’t the enemy show themselves?

  With Admiral Urannf’s Tenth Fleet in the lead, the alliance force had penetrated roughly five hundred light-years into imperial territory. Two hundred star systems had fallen into their hands, and of those, over thirty were inhabited, albeit with populations whose levels of technological development were low. A total of about fifty million civilians were living on these worlds. The colonial governors, frontier counts, tax officials, and soldiers who were supposed to be governing these people had all fled, and the alliance had been met with virtually no resistance to speak of.

  “We are a liberation force.”

  That was what the alliance’s pacification officers announced to the throngs of abandoned farmers and miners.

  “We promise you liberty and equality. You won’t suffer anymore under the oppression of despotism. You’ll be given full political rights and begin your lives anew as free citizens.”

  But to their disappointment, what they found waiting for them were not the fervent cheers they had envisioned. The crowds didn’t show the slightest interest, in fact, and the pacification officers’ impassioned eloquence rolled right off their backs. When the farmers’ representatives spoke, they would say:

  “Before you give us any kind of political rights, we’d appreciate it if you’d give us the right to live first. We’ve got no food here. There’s no milk for our babies. The military took it all when they left. Before you promise freedom and equality, can you promise bread and milk?”

  “O-of course,” the pacification officers would reply, though inside they were disheartened by these prosaic requests. Nevertheless, they were a liberation force. Guaranteeing the necessities of life to multitudes groaning under the heavy yoke of imperial governance was a duty eclipsing even combat in importance. Foodstuffs were disbursed from each fleet’s supply department, and at the same time, requisitions were sent to Supreme Command Headquarters on Iserlohn: 180 days’ worth of food for fifty million people, seeds for upwards of two hundred varieties of crops, forty production plants for artificial protein, sixty hydroponics plants, and all the ships needed to carry them.

  “This is the minimum needed to rescue the liberation zone from a state of perpetual famine. These figures will grow steadily larger as the liberation zone expands.”

  Rear Admiral Caselnes, the expeditionary force’s rear service chief of staff, let out an involuntary growl at the sight of that annotation, which came attached to the requisition form. One hundred eighty days’ worth of food for fifty million people? The grain alone would hit ten million tons. To move it would require fifty transport vessels in the two hundred thousand-ton class. Most importantly, that much food greatly exceeded the production and storage capacity of Iserlohn.

  “Even if we empty every warehouse on Iserlohn, that only comes to seven million tons. And even with the artificial protein and hydroponics plants running at full capacity—”

  Caselnes cut off his subordinate’s report: “It won’t be enough—I know.”

  The resupply plan, designed for the thirty million soldiers of the alliance, had been drawn up by Caselnes himself, and he had been confident regarding its implementation.

  It would be a different story now, though, because on top of that they had to handle a noncombatant population nearly double the size of the entire expeditionary force. He would need to make corrections to the plan that would triple its scale, and he would need to do it fast. Caselnes could easily imagine the cries from the fleets’ supply departments as they strained under the excessive burden.

  “Still, are these pacification officers all imbeciles?”

  What was sticking in his craw was that line in the note attached to the requisition form: These figures will grow steadily larger as the liberation zone expands. Didn’t that mean the burden on the resupply effort was only going to get heavier? This was no time for childlike rejoicing over the expansion of seized territory. And furthermore, there was a faint suggestion of something else in all of this—of something that was terrifying.

  Caselnes requested a meeting with the supreme commander, Marshal Lobos. In his office, he found Rear Admiral Fork of the operations staff present as well. This he had been expecting; Fork enjoyed a greater share of the supreme commander’s confidence than even his chief of staff, Senior Admiral Greenhill. He could usually be found keeping a watchful eye by his boss’s side, and lately there were whispers that “the Supreme Commander’s nothing but a microphone for the ops staff. When he opens his mouth, it’s really Rear Admiral Fork who’s speaking.”

  “This must be about the requisitions from the pacification teams,” Marshal Lobos said, rubbing his meaty jowl. “Whatever it is, I’m busy enough even without it, so make this quick.”

  One didn’t get to the rank of marshal by being incompetent. Lobos was a man who knew how to get results on the front lines, methodically process paperwork in the rear, lead large forces, and manage staff. Or at least he had known, until some point during his forties. Now, however, his decline was plain to see. He was lethargic in all things, and his lack of energy was especially noticeable when judgment, insight, and decision making were called for. Which was probably why Rear Admiral Fork was being allowed to do as he pleased, making all the decisions.

  There were a number of theories as to what had caused this once-gifted commander to end up like this. Some said that the strain he had put on his mind and body as a young man had resulted in the onset of encephalomalacia, or softening of the brain; others said that it was chronic heart disease, or that he had never gotten over losing out to Sitolet in the race for the director’s seat at Joint Operational Headquarters—the uniformed men unfolded wings of imagination as they gossiped with one another.

  When those wings spread too far, theories emerged such as the one where Lobos—who had never met a pretty girl he didn’t like—had caught some horrible disease from a woman with whom he’d shared a night. That particular thesis came with a special extra: the claim that the woman who had given the marshal his ignominious illness had been an imperial spy. Dirty smiles would appear for a moment on the faces of those who heard this rumor, after which their shoulders would draw up as though they’d felt a chill.

  “I’ll be brief, Excellency. Our forces are facing a crisis. A very serious crisis.”

  Caselnes chanced opening with his sword brandished high and waited to see how Lobos would react. Marshal Lobos stopped the hand that was massaging his chin and shot a doubtful look back at the rear service chief of staff. Rear Admiral Fork twisted his pale lips slightly, though this was merely force of habit.

  “What’s this all of a sudden?”

  There was no echo of shock or surprise in the marshal’s voice, but Caselnes wondered if he were not so much calm and collected as emotionally stunted.

  “You’re aware of the requisitions coming in from the pacification teams?” Caselnes asked, which might have been a rude thing to say. Fork clearly seemed to think so; though he said nothing out loud, the crook of his mouth grew larger. Perhaps he intended to make something of it later.

  “I know about them,” said Lobos. “I get the feeling they’re asking for too much myself, but given our occupation policy, what choice do we have?”

  “Iserlohn doesn’t have supplies in the quantities they’re demanding.”

  “Then pass the requisitions on to the homeland. The bean counters might go into hysterics, but they
can’t refuse to send you what you need.”

  “Yes, sir, they’ll certainly send it. But once those supplies have reached Iserlohn, what do you think happens next?”

  The marshal started stroking his chin again. No matter how hard you rub it, it’s not gonna scrape off all that fat, Caselnes thought.

  “What do you mean, Admiral?”

  “What I mean is that the enemy’s plan is to overload our capacity to resupply the force.” He spoke in a harsh tone of voice, though what he’d wanted to do was scream, Can’t you even see that! at him.

  “In other words, the enemy is going to attack the transport fleet and try to cut off our supply line—that’s your opinion as rear service chief of staff?” said Rear Admiral Fork.

  It was disagreeable to be interrupted, but Caselnes nodded.

  “But everything from here to the front lines five hundred light-years away is under occupation by our forces. I don’t think there’s any need to be so worried. Though, ah, of course we’ll attach an escort, just in case.”

  “I see. Just in case, huh?”

  Caselnes said that with all the sarcasm he could muster. What did he care what Fork might think?

  Yang, please make it back home alive, Caselnes silently called to his friend. He couldn’t help thinking, This is way too stupid a fight to get killed in.

  II

  In the alliance’s capital of Heinessen, a fierce debate was unfolding between factions supporting and opposed to the large-scale requisitions from the expeditionary force.

  Those in favor said, “The expedition’s original goal was to liberate a people groaning under the oppression of imperial rule. Rescuing fifty million people from famine is obviously the moral thing to do as well. Furthermore, when people learn that our forces have saved them, that—coupled with their opposition to imperial rule—will cause public sentiment to tilt inevitably in the direction of our alliance. For reasons both military and political, the expeditionary force’s requests should be honored and foodstuffs and other necessities be given to the residents of the occupied zone …”