Dawn

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Commander Lemmrar’s face looked almost completely dark. Blasters, which fired energy beams, had just become impossible to use. If anyone fired, everyone would go down together. The Seffl particles in the air would be ignited by the beam, reducing everyone in the room to ashes in an instant.

  “C-Commander …”

  One of the security guards had raised his voice in what sounded like a shriek. Commander Lemmrar, eyes brimming with a vacant light, looked at Admiral von Stockhausen. Von Schönkopf loosened his arm ever so slightly, and after taking two ragged breaths, the commander of Iserlohn Fortress surrendered.

  “You win. It can’t be helped—we surrender.”

  Von Schönkopf let out a sigh of relief in his heart.

  “All right, everyone: you know what to do.”

  As instructed, the captain’s subordinates set about their tasks. Port traffic control programs were altered, all manner of defense systems were deactivated, and sleeping gas was released throughout the fortress by way of the air-conditioning system. Technicians who had been hiding inside the Bremen-class light cruiser disembarked and executed these operations with skill and efficiency. While only a small group of people yet realized what was happening, Iserlohn was being invaded, as if by a cancer, and its functions shut down.

  Five hours later, the imperial soldiers were released from a sleep as cloudy as bean soup and were stunned speechless to find themselves stripped of their arms and taken captive. Adding up all combat, communications, supply, medical, maintenance, traffic control, technical, and other personnel, their full number rose to five hundred thousand. With its gargantuan factories for production of food and other necessities, Iserlohn was equipped with an environment and facilities capable of supporting a population, including fleet personnel, exceeding one million. The empire’s intention that Iserlohn must be an “eternal fortress” in both name and in fact was clear to see.

  However, officers and troops of the Alliance Armed Forces Thirteenth Fleet were now in command.

  Iserlohn Fortress, which in the past had like a vampire consumed the blood of millions of Alliance Armed Forces soldiers, changed hands without a single drop of new blood being shed.

  IV

  The imperial military’s Iserlohn Fleet had been roaming about the corridor’s obstacle- and danger-filled interior seeking the enemy.

  The communications officers had been hard at work trying to raise the fortress, and at last, turning pale, they called for Commander von Seeckt. Having eliminated the persistent jamming waves, they had finally restored communications, but what they had received from the fortress was a transmission saying, “A mutiny has broken out among the men. Requesting assistance.”

  “A mutiny inside the fortress?” Von Seeckt clucked his tongue. “Can’t that incompetent von Stockhausen even control his own men?”

  Von Seeckt’s feelings of superiority were being tickled by the polite request for aid. When he thought about how this would leave his colleague indebted to him in no small measure, he felt delighted all the more.

  “Putting out the fire at our feet has priority. All ships, head back to Iserlohn immediately.”

  “Wait just a moment,” someone replied to von Seeckt’s order.

  The voice was so quiet as to cast a pall of gloom over the bridge, and yet it riveted the entire room. When von Seeckt saw the officer who had come out before him, an expression welled up on his face of open hatred and opposition. That salt-and-pepper hair, those deathly pale cheeks—it’s Captain von Oberstein again!

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion, Captain.”

  “I am aware of that. If I may, however?”

  “… What do you want?”

  “This is a trap. I think it may be better not to return.”

  Von Seeckt was silent for a long moment.

  Without a word, the commander drew in his lower jaw and glared hatefully at an unpleasant subordinate who said unpleasant things in an unpleasant tone of voice.

  “It appears to me that every little thing you see is a trap in your eyes.”

  “Excellency, please listen.”

  “That’s enough out of you! All ships, come about and head for Iserlohn at combat velocity two. This is a great chance to put those space moles in our debt.”

  His broad back moved away from von Oberstein.

  “Small men who are full of anger but have no true courage are not worth talking to.”

  He spat those words with cool contempt, and von Oberstein turned on his heel and left the bridge. No one tried to stop him.

  After stepping into an exclusive elevator that reacted only to the voiceprints of officers, von Oberstein began to descend through the massive ship, equivalent in size to a sixty-story building, heading toward its lowest level.

  “Enemy fleet has entered firing range!”

  “Main fortress cannons already charged and ready.”

  “Target acquired! We can fire anytime.”

  Tense voices filled the air of Iserlohn Fortress’s command room.

  “Draw them in just a little more.”

  Yang was at von Stockhausen’s command table. He wasn’t seated in the commander’s chair—rather, he was sitting cross-legged atop the table, and in that unseemly position he was staring at an approaching cluster of shining points that covered the giant screen of the tactical display. At last, he took a deep breath and said, “Fire!”

  The order Yang had given had not been spoken loudly, but via his headphones, it was transmitted accurately to the gunners.

  They tapped their screens.

  The gunners watched as masses of light—white, abounding in brilliance—leapt away and bore down upon the swarm of twinkling specks.

  Over a hundred ships in the imperial fleet’s vanguard took the assault from Iserlohn’s main battery head-on and were instantly annihilated. The excess of heat and the high concentration of energy did not even give them time to explode. After organic and inorganic matter alike had been vaporized, there remained nothing except a near-perfect emptiness.

  The ships that had exploded were those in the second rank of the imperial force and those flanking the vanguard. Ships on the periphery were buffeted by the energies and sent tumbling off course, and even ships positioned outside that region were shaken violently in the aftermath.

  Shrieks and screams occupied the communications channels of those imperial ships that had survived that first attack.

  “Why are they firing on allies?!”

  “No, that’s not right. It’s gotta be those guys who mutinied—”

  “What do we do?! We can’t fight back. How do we maneuver away from those main guns?”

  Inside the fortress, the alliance force’s officers and troops alike had gasped and fallen silent, their eyes riveted to the screen. They had beheld for the first time the devilish destructive power of Iserlohn’s main battery, dubbed “Thor’s Hammer.”

  The entire imperial force was squeezed in the grip of terror. The fortress’s main battery, which up until that moment had been their matchlessly powerful guardian deity, had become an irresistible bludgeon in the hands of an evil spirit, brought down upon their crowns.

  “Counterattack! All ships, give me a synchronized barrage from main cannons!” Admiral von Seeckt’s angry cry rolled out like thunder.

  In its own way, that cry had the effect of restoring discipline to the confused servicemen. Pallid-countenanced gunners reached for their consoles, synchronized their automated targeting systems, and pressed the buttons on their touch screens. Hundreds of beams traced geometric lines across the void of space.

  It was impossible, however, to destroy the outer hull of Iserlohn Fortress with only the power output by ship-based cannons. The bombardment struck the outermost hull, and the beams were deflected, scattering futilely.

  The humiliation, defeat, and terror that the
officers and crew of the Alliance Armed Forces had in times past tasted was now amplified and fed back to the imperial forces.

  Flares of light ten times as thick as the beams unleashed by the ship cannons burst forth once again from Iserlohn Fortress, and again wrought wholesale death and destruction. Gigantic holes had appeared in the columns of the imperial fleet, too wide to close easily, edges adorned with the ruined husks of ships and fragments of the same.

  After being fired upon only twice, the imperial force was half paralyzed. The survivors had lost their will to fight, and they were only just barely able to remain where they were.

  Yang looked away from the screen and rubbed himself around his stomach. His feeling was, If we don’t go this far, we can’t win this.

  Captain von Schönkopf, watching the screen at Yang’s side, gave a purposefully loud cough.

  “This isn’t what you call combat, Excellency. This is a one-sided massacre.”

  Yang, who turned toward the captain, wasn’t angry.

  “I know. You’re exactly right. But we aren’t going to behave like the empire does. Captain, try advising them to surrender. If they don’t want to do that, tell them to retreat and that we won’t chase them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Von Schönkopf looked at the young senior officer with deep interest. Other soldiers might also go so far as to advise surrender, but they probably wouldn’t tell the enemy to escape. Was this a strength or a weakness in this most rare of tacticians, Yang Wen-li?

  On the bridge of the flagship, a communications officer cried out: “Excellency, there’s a transmission from Iserlohn!” Von Seeckt glared at the man with bloodshot eyes, to which he said: “Iserlohn is occupied by the alliance—I mean, rebel—forces, after all. Their commander, Rear Admiral Yang Wen-li, says the following: “There’s nothing to be gained by further bloodshed. Surrender.’ ”

  “Surrender, he says?”

  “Yes. And one other thing: ‘If you don’t want to surrender, then retreat—we will not pursue.’ ”

  For a moment, faces all around the bridge came alive again. Running away! Finally, an intelligent option! Those lively expressions, however, were erased by a ferocious shout of anger.

  “How could we do such a thing!” Von Seeckt stamped on the floor with his uniform boots. Yield Iserlohn to rebels, lose almost half the ships under his command, go back to face His Majesty the Emperor in defeat? Was that what this rebel commander was telling him to do? For von Seeckt, such a thing was impossible. Better to shatter as a priceless jewel, the saying went, than lead a long and shameful life as a worthless tile. The last honor that remained to him now was that of the shattered jewel.

  “Communications Officer, transmit the following to the rebel forces.”

  As the officers and crew surrounding von Seeckt listened to the content of his message, the color drained from their faces. The fierce light in their commander’s eyes shot right through their countenances.

  “On my command, all ships will plot collision courses and charge Iserlohn. Surely none of you would begrudge our lives at a time like this.”

  The bridge was silent.

  No one answered him.

  Meanwhile at Iserlohn, von Schönkopf informed Yang, “There’s a reply from the imperial forces.”

  He wore a frown on his face.

  “The heart of the warrior thou knowest not; to die and honor’s cause fulfill is the path we know; to live smeared with disgrace is a path we know not.”

  “Hmm,” Yang said.

  “What he means is that under these circumstances, all they can do now is charge ahead with all ships to die glorious deaths, and in so doing repay his Imperial Highness’s favor.”

  “The heart of the warrior?”

  Sublieutenant Frederica Greenhill sensed the ring of a bitter anger in Yang’s voice. In fact, Yang was enraged. Want to die to atone for defeat in battle? Fine and dandy. But if you’re gonna do that, why can’t you just die alone? Why take your subordinates with you by force?

  It’s because of men like this that the war can’t end, Yang thought. I’ve had enough. Enough of dealing with men like this.

  “All enemy ships are charging!” cried an operator.

  “Gunners! Concentrate fire on the enemy flagship!”

  It was the first time Yang had ever given an order this incisive. Frederica and von Schönkopf stared at their commander, each with their own expression.

  “This is the last barrage. If they lose the flagship, the rest of them will run.”

  With great care, the gunners targeted their quarry. Countless arrows of light were unleashed by the imperial force, but not even one had any effect.

  The sights were aligned perfectly.

  And that was when a single escape shuttle was ejected from the stern of the imperial flagship. The humble fleck of silver quickly melted away into the blackness.

  Had anyone noticed it? After the space of another breath, rounded pillars of light came stabbing through the darkness a third time.

  At their focal point was the imperial flagship, and it looked as though a circular region of space had been sliced out from the rest. Full Admiral von Seeckt, with his angry voice and hulking body, had been reduced to particulates measurable only in microns, along with his ill-fated staff officers.

  As the surviving imperial ships realized what had happened, they began to swing their noses around one after another and withdraw from the firing range of Iserlohn Fortress’s main battery. Since the commander calling for their noble and beautiful deaths had vanished, there was no reason to throw their lives away in reckless combat—or rather, one-sided slaughter.

  In the midst of them was the shadow of the escape shuttle carrying Captain von Oberstein. As it advanced on semi-autopilot, he cast a glance back over his shoulder at the spherical shape of the colossal fortress that was dwindling in the distance.

  In the moment before his death, did Admiral von Seeckt shout “Hail to his Imperial Majesty” or some such? How absurd.

  Only the living can retaliate.

  Ah well, von Oberstein murmured in his heart. If he had leadership skills and the power to get things done in addition to his resourcefulness, he could take the likes of Iserlohn back anytime. Or even if they just left Iserlohn in the alliance’s hands as things stood, it would lose all its value when the alliance itself was destroyed.

  Whom should he choose? There was no one with talent among the blue-blooded aristocrats. Should he pick that young, blond-haired fellow—that Count Reinhard von Lohengramm? There didn’t seem to be anyone else …

  Threading past the stricken, fleeing ships of her comrades, the shuttle flew away through the midst of the night.

  Inside Iserlohn Fortress, however, a volcano of joy and excitement was erupting, and every open space was occupied by voices of laughter and song, heedless of key or scale. The only ones keeping quiet were the dazed-looking prisoners who had learned of their circumstances, and the director of the big show, Yang Wen-li.

  “Sublieutenant Greenhill?”

  When Frederica answered his call, the young, black-haired admiral was just stepping down to the floor from the command table.

  “Contact the alliance homeland. Tell them that it’s over, that we won, and even if I am told to do this again, I can’t. Take care of the rest—I’m gonna find an empty room and get some sleep. At any rate, I’m bushed.”

  “Yang the magician!”

  “Miracle Yang!”

  A windstorm of cheers greeted Yang Wen-li, who had returned to the Free Planets Alliance’s capital of Heinessen.

  The great defeat in the Astarte Stellar Region that had happened just recently was promptly forgotten, and Yang’s clever scheme and Marshal Sitolet’s insightful judgment in appointing him were praised to the limits of what flowery language could be devised. At the carefully prepared ceremony and at the ba
nquet which followed, Yang had a fabricated image of himself shoved into his face till he was sick of it.

  When he was at last free, Yang returned home with an exasperated expression on his face and poured brandy into some tea that Julian had brewed for him. In the eyes of that young man, the amount seemed a little excessive.

  “They’re all the same—nobody understands,” griped the hero of Iserlohn as he took off his shoes, sat down cross-legged on the sofa, and sipped his tea, which had become mostly brandy by this point. “Magic and miracles—they have no idea how hard people work. They just say whatever they feel like. The tactics I used have been around since ancient times. It’s a way to separate the enemy’s main force from their home base and take them out separately. I’m not using any magic—I just added a little spice to that, but if I slip up and fall for their flattery, I might be told next time to go to Odin unarmed and take it over alone.”

  And before that happens, I quit, he didn’t say.

  “But everyone’s saying such wonderful things about you.” As he spoke, Julian casually moved the bottle of brandy out of Yang’s reach. “I think it’s all right to be honestly glad, just like they want you to be.”

  “You’re only praised while you’re winning,” Yang replied in a tone that was neither glad nor what Julian wanted it to be. “If you keep fighting, eventually you lose. Talking about how they turn on you when that happens can be fun if it’s somebody else it’s happening to. And by the way, Julian, can you at least let me drink as much brandy as I want to?”

  I

  Iserlohn is fallen!

  At the sound of this disastrous news, a shudder ran through all of the Galactic Empire.

  “But Iserlohn was supposed to be impregnable …”

  With pallid countenance, Marshal Ehrenberg, minister of military affairs, murmured those words and afterwards sat motionless at his desk.