Dawn Page 25

  There was also a counterargument: “This expedition has been poorly planned from the start. The initial plan alone required expenditures totaling two hundred billion dinars—that comes to 5.6 percent of the national budget for this year and more than 10 percent of the military’s budget. Even with those expenses alone, it’s certain we’ll be way over budget when financial accounts are settled. Add in securing the occupied zone and provision of foodstuffs for its residents, and fiscal bankruptcy becomes certain. They should end this campaign, abandon the occupied territories, and return to Iserlohn. Just holding Iserlohn is enough to block incursions from the empire …”

  Ideological appeals, cold calculations, and emotions all ran together, and it seemed as if this fierce debate might go on forever.

  A report—or rather, a cry—from Iserlohn, however, was what settled the matter: “At least give our soldiers the chance to die in battle. If you spend every day doing nothing, nothing awaits them but inglorious deaths by starvation.”

  Supplies were assembled in accordance with the military’s demands, and they began shipping them out, but not long after, additional requisitions came in for almost the same amounts as the previous ones. The occupied zone expanded, and the number of people residing within it swelled to one hundred million. Naturally, there was no way to avoid an increase in the amount of supplies needed …

  Those who had supported the earlier requisitions felt humiliated, as one might expect. The opposing side said, “Didn’t we try to tell you? There’s no end to it, is there? Fifty million has turned into a hundred million. Before long, a hundred million will turn into two hundred million. The empire intends to destroy the finances of our alliance. The government and the military blindly walked right into this and are not going to be able to avoid responsibility. We have no other options left. Withdraw!”

  “The empire is using the innocent civilians themselves as a weapon to resist our force’s invasion. It’s a despicable tactic, but considering that we’re doing this in the name of liberation and rescue, one can’t help admitting it’s an effective one. We should go ahead and withdraw. Otherwise, our force is going to stagger along under the weight of all the starving civilians it’s carrying and ultimately be pummeled by a full-on counterattack when its strength gives out.”

  So spake João Lebello, chairman of the Finance Committee, in the High Council.

  Those who had supported the mobilization said not a word. Instead, they merely sat in their seats looking glum—or rather, shell-shocked.

  Madam Cornelia Windsor, chairwoman of the Intelligence Traffic Committee, was staring at the ashen screen of a computer terminal displaying nothing, her comely face gone rigid.

  By this point, even Madam Windsor knew all too well that there was nothing else to do but withdraw. Nothing could be done about the expenditures thus far, but the nation’s finances could not endure further expenses.

  However, if they pulled out now without having achieved any kind of military successes at all, she would lose face for having supported it. Not only those who had opposed this deployment from the start, but also those of the prowar faction presently supporting her, would no doubt seek to hold her politically accountable. The seat of council chair that she had longed for since she first decided to go into politics would recede from her as well.

  What were those incompetents at Iserlohn doing? Madam Windsor was seized with a fearsome anger; she ground her teeth and clenched her fists, and her beautifully manicured nails dug into the palms of her hands.

  There was no choice but to withdraw, but before that, even if only just once, how about showing everyone a military victory over the Imperial Navy? If they did that, she herself would save face, and this campaign might also avoid being held up as a symbol of folly and waste by future generations.

  She glanced over at the elderly council chair. That old man who so thickheadedly, unconcernedly occupied the most powerful seat in the nation …

  The head of state, ridiculed as “the one nobody chose.” At the end of a graceless game produced by the mechanics of the political sphere, he had come out on top through no effort of his own, like a fisherman coming upon a sandpiper fighting with a clam, easily taking both. I was fooled into supporting this because he talked about the next election. She hated the chairman from the bottom of her heart for throwing her into this mess.

  On the other hand, Defense Committee Chairman Trünicht was feeling quite pleased with the clarity of his own foresight.

  It had been obvious to him that things would turn out this way. At its present level of national and military strength, there had been no way the alliance could have successfully invaded the empire. In the very near future, the expeditionary force would meet with miserable defeat, and the current administration would lose the support of the masses. However, Trünicht himself had opposed that ill-conceived deployment, and thus having shown himself a man of true courage and discernment, would not only emerge unscathed by this, he would likely gain the reputation of a true statesman. That would leave only Lebello and Huang to compete with, but they had no support among the military and defense industry. Which meant that, ultimately, the seat of High Council chair would go to Trünicht.

  That was what he wanted. In his heart he was smiling with satisfaction. It was he himself who would be called “the greatest head of state in the history of the alliance … the one who brought down the empire.” There was no one save himself who was worthy of the honor.

  In the end, the argument for withdrawal was rejected.

  “Until some sort of result has been achieved on the front, we shouldn’t do anything that would shackle our forces.”

  This was the prowar faction’s argument, delivered in a slightly shamefaced tone of voice. That “result” would for Trünicht be an altogether splendid thing. Although naturally, the sort of result he was counting on was a very far cry from the one the hawks were hoping for.

  III

  “Until supplies arrive from the homeland, each fleet should procure the supplies it deems necessary locally.”

  When that directive was relayed to the leadership of each of the alliance fleets, faces turned red with anger.

  “Procure supplies locally?! Are they telling us to plunder?”

  “What’s Iserlohn thinking? Do they think they’ve become pirate chieftains?”

  “When your supply plan fails, it’s the first step on the road to strategic defeat. Militarily, that’s just common sense. They’re trying to force the front lines to take the blame for it.”

  “Didn’t Supreme Command HQ say the supply system was perfect? What happened to all their big talk?”

  “They’re telling us to somehow procure something that was never even here in the first place!”

  Though Yang did not join in with this chorus of rumbling complaints, he fully agreed with them. Supreme Command HQ was behaving extremely irresponsibly, but since irresponsible motives had been behind this deployment from the get-go, it had been too much to hope for that there would be any responsibility in its execution and operation. He hated to think what Caselnes must be going through.

  Even so, we’re at our limit, he thought. Thanks to its having continued to feed residents of the occupied zone, the Thirteenth Fleet was now just about to reach the bottoms of its stores. The unease and dissatisfaction of Captain Uno, the supply chief, exploded:

  “The civilians aren’t looking for ideals or justice. All they care about is their stomachs. If the Imperial Navy were to bring in foodstuffs, they’d bow themselves to the ground, shouting, ‘Hail to His Highness the Emperor!’ They only live to satisfy their base instincts. So why do we have to starve in order to feed them?”

  “So we don’t become Rudolf.”

  Giving only that for an answer, Yang called Sublieutenant Frederica Greenhill and had her open an FTL comm channel between himself and Admiral Uranff in the Tenth Fleet.

&nb
sp; “Well, if it isn’t Yang Wen-li,” said the descendant of ancient horse clans from the comm screen. “It’s rare to hear from you. What’s going on?”

  “Glad to see you’re looking well, Admiral Uranff.”

  That was a lie. The strong and sharp-eyed Uranff was showing the shadows of weariness and exhaustion all over. Although he came highly praised as a courageous commander, it seemed that problems of an altogether different dimension from that of courage and military strategy were driving the man to his limits.

  When asked how his stockpile of foodstuffs was holding out, Uranff’s disgust went up another notch.

  “There’s only one week’s worth left. If there’s no resupply before then, we’ll have no choice but compulsory requisi—no, there’s no point dressing it up—to plunder from occupied territory. The liberation force is gonna be shocked when they hear that. Assuming there’s anything down there to plunder.”

  “About that, I’ve got an opinion I’d like to share …” Yang said. “How about we just chuck these occupied zones and withdraw?”

  “Withdraw?” Uranff’s brows twitched slightly. “Before we’ve exchanged fire even once? Isn’t that a little passive?”

  “We should do it while we still can. The enemy is draining our supplies and waiting for us to starve. And why do you think that is?”

  Uranff thought for a moment. “Most likely, they’ll hit us with everything they’ve got. The enemy has the home-field advantage, and their supply lines will be short.”

  “Hmm …” Uranff was famed for his daring, but it was no surprise that a chill seemed to have run down his spine. “But if we withdraw in a chaotic rush, we’ll just end up inviting the enemy offensive, won’t we? In which case, we’ll make matters a whole lot worse.”

  “The big prerequisite is being prepared to fight back. If we pull out now, we can do that, but if we wait until our men and women are starving, it’ll be too late. The most we can do is retreat in an orderly fashion before that happens.”

  Yang made his case vehemently. Uranff listened in silence.

  “Also, the enemy will have their forecast for the time they think we’ll be getting really hungry. If they see us pulling out, interpret it as a full-fledged retreat, and come charging after us, there’ll be any number of ways we can fight back. On the other hand, if they think it’s a trap because we’re leaving too early, well, that’s fine, too—we might just be able to withdraw unscathed. The odds of that are not very high, though, and they’ll only get lower with each passing day.”

  Uranff thought about it, and it didn’t take long to reach a decision.

  “All right. You’re probably right. We’ll begin preparations for withdrawal. But how should we go about informing the other fleets?”

  “I’m about to put a call in to Admiral Bucock. If I can get him to contact Iserlohn, it should carry more weight than if I do it …”

  “Very well, let’s both make this happen as fast as we can.”

  As soon as Yang had finished conferring with Uranff, an urgent communiqué arrived.

  “A civilian riot has broken out in the Seventh Fleet’s occupation zone. The scale is extremely large. It was caused by the military’s suspension of food distribution.”

  Frederica wore an agonized, frustrated expression as she gave the report.

  “How did the Seventh Fleet deal with it?”

  “They put it down temporarily by using infirmity gas, but it apparently started up again the minute the effects wore off. It’s probably just a matter of time before the military escalates its methods of resistance.”

  Yang couldn’t help thinking, This whole thing has turned into a tragedy.

  An alliance invasion calling itself a liberation force—a force for protecting the people—had turned the masses into its enemies. At this stage of the game, there was probably no longer any way to dissolve the mutual distrust. Meaning that the empire had succeeded splendidly in tearing the alliance forces and the occupied people apart.

  “Absolutely splendid, Count von Lohengramm.”

  I couldn’t have done this … taking it this far, this thoroughly. Even if I knew I could win if I did it, I just couldn’t. That’s the difference between Count von Lohengramm and me, and that’s the reason he terrifies me.

  Because someday, it may well be that difference that leads to disaster …

  When Vice Admiral Bucock, commander of the Free Planets Alliance Fifth Fleet, made an FTL call to Supreme Command HQ at Iserlohn, it was the pallid face of Operations Staff Officer Fork that appeared on his comm screen. “I asked for an appointment with His Excellency the Supreme Commander. I don’t remember saying that I wanted to talk to you. Ops staff shouldn’t stick their noses into places where they haven’t been invited.”

  The voice of the old admiral was scathing. In force and gravitas, there was no way Fork could come close to matching it.

  The young staff officer was taken aback for just an instant before haughtily retorting, “Appointments with His Excellency the Supreme Commander, as well as reports and the like, all go through me. What is your reason for requesting an appointment?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  Even Bucock forgot his age for a moment, assuming the posture of someone spoiling for a fight.

  “Then I can’t connect you.”

  “What … ?”

  “No matter how high your rank, you have to observe the rules. Shall I end this transmission?”

  You made up those rules yourself, didn’t you! thought Bucock, though in this case he had no choice but to concede.

  “All the fleet commanders on the front lines want to withdraw. I’d like to obtain the supreme commander’s consent in this matter.”

  “Did you say ‘withdraw’?” Rear Admiral Fork’s lips twisted into the very shape the old admiral had been expecting. “Admiral Yang might say something like that, but I didn’t expect to hear someone as renowned for his courage as you, Admiral Bucock, arguing for withdrawal without combat.”

  “Stop it with the cheap shots,” Bucock said. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you people hadn’t come up with such a slipshod deployment proposal in the first place. Try feeling just a little bit responsible.”

  “This is the perfect chance to slaughter the Imperial Navy in one fell swoop. What are you so afraid of? If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t withdraw.”

  That insolent and thoughtless remark set off flashes like supernovas in the old admiral’s eyes.

  “Is that so? Fine, then—I’ll switch places with you. I’ll come back to Iserlohn, and you can come to the front in my place.”

  Fork’s lips were reaching a point at which they could twist no further.

  “Please don’t suggest the impossible.”

  “You’re the one insisting on impossibilities. And you’re doing it without budging from the safe place where you’re sitting.”

  “Are you insulting me, sir?”

  “I’m just sick and tired of listening to lofty-sounding words,” Bucock said. “If you want to show your talent, you should do it with a record of accomplishments, not eloquent speeches. How about giving command a try and finding out whether or not you’ve got what it takes to give orders to others?”

  The old admiral fancied he could hear the sound of the blood draining from Fork’s narrow face. What he saw, however, was not his imagination. The young staff officer’s eyes lost focus as confusion and terror spread out over his features. His nostrils flared, and his mouth opened into a bent quadrilateral. He raised both his hands, hiding his face from Bucock’s view, and after a pause of about one second, a cry rang out that was somewhere between a moan and a scream.

  Bucock looked on speechlessly as the image of Rear Admiral Fork sank down below the bottom of his comm screen. In Fork’s place, he saw figures running back and forth, but for the moment there
was no one to explain what was going on.

  “What’s happened to him?” he asked Lieutenant Clemente, the aide who was standing off to one side.

  But Clemente didn’t know either.

  The old admiral was made to wait in front of the screen for about two minutes.

  At last, a young medical officer in a white uniform appeared on the screen and saluted.

  “Sir, this is Lieutenant Commander Yamamura. I’m a medical officer. At present, His Excellency Rear Admiral Fork is being treated in the infirmary. Please allow me to explain the situation.”

  Something about Yamamura struck Bucock as a little self-important. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Neurogenic blindness brought on by conversion hysteria.”

  “Hysteria?”

  “Yes, sir. Feelings of frustration or failure caused him to become abnormally agitated, and this temporarily paralyzed his optic nerves. He’ll be able to see again in about fifteen minutes, but at times like this it’s possible for episodes to happen any number of times. The cause is psychological, so unless the cause can be removed—”

  “What can be done about it?” Bucock demanded.

  “You mustn’t oppose him. You mustn’t engender any feelings of failure or defeat in him. Everyone should do as he says, and everything needs to go his way.”

  “Are you being serious, Medical Officer?”

  “These are symptoms we sometimes see in small children who grow up in environments where they always get their way, and develop abnormally large egos. It’s not a problem of good and evil. The only important thing is that his ego and desires be satisfied. Therefore, it won’t be until the admirals apologize for their rudeness, give their all in executing his plan, and realize victory so that he becomes an object of praise … that the cause of his illness will be resolved.”