Desolation

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Reinhard had already heard the same arguments from Hilda, Mittermeier, and von Reuentahl. He did not dispute them, but led his forces regardless. As he himself had subtly revealed with the phrase “Yang Wen-li, too,” Reinhard also looked forward to their battle, even if he had established superiority at the strategic level. He accepted that Yang would have the topographical advantage. That was the sole factor in Yang’s favor.

  Vice Admiral Fusseneger, chief of staff to Senior Admiral Karl Gustav Kempf, was chief information officer at imperial headquarters, and had gathered the meager intelligence available in response to the kaiser’s inquiries. “The Yang Fleet is currently lurking within Iserlohn Corridor, with the exception of part of its frontline forces. Communication at the entrances to the corridors is already impossible.”

  Technically, there was no force called the Yang Fleet. Its formal name was the El Facil Revolutionary Reserve Force, but as this was neither inspiring nor easy to say, it had been all but forgotten the day after its announcement. According to Dusty Attenborough’s account, everyone on the former alliance side, apart from Yang Wen-li himself, called it the Yang Fleet through force of habit. Public records on the imperial side were unified in their references to “the so-called Yang Fleet.” However uncomfortable it made Yang himself, such was his esteem in the eyes of others. As Mittermeier put it, the Revolutionary Government of El Facil itself was “a mere crest on the head of the rooster that was Yang.”

  Accordingly, Reinhard spared not a glance for the leadership of that government as they escaped into the corridor leaving El Facil undefended, only flashing a cold smile at their timidity. His interest was entirely directed toward Yang, the black-haired magician, and the tricks he would deploy in the battle to come.

  “Is there no way to force Yang to bend the knee without combat?” Hilda asked him, not for the first or even second time. Reinhard ignored her, not only at the urging of the part of him that loved war, but also because he knew her question was largely intended to distract him.

  If treated as a thought experiment, he could imagine any number of nonmilitary courses of action. Even Mittermeier, whose psychic topography was a hostile environment for alternatives to combat, had surely entertained some thoughts along these lines. For if one thing unified everyone, it was the certainty that, but for the presence of Yang, the kaiser and his admirals would have faced a much simpler task.

  What about luring Yang to putative peace talks and assassinating him when he arrived? Perhaps his own men could be persuaded to capture him with the promise of pardons for everyone else in their “rebellious battalion.” Conversely, they could be deceived into thinking that Yang was plotting to sell them out in exchange for his own salvation. The possibilities were endless.

  But none would be adopted. Wittenfeld’s disgusted rejection of such a proposal by his own staff officer was in accordance with the principles of the new Lohengramm Dynasty’s military, which made direct fleet-to-fleet battle its domain. They had a ten-to-one numerical advantage at Iserlohn; they were led by the brilliant warrior Kaiser Reinhard, and the fighting would be directed by the “Twin Ramparts” of the Imperial Navy, von Reuentahl and Mittermeier, as well as a host of other legendary commanders. What did they have to fear?

  Even so, the Imperial Navy was not entirely without points on which it felt uncertain or vulnerable. Its route and supply lines were now the longest in human history, and more than half of that length was in occupied territory. They were susceptible to interference of many kinds—guerrilla attacks, terrorism, and sabotage only being the most obvious. Hadn’t one of the empire’s highest officials, minister of works Bruno von Silberberg, been killed in a terrorist bombing? Minister of domestic affairs Count Franz von Mariendorf’s concern was not unwarranted. The empire’s core leadership was now divided between their capital planet Odin, Phezzan, and the frontline imperial headquarters, which in terms of efficiency in governance was very far from ideal. Would it not be better to correct this imbalance before swatting the last few irritating flies?

  Accordingly, some historians of later ages assessed the situation with a certain pompous condescension. A brief excursion into enemy territory to achieve a flawless victory in a decisive battle: since antiquity, how many tacticians and conquerors have been led to graves in foreign soil by this dream? Not even a man of Reinhard von Lohengramm’s genius proved able to overcome the sweetness of this temptation.

  But this was no mere temptation, Reinhard reassured himself as he sat in his private chambers aboard Brünhild. It was the reason for his existence.

  His bodyguard Emil von Selle approached quietly to clear away the porcelain coffee cup that sat empty by Reinhard’s hand. Emil had been striving of late to emulate the silent way of walking favored by Günter Kissling, head of the imperial guard. His goal was to avoid disturbing the solitude of the kaiser he worshiped, but when he was successful in this he was faced with a new dilemma: when to speak.

  Reinhard sat in his armchair, legs crossed, deep in thought, excluding the boy’s movements from his attention with natural grace.

  Had it really been ten years?

  The slightest movement showed in Reinhard’s ice-blue eyes.

  The sands of time ran backward. Ten years ago, in SE 790—year 481 under the old Imperial Calendar—Reinhard had been a boy of fourteen attending the Children’s Academy. Younger brother to Kaiser Friedrich IV’s beloved wife, he had relinquished his position at the head of the class to nobody. Even so—or perhaps because of this—he had been lonely, watched always by staring eyes. He had had only one ally, but this priceless friend had been unimpeachably reliable and loyal, and Reinhard recalled the day he had revealed his heart’s deepest ambition to that red-haired companion, though couched in the form of a question.

  Do you think that what was possible for Rudolf is impossible for me?

  As he opened the windows of remembrance, rich imagery of sentiment that had long been forgotten, that should never have been forgotten, came borne on wind and light to fill the fields of his mind once more. Why, he wondered, had the colors been so vivid back then, even in the dead of winter? Why had his rough and overwashed old shirts felt to him like the finest silk? Why had the ambition in his breast bewitched his ears with its melody? Why had he accepted without hesitation that the word “future” contained a thousand possibilities, and that the fulfillment of ambition was synonymous with happiness? Had be simply been foolish? Had the innocent arrogance that enfolded him been powerful enough for him to believe in his own rectitude? Reinhard could not answer these questions, but he was sure of one thing: at the time, there had been no need to concern himself with such matters.

  The kaiser’s brief silence was ended when his chief aide Vice Admiral Arthur von Streit presented a clearly nervous Fusseneger with urgent news.

  “My apologies for the disturbance, Your Majesty,” said the chief information officer in a voice as pale as his complexion. “I have just received word that our vanguard, led by Admirals Wittenfeld and Fahrenheit, has already engaged the enemy. The battle has begun.”

  II

  The news that the battle was underway naturally came as an unpleasant shock to Reinhard. To arrange the full forces under his command in perfect alignment and to compete with the enemy on the field of tactical prowess had been the young emperor’s intention. Unlike the Vermillion War of the previous year, the topography of this confrontation left Reinhard unable to dictate where the battle would take place, and he had concluded that the only way to force a short, decisive battle on Yang Wen-li would be a direct advance into Iserlohn Corridor.

  “Why did they open hostilities before my arrival?” Reinhard demanded, cheeks flushed with rage. “Do they mean to undo all my preparations to satisfy their own reckless bravado?”

  Brünhild’s bridge trembled with Reinhard’s fury. His staff officers remained silent, but Reinhard swept back the golden locks that had fallen onto his
brow and forced calm upon himself. Yang must have lured Fahrenheit and Wittenfeld into battle through trickery, he surmised, in order to divide the imperial forces.

  That surmise was quite correct. The facts, soon discovered, were as follows:

  The story began with the Imperial Navy’s presence at the empire-facing entrance to Iserlohn Corridor. There were 15,900 ships stationed there under the command of the navy’s rear supreme commander, Senior Admiral Ernest Mecklinger.

  On orders from the kaiser via distant Phezzan, Mecklinger had entered the corridor in advance of Wittenfeld and Fahrenheit, who were approaching from the opposite end. His chief expected role would be to harass Yang Wen-li’s fleet from the rear when they made their move, but if circumstances allowed him to enter battle and secure the rear line before the arrival of the other imperial admirals, they would be able to trap Yang in one swift pincer movement. However, advance reconnaissance had revealed Mecklinger’s entry into the corridor to Yang, who responded by deploying a force of over twenty thousand ships.

  “Over twenty thousand?!”

  Mecklinger was speechless. He was a man of superior strategic wisdom who had achieved a steady string of victories by deploying and investing the necessary forces for each situation, never incorporating into his tactics elements of chance or personal bravery. Based on this way of thinking, he calculated that Yang must have at least fifty thousand ships in total if he were prepared to send twenty thousand to meet Mecklinger’s forces. After all, to deploy one’s full forces away from the main battlefield and leave nothing in reserve would be an affront to military learning itself.

  Yang had taken great care to manipulate the figures as former alliance ships had flowed toward Iserlohn Fortress to prevent the Imperial Navy from grasping the true numbers. Forcing errors of judgment like Mecklinger’s had been his aim.

  “We must not engage!” said Mecklinger. “All ships, about-face! Leave the corridor!”

  He gave the order not out of cowardice but logic. The forces under his command numbered 15,900 ships in total—somewhat less than the twenty thousand Yang had sent. What was worse, if the Mecklinger Fleet were defeated there would be no significant concentration of mobile forces standing between the Yang Fleet and imperial territory. Perhaps a hundred thousand ships or so could be diverted from among those guarding the periphery and other key points, but with no one to command them as a unified force, they would simply be eliminated one by one as they engaged Yang in order of proximity. And then, beyond the sea of stars, the imperial capital Odin would stand defenseless and alone…

  That, in other words, was the thin foundation on which the Imperial Navy’s military advantage rested. Faced with this stimulus to his long-trusted sense for danger, Mecklinger’s character, strategic understanding, and sense of responsibility left him no choice but to avoid immediate engagement and retreat to the entrance of Iserlohn Corridor to regroup.

  Having achieved this goal, Yang’s ships changed course immediately, heading straight for Wittenfeld’s Black Lancers.

  Wittenfeld had no way of knowing about Mecklinger’s retreat. As far as he was concerned, Mecklinger was still right behind Yang. In later years the fierce admiral would say, through gritted teeth, “If Mecklinger hadn’t run from that first battle—if he’d just supported our attack on Yang Wen-li for a couple of days—things would have been completely different. We could have surrounded Yang, penned him in tightly around Iserlohn Fortress. The Black Lancers could have attacked the fortress, and when Yang hurried to return, Mecklinger would have been free to fire on him from the rear—and brought himself great personal glory, I might add!”

  Wittenfeld was entirely correct in this assessment, but Mecklinger’s position was valid too, even if the Artist-Admiral had no wish to make that argument too loudly.

  “No other military commander in all of history understood the importance of intelligence and communications as well as Yang Wen-li,” was Mecklinger’s conclusion. “Fearing that Iserlohn Fortress would intercept or sabotage its communications, our forces sent messages to each other solely via Phezzan. This inevitably created delays, and Yang exploited that to escape the danger of encirclement, partly through strategy and partly through force. His true greatness lay not in the accuracy of his predictions but rather in his knack for restricting his enemy’s actions and decisions to within the bounds of those predictions. Even the greatest generals of the Galactic Empire were but dancing on the stage he had prepared for them.”

  By the time of this reminiscence, however, Yang’s stage-building days were over.

  Wittenfeld was still fuming over the highly uncivil message he had received from Dusty Attenborough when another communication arrived on April 27. That he chose to convene a meeting with Fahrenheit to discuss the matter rather than deciding on a course of action himself was, for him, a kind of personal courtesy.

  According to the new message, Merkatz, the admiral who had defected to the alliance, was regretting his decision and wished to tender his surrender to Kaiser Reinhard, along with an offer to act as a double agent within the enemy forces.

  “It isn’t worth discussing,” said Fahrenheit at once. “It’s a trap. Admiral Merkatz is an enemy to the Imperial Navy, but not the type to bend his principles at a juncture like this.”

  “Of course it’s a trap. I don’t need you to tell me that. What interests me is what the trap is meant to achieve.”

  Wittenfeld insisted that the enemy must be hoping to lull the Imperial Navy into a false sense of security so they could launch a surprise attack. Fahrenheit had to admit that this made sense. In fact, it was the only thing that made sense. Fahrenheit did find it suspicious that Yang and Merkatz should attempt such a shallow trick, but Wittenfeld had an answer for that too.

  “What if it’s a suicide mission?”

  In other words, Merkatz really would flee to Imperial Navy headquarters, but when the Imperial Navy had let down its guard, Yang would launch his attack. Naturally, Merkatz would be killed for having allowed himself to be used as a decoy, but the attack might still succeed. This was also known as a “dead agent” strategy—an infiltrator sent behind enemy lines with the understanding that he would not survive. It was cold-blooded, but it was plausible that Merkatz would propose such a thing himself.

  “I imagine Merkatz is looking for a place to bury his bones. I’m sure he would volunteer to sacrifice himself for the cause. After the next transmission is when things will get dangerous for us.”

  It seemed to Fahrenheit that Wittenfeld was relishing the prospect rather than simply predicting it, but there was no reason to oppose strengthening their defenses and heightening their responsive capabilities. He put his fleet on alert level two and waited for Yang to make his move.

  Before long, a second transmission was received. With Fahrenheit’s agreement, Wittenfeld sent a reply agreeing to welcome Merkatz as their guest. At this point, Wittenfeld should have reported the situation to the kaiser. He had intended to, but they received the response they had expected earlier than predicted, and they were forced to respond to the attack by force before they had time to make the report. If Mecklinger had in fact been closing in on Iserlohn Fortress from behind, the opportunity to encircle their enemy would have been too good to pass up.

  Thus did Fahrenheit and Wittenfeld stride boldly onto the stage Yang had prepared for them.

  On April 29, SE 800, the curtain rose on the Battle of the Corridor. The millions of troops fated to take part felt their hearts beat faster in sympathy with the soundless bell that rang out, announcing to the whole galaxy that the show was about to begin.

  III

  The disarray that Yang’s ships fell into when Wittenfeld detected their surreptitious approach and rained gunfire upon them was painful for Wittenfeld to watch. He did not know, of course, that Yang’s staff officer Vice Admiral Murai had once glumly observed that the only thing the Yang Fleet ever got
better at was pretending to be routed.

  Attenborough faced what was quite literally the performance of his life. The challenge was real. If they failed to evade the jaws of the ferocious Black Lancers, they would without question be torn to shreds. Attenborough maintained the brazen, unflustered expression he needed to control his subordinates, but rivulets of cold sweat ran down his back.

  He maintained the life-or-death charade regardless, putting on a show of fleeing in defeat and remaining just out of range of the pursuing Imperial Navy’s main cannonry. Whenever the imperial ships flagged in the chase, Attenborough’s would turn around and insolently return fire. As a seasoned tactician whose taste for combat was now aroused, Wittenfeld responded by intentionally slowing his fleet and then lunging forward to attack the moment Attenborough’s turned back.

  These fleet maneuvers were sublimely accomplished, and even though Attenborough was being more than careful, he very nearly found himself half-surrounded. No longer acting, Attenborough and his fleet fled for dear life into the corridor. Fahrenheit tutted as he watched this on-screen from the bridge of his flagship Ahsgrimm.

  “Wittenfeld, you slippery dog. You had this planned from the start, didn’t you? Why can’t you just obey the kaiser’s orders?”

  This was in fact a misapprehension on Fahrenheit’s part, but Wittenfeld’s command was so precise as the Black Lancers charged into Iserlohn Corridor that anyone might have mistaken it for a planned maneuver.

  When Yang saw on his screen the mass of points of light representing the Black Lancers pour into the corridor, a raging flood of metal and nonmetal, he knew the battle was his. Everything so far had gone according to plan.