Dawn Page 9

  “I’d imagine not … It’s a first for me, too.”

  But Yang’s words were only halfway true. Back when humanity had lived only on the surface of a backwater planet called Earth, this kind of formation had appeared on battlefields any number of times. Even the brilliant tactics employed by Count von Lohengramm had precedent in ground wars. Since ancient times—for better or worse—military geniuses inevitably took the stage during eras of war, turning on its head what had been orthodox tactical thought until their arrival.

  “Look at this miserable excuse for a battle formation!”

  The enraged cry rang out on the bridge of Brünhild. Reinhard suppressed his voice and snarled. “Won’t this mean a battle of attrition … ?”

  A report was delivered to him of the death of a high-ranking officer. Rear Admiral Erlach had been blown away with the ship he had been aboard. Ignoring Reinhard’s order to go full speed ahead, he had been trying to turn around and intercept the alliance force when in midturn his ship had taken a direct hit from a neutron-beam cannon.

  What sort of imbecile tries to turn a ship around right in front of enemies that are snapping at his heels! He has only himself to blame. Yet even so, there’s no denying this casts a slight pall over the empire’s victory.

  Yang had understood from the moment he launched this operation that it would turn into a battle of attrition. The imperial fleet’s commander, Count von Lohengramm, was no fool. He wasn’t likely to continue a fruitless battle that did nothing but increase the bloodshed and destruction. That had been the plan: to force the enemy into making that decision …

  “The enemy should start pulling out soon,” Yang said to Lieutenant Commander Lao.

  “Are we going to pursue?”

  “… Let’s not.” The young commander shook his head. “Let’s follow their lead—when they withdraw, so do we. We’ve done all we can up till now—there’s no way we can continue fighting.”

  A conversation was being held on the bridge of Brünhild as well.

  “Kircheis, your thoughts?”

  “It might be about time for a tactical withdrawal …” It was a reserved but unambiguous answer.

  “You think so, too?”

  “If we do continue to fight, the damage on both sides will only increase. That would serve no military purpose.”

  Reinhard nodded agreement, though a shade of dissatisfaction drifted across his youthful cheeks. Even if he accepted the reasoning, he wasn’t satisfied emotionally.

  “Is that frustration?”

  “Nothing of the sort, though I did want a more unambiguous victory. It’s just a pity is all, like leaving off the finishing touches of a painting.”

  That’s just like you, thought Kircheis, an unconscious half smile forming around his mouth.

  “You annihilated two of their fleets by attacking their forces separately, even while being hemmed in on three sides by a force twice the size of our own. And although the remaining fleet did swing around and get our back, you still fought them to a standstill. Isn’t that enough? To hope for any more would be what we call ‘just a little greedy.’ ”

  “I know. And there’s also the idea of leaving something to look forward to on another day.”

  Though the two fleets continued to fire away at one another, the formation was at last spreading gradually outward horizontally as the two forces began putting distance between one other. The rate of fire slowed as well, and the density of the energies being unleashed thinned out precipitously.

  “He’s quite good. Better than I had expected.” In Reinhard’s voice there was blended both irritation and praise. The young commander with the golden hair was deep in thought, and after a few minutes he called out for his adjutant.

  “What was the name of the Second Fleet’s commander—the man who took charge midway through?”

  “Commodore Yang Wen-li.”

  “That’s right—Yang. Send him an e-gram in my name.”

  Kircheis, smiling, asked, “What sort of message shall I send?”

  “ ‘My compliments to you, Commander, on a battle bravely fought … Be well till the day of our next encounter …’ Something along those lines should be fine.”

  “As you wish.”

  Kircheis relayed Reinhard’s order to the communications officer, who responded with a slight, quizzical tilt of the head. Kircheis returned a pleasant smile. “Like you, Officer … I’m in no hurry to fight such a tough opponent again. Better to have easy wins than run into enemies we have to praise.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” the comm officer replied with a nod.

  New orders from Reinhard rang out: “We’re returning to Odin. All ships, get into formation.”

  After appending a few additional commands—“We’ll put in at Iserlohn Fortress along the way … Calculate the damage to friends and foes ASAP”—Reinhard lowered the back of his command chair until he was facing the hemispherical ceiling almost directly and closed his eyes.

  He felt exhaustion come bubbling up from beneath the surface of his consciousness. It should be all right to sleep for just a little while. Just a short rest. Kircheis would wake me if anything were to happen. Just leave the settings for the trip home to the inertial astrogation system …

  For the leader of a defeated force, delegating squad operations to lower-ranking commanders and taking a nap were luxuries not permitted. Yang’s greatest obligation was the recovery of those who remained, so he had to rush from battlespace to battlespace seeking survivors of the Fourth and Sixth Fleets. Like with most things, the hardest part is picking up the pieces when it’s over, thought Yang as he pulled off the helmet of his space suit and drank protein-enriched milk from a paper cup.

  “You have an e-gram from the imperial fleet, Assistant Staff Offi—I mean, Acting Commander, sir …”

  The face of Lieutenant Commander Lao, who had come to inform him, was brimming with curiosity. This battle has been nothing but surprises from start to finish, his expression was saying.

  “Read it for me.”

  “Um, all right. Here goes: ‘My compliments to you, Commander, on a battle bravely fought … Be well till the day of our next encounter. Senior Admiral Reinhard von Lohengramm, Galactic Imperial Navy. Over.’ ”

  “ ‘Bravely fought,’ he says? I’m so honored.”

  Next time we meet I’m gonna grind you into powder, was how Yang took the message.

  Childishness was what he should probably call it, but it failed to arouse any ill will on his part.

  “What should I do? Shall I send a reply?”

  Yang answered Lieutenant Commander Lao’s question in a halfhearted tone. “I doubt they’re really expecting something like that. Never mind, just ignore it.”

  “… Yes, sir.”

  “Instead, hurry up and get the survivors aboard. I want to save as many as we can.”

  After taking his leave of Lieutenant Commander Lao, Yang turned his gaze to his console. The operations proposal he had submitted to Vice Admiral Paetta before the start of combat was lying on the floor beneath it. A bitter smile adorned Yang’s mouth. He had never hoped to be proven right like this. How high would the death toll climb? Yang could imagine the faces at military HQ, every hair on their heads standing on end.

  It was in this way that the Battle of Astarte was concluded.

  On the side of the empire, 2,448,600 personnel participated in combat; the alliance fielded 4,065,900. The empire deployed over twenty thousand vessels, and the alliance more than forty thousand. Deaths on the side of the empire numbered over 153,400; for the alliance that number exceeded 1,508,900. Over 2,200 imperial ships were either lost or destroyed, while the alliance lost more than 22,600. The losses of the alliance climbed to between ten and eleven times those of the empire. The empire’s invasion of the Astarte system, however, had been deflected just narrowly.

/>   I

  Beyond a gracefully curving wall made of specialized glass, a dense profusion of strangely shaped boulders jutted upward, resembling nothing so much as temple bells. Twilight was unfolding her wings without a sound across the backdrop of sky, and to those looking on, particles of arid atmosphere seemed to have tinted the whole field of view with unplumbed depths of blue.

  The man standing motionless by the wall, hands folded casually behind his waist, turned only his head as he looked back into the room. At the end of his line of sight was a large, chalk-white console, beside which was a man in late middle age was standing with impeccable posture.

  “So what you’re telling me, Boltec,” the man by the wall rumbled solemnly in a deep, masculine voice, “is that the empire won but didn’t win to excess.”

  “That is correct, Landesherr. The alliance was defeated, but it did not result in a total collapse of their military force.”

  “So they recovered their footing?”

  “They recovered their footing, they fought back, and they even managed to bloody the empire’s nose just a little. All in all, it made little difference to the empire’s victory, but since the alliance didn’t just lie there and take it, either … I believe I can say it was a satisfactory outcome for we of Phezzan. But what say you, Landesherr?”

  The man by the wall—Adrian Rubinsky, fifth to hold the title of landesherr in Phezzan—now turned fully around to face the room’s interior.

  He was an unusual-looking man. Though he appeared to be around forty years of age, he had not a single hair on his head. His skin was dark. His eyebrows, eyes, nose, and mouth were all large, and though he could hardly be called handsome, he had a look that couldn’t help leaving a vivid, powerful impression on others. His body brimmed with overwhelming spirit and vitality, and was blessed not only in stature, but also in its wide shoulders and sturdy ribs.

  Five years in office, scorned by empire and alliance alike as the “Black Fox of Phezzan,” he was ruler for life of this middleman trading state.

  “I can’t be all that satisfied, Boltec.” There was irony in both the glance and the tone with which the odd-looking landesherr responded to his trusted aide. “This result was brought about by chance, not because we worked for it. We can’t rely on good luck always being there in the future. We need to step up our data collection and analysis, and fill our hand with more trump cards for the future.”

  Rubinsky, dressed casually in a black turtleneck and light-green suit, was hardly the picture of a nation’s ruler as he approached a console at a leisurely stroll.

  Boltec’s hands danced across the board, and in the console’s central display, a chart appeared. “This is the distribution of both militaries, shown from directly overhead. Have a look, please.” It was the exact chart Kircheis had shown Reinhard three days prior. Imperial forces were red and alliance forces green. From fore, port, and starboard, three green arrows were closing in on a red one. If the arrows were changed to points, it would look like a single dot of red within a triangle whose vertices were green.

  “In terms of numbers, the empire had twenty thousand, and the alliance forty thousand altogether. Numerically, the alliance had an overwhelming advantage.”

  “They did in terms of positioning as well. They were poised to encircle the imperial force from three different angles. Except … wait a minute. Isn’t this—” Rubinsky pressed a thick finger against the side of his forehead. “Isn’t this the same formation the alliance used in the Dagon Annihilation over a hundred years ago? So that’s it—they wanted to live that dream one more time, did they? Those people never evolve.”

  “Though from a tactical standpoint, the plan made sense.”

  “Hah! On paper, every plan is perfect. But in a real fight, the opponent is what matters. The empire’s fleet commander—it was that ‘golden brat’ I’ve been hearing about, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Count von Lohengramm.”

  Rubinsky gave a smug laugh. Five years ago, when his predecessor Walenkov had died suddenly, and Rubinsky, then thirty-six, had first taken over the reins of power, the opposition had backed a seasoned candidate in his fifties, raising a loud ruckus about how a man in his thirties was too young to be head of state. And now here was Count von Lohengramm, sixteen years younger than he had been at that time. For old soldiers who could do nothing but speak of precedent and custom, it seemed a most unpleasant age had begun.

  “Can the landesherr guess how Count von Lohengramm got himself out of this trap?”

  Something in Boltec’s tone said he was enjoying this.

  The landesherr glanced at his aide and stared into the display. Then, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, he stated his conclusion: “He took advantage of their divided forces and took them out one by one. It’s the only way.”

  The landesherr’s aide gazed back at the object of his political fidelity, looking like he’d just been slapped across the face. “It was just as you say. Your keen insight amazes me, sir.”

  Rubinsky, with a relaxed—even brazen—little smile, accepted the compliment.

  “There are often situations where the pros can’t keep up with the amateurs. They see the minuses more than the pluses, and the dangers more than the opportunities. A specialist will look at this formation and think defeat is inevitable for the encircled imperial force. But the net hasn’t been pulled shut yet, and you can see how it’s actually the scattered alliance forces that are vulnerable.”

  “It’s just as you say.”

  “In short, what happened is that the alliance underestimated Reinhard von Lohengramm’s ability as commander. Not that I can say I really blame them. Anyway, can you give me a detailed rundown of how things developed?”

  The image on the display, obeying Boltec’s commands, came to life and began to change. The red arrow turned toward one of the green arrows and made a beeline for it at high speed, then after crushing it, turned to another green arrow and destroyed it in turn. The landesherr narrowed his eyes and watched intently as it turned yet again to face the third green arrow. He ordered Boltec to stop and, still staring at the display, gave a sigh.

  “A perfect one-two punch. An active, dynamic strategy. It’s splendidly executed, but …” He trailed off and tilted his head. “But if things got to this point, the empire should have had a near-perfect win. To get back in the game after things had gone this far south wouldn’t be easy for the alliance. The obvious end of this is the alliance force completely falling apart and being set to flight. Who was commanding that third alliance formation?”

  “Vice Admiral Paetta, at the start. But after the battle began, he was seriously injured when his flagship took a hit. Afterward, Commodore Yang Wen-li, a staff officer who was next in line, took over for him.”

  “Yang Wen-li? I’ve heard that name somewhere …”

  “He was in charge of evacuating El Facil eight years ago.”

  “Oh yeah, that fellow,” Rubinski acknowledged. “I remember thinking at the time that the alliance had a pretty interesting man in its ranks, too. So, how did the hero of El Facil move his forces?”

  In response, Rubinsky’s top aide manipulated the display to show his superior the final stage of the Battle of Astarte.

  The green arrow divided to the right and left. As if trying to preempt that, the red arrow charged forward, attempting a frontal breakthrough. The green arrow, looking as though it had been split in half, raced backward along both sides of the red arrow, merged back together behind it, and launched an attack from its rear …

  Rubinsky made a low tone in the back of his throat. He had not expected to see an alliance commander using tactics this refined.

  Moreover, the fact that he could grasp the situation and handle it so composedly, even while facing the prospect of his force completely crumbling, meant he was no more an ordinary commander than Count von Lohengramm was. />
  The fifth landesherr of Phezzan had had his gaze riveted to the display for some time. “That was some pretty exciting magic I just saw.”

  At last, Rubinsky motioned to have the display turned off. After doing so, Boltec took a step back and awaited his next instructions.

  “Yang Wen-li, was it? Get in touch with the office of our high commissioner on Heinnessen, and tell them to gather data on that commodore ASAP. What happened on El Facil was no fluke—that I can see very clearly now.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  “No matter what the organization, no matter what the machine, what runs it, ultimately, is the personnel. The skill and competence of the ones in charge can turn a tiger into a cat, and can even do the opposite. And what the tiger sinks his fangs into is up to the tamer as well. It’s vital we get a profile on this man.”

  And in so doing, Rubinsky was thinking as he sent his aide from the room, we find a way to use him.

  The star known as Phezzan was attended by four planets. Three were gas giants, with the second planet alone possessing a hard planetary crust. The composition of its atmosphere—nearly 80 percent nitrogen and almost 20 percent oxygen—differed little from that of humanity’s birthplace. The biggest difference was that it had originally lacked carbon dioxide, so plant life had never existed there.

  There wasn’t much water, either. Even the terragreening, having advanced from blue-green algae to disseminating the seeds of higher plants, had not yet turned the whole of the landscape into fertile, verdant fields. Only the well-irrigated regions of the planet’s surface were adorned in colorful belts of green. The red regions were wastelands of boulders and sand, where weathered landscapes boasted spectacular vistas of bizarre geographical features.

  Phezzan was the name of the star as well as the name of the second planet. It was also the name of the system as a whole and the name of its autonomous governing body, established in year 373 of the empire, which held it as its territory. Its military force consisted of only a small fleet of patrol vessels, and its two billion Phezzanese, their passions ever bent on increasing profits, had long dominated the trade routes between the Galactic Empire and the alliance. While subordinate to the empire as a formality, it retained a de facto political independence that was nearly complete, and in terms of economic power, displayed a vigor surpassing that of the two great powers.