“Second enemy fleet detected!” shouted an operator on Beowulf’s bridge. “A lot of them this time—over ten thousand!”
By the time that report had been given, the survivors who remained on the battlefield consisted almost entirely of victors. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl spoke to one another via their comm screens.
“Did you catch that, von Reuentahl?”
“Yes, it seems Yang Wen-li has come out in person. What shall we do? I’m sure you want to fight him.”
“I suppose I do. But there’s nothing to be gained in fighting him right now.”
If the tide were to turn against him, Yang would simply escape to Iserlohn. Besides that, the imperial forces’ front line and supply line alike were both nearly stretched to their limits. Both admirals concluded that they should probably get out of there before the main enemy force arrived. A victory as trifling as this one wouldn’t make up for Kempf and Müller’s terrible loss, but nothing good would come of ignoring their circumstances and getting greedy.
Mittermeier softly clicked his tongue in disgust. “They planned a campaign of conquest thousands of light-years away and sent not just a big fleet but an entire fortress as well. In spite of that, there’s been nothing but failure, and the only one to burnish his reputation out of any of this is Yang Wen-li. At least it’s over.”
“Well, we can’t expect a hundred victories out of a hundred battles—that’s how Duke von Lohengramm put it. But sooner or later, you and I will have Yang Wen-li’s head.”
“Müller’s wanting it too.”
“Oh? Then it looks like the competition’s going to be fierce.”
After exchanging indomitable smiles, the two young admirals signed off and began preparations for withdrawal. They arranged their ships into groups of one thousand, and as each group pulled back, the next group would protect its rear. It was an orderly withdrawal. Mittermeier took charge of the vanguard and got all of the departing ships into line, and von Reuentahl brought up the rear, positioning himself for a counterattack in the event of alliance forces attacking from behind. The withdrawal was executed flawlessly.
So it was that when Yang Wen-li, together with Merkatz and the others, arrived aboard the battleship Hyperion, all they discovered were wrecks of allied ships and clustered specks of light receding into the distance. Yang, naturally, did not order pursuit, but instead gave instructions to begin rescue operations and then head back to Iserlohn afterward.
“Do you see this, Julian?” Looking at the flaxen-haired youth, Yang spoke in a voice that sounded like a sigh. “This is how great admirals fight their battles. They come with a clear-cut objective, and once they’ve achieved it, they don’t stick around. That’s how it’s done.”
Nguyen and Alarcon had lacked that quality. Not that this was the time or place for Yang to say so out loud.
He wondered how the imperial military’s—or rather, Reinhard’s military’s—rich store of talent was faring now. If Siegfried Kircheis, that brilliant redheaded young admiral, had been alive, Yang’s chances of victory would have certainly been minuscule. Not that he was complaining, of course.
“Lieutenant Greenhill, relay orders to all ships: return to base.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Oh, and Julian, it’s been quite a while since I’ve had any of your tea. Could you make me some?”
“Of course, Your Excellency.”
The young boy took off running.
“Julian is quite something,” Merkatz said to Yang in a gentle and sincere tone. He related to the boy’s unreliable guardian how Julian had seen through the imperial military’s tactics.
“So that was Julian.”
Yang took off his uniform beret and scratched his black hair. His unruly hair had gotten a little long. During the inquiry, Yang had been the object of some low-level sarcasm—people telling him his hairstyle wasn’t very soldierly or suggesting he get a crew cut.
“Maybe you’ve heard this already,” Yang said, “but I don’t want that kid to enlist. To be honest, I want him to give up on the idea even if I have to order him.”
“That’s not exactly democratic,” said Merkatz. As he was trying to be humorous, Yang laughed for politeness’s sake, but to be honest, that jibe had really hit Yang where it hurt. All sorts of signs seemed to be pointing toward a day when Yang would have no choice but to accept the course Julian would choose.
II
Night had fallen across the capital city of Planet Phezzan. By nature, this was supposed to be a time of rest accompanying men’s fear of the dark, but the residents of Phezzan were not simpleminded primitives—even at night, they continued their spirited activities.
The estate of Landesherr Rubinsky, too, remained brightly lit late into the night, with all manner of people coming and going, testifying to the fact that it was one of the hubs around which human society revolved. Rubinsky was neither worshiped like a god nor adored like an angel, but he was respected as a skilled politician.
That night found his aide, Rupert Kesselring, in Rubinsky’s study. He was reporting on a shift that had at last occurred in the relative strengths of the three great powers, after more than a century of those numbers remaining unchanged.
“I’ll have the exact figures for you tomorrow, but for a rough estimate …; let me see …; I’d put the empire at forty-eight, the alliance at thirty-three, and our own beloved Phezzan at nineteen.”
With the power of the highborn aristocracy all but purged from the empire, and with talented commoners and low-ranking aristocrats being actively recruited, the empire’s workforce was being rejuvenated, and the malaise that had hung over that nation was beginning to dissipate. Also, redistribution of wealth that the aristocrats had monopolized was stimulating the economy, with an accompanying surge in investment. On the other hand, former aristocrats were being driven into poverty. Since an overwhelming majority of the people were benefiting from the changes, however, that this was not considered an issue in imperial society. It simply meant that former aristocrats with no means of supporting themselves were on their way to extinction.
Meanwhile, the drop in the alliance’s national power presented such a hideous spectacle that people felt like covering their eyes. The primary factors were the huge defeat at Amritsar two years ago and the civil war last year. In less than two years, their military power had plunged to a third of what it had been, and worse still was the marked weakening of its society’s support systems. In every field, accidents were on the increase, and the trust of the citizenry was in decline.
In addition, there was a squeeze on consumer goods. With the trifecta of decreasing production, worsening quality, and rising prices, the FPA was tumbling down a slope toward ruin.
“If not for that loss at Amritsar,” said Kesselring, “the alliance’s national power would not have fallen this far. It should have been a peace offensive they launched when they occupied Iserlohn. If they had done so, they could have played the empire’s old forces against the new and won some favorable diplomatic concessions. Instead, they embarked on a military adventure they had no hope of winning, the result of which is the mess they’re in now. The idiocy of those people is positively criminal.”
Moreover, their continued opposition to the empire made it impossible to reduce military spending, which meant that they also couldn’t shrink their military. That was the root of their present economic distress. Even amid these difficulties, over 30 percent of the alliance’s GNP had to be spent on the military.
It was held that during peacetime, no more than 18 percent of a country’s GNP should go toward military spending. And in wartime? In the case of a warring nation on the verge of defeat, that number could sometimes exceed 100 percent. This was because their savings had all been eaten up. Consumption had exceeded production, so the only fate for the economy was death by anemia.
“We certainly do wan
t the alliance to stay the course,” Kesselring continued. “Once they’ve bankrupted their economy, Phezzan will be able to completely take over there. And once we’ve made the empire recognize our rights and interests there, the entire galaxy will be unified under our de facto rule.”
Making no reply to his young aide’s impassioned speech, Rubinsky looked through the materials in his report and at last said, “In any case, find pawns—lots of pawns. Because the ones who prove useful you can keep around.”
“I certainly intend to. I’ve made what moves that I can. There’s nothing to worry about. Incidentally, what should be done with Tech Admiral von Schaft of the Imperial Navy?”
“What indeed? Let me hear your thoughts.”
When the question came back to him, the young aide’s answer was clarity itself:
“I don’t think there’s any more use for him. His demands on us only keep growing, too, so I think it’s time we cut him loose.”
Kesselring closed his mouth for a moment, but observing the landesherr’s expression, he grew emboldened and appended this:
“Actually, preparations are already in place for officials in the Imperial Ministry of Justice to receive certain documents through ‘natural processes,’ which I can set into motion on receipt of Your Excellency’s approval. Shall I?”
“Very well, do it now. If you don’t flush the waste right away, it ends up clogging the pipes.”
“I’ll see to it immediately.”
Neither the giver nor the receiver of that order seemed to view von Schaft as a human being at all. Their callousness toward a man who had lost his value to them was really quite remarkable.
“And with that, the matter is closed,” said Rubinsky. “By the way, isn’t tomorrow the anniversary of your mother’s passing? Take the day off if you like.”
The landesherr’s words came abruptly, and his young aide smiled with one corner of his mouth. It wasn’t that he’d meant to; it was apparently just a tic of his.
“Well!” he said, “What an unexpected pleasure to learn Your Excellency takes an interest in even my private affairs.”
“Of course I do …; considering you’re my own flesh and blood.”
Kesselring’s upper body shook slightly at that. After a moment, he said, “So you knew, then?”
“You must think I treated her terribly.”
The landesherr and his aide—the father and his son—regarded one another. The expressions on both their faces were too dry to call parent-child affection.
“Did it bother you?”
“Yes, it always did …;”
“Then Mother will be happy to hear that too in the afterlife. I’ll thank you on her behalf. Actually, though, there was never anything for you to be concerned about. You had to choose between the daughter of an impoverished house that didn’t know where their next meal was coming from and the daughter of a tycoon who controlled several percent of the galaxy’s wealth. I would’ve made the same …; Yes; I would’ve made the same choice as Your Excellency.”
A distant look had appeared in the eyes of Rubinsky’s son, but it only lasted for a couple of seconds.
“So, was it wholly out of your fatherly affection that I was able to get this important post as your aide, even though I’m nothing more than a greenhorn fresh out of graduate school?”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I don’t want to think. Since I do have a bit of confidence in my own abilities, I’d like to believe that that was what you were after.”
With eyes that had lost all expression, Rubinsky gazed at his son making that confident assertion.
“You seem to be a lot like me on the inside. On the outside, you resemble your mother, though.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Head of state is not a hereditary position on Phezzan. If you want to be my successor, it isn’t a bloodline you need—it’s ability and the trust of the people. You’ll need to take your time and cultivate both.”
“I’ll remember. Always.”
Rupert Kesselring bowed, but his purpose may have been to hide his face from his father’s line of sight. However, that action at the same time kept him from seeing the look on his father’s face.
Presently, Rupert Kesselring went out from the presence of his father, the landesherr.
“Ability and trust, eh? Hmph.”
Rubinsky’s son looked up at the lights of his father’s estate and murmured a most disrespectful utterance: “You’ve committed every outrage one could think of in acquiring those qualities, haven’t you, Your Excellency? And you tell me to take my time, even though you never did so yourself. Not very consistent. Never forget, I am your son.”
Rubinsky saw his son off by way of a monitor screen, which showed him getting into his landcar and speeding away into the distance. Without calling for the maid, he poured himself a full glass of dry gin and tomato juice—a cocktail called a Bloody Catherine.
“Rupert’s a lot like me …;”
In other words, he had ambition and spirit to spare and also believed that the ends justified the means. He would think calmly, make his calculations, and take the shortest route to his goal. If that meant eliminating certain obstacles in his path, he would do so with no hesitation whatsoever.
Rather than allow such a dangerous individual to operate freely far away, it was better to have him close by, where he could keep an eye on him. That was the reason Rubinsky had appointed him as his aide.
Perhaps Rupert’s talents exceeded those of his father. Still, raw talent could not easily make up for the twenty-plus-year difference in experience between them. To fill that gap, Rupert would have to expend enormous amounts of effort. What he would get in return for that was something nobody yet knew.
III
Protected on both ends by admirals von Reuentahl and Mittermeier, the fleet dispatched to the Iserlohn Corridor returned to Odin, having been reduced in the fighting by a scant seven hundred vessels or so. Commander in Chief Kempf had been lost; the mobile fortress Gaiesburg had been lost; more than fifteen thousand vessels and 1.8 million personnel had been lost—it made for a pitiful homecoming.
While the old imperial military was another matter, Reinhard and his subordinates had never suffered such a one-sided defeat before. Even Wittenfeld’s failure at Amritsar had been just a small blemish on an otherwise perfect victory. With impeccable tactics, Mittermeier and von Reuentahl had delivered a powerful counterstrike to the enemies who had come pursuing their defeated allies, but they had not been able to salvage the operation as a whole.
It was predicted by many that Duke von Lohengramm’s wounded pride would turn to lightning and quickly fall on the head of Vice Commander Neidhart Müller when he came skulking back alive.
So it was that Müller, head still wrapped in blood-tinged bandages, presented himself at the Lohengramm admiralität, and apologized on one knee before Reinhard for his transgressions:
“Though charged with orders from Your Excellency’s own hand, it was not within the power of your humble officer to fulfill his duties, and unable as I was to save even our commander, Admiral Kempf, many soldiers were lost and our enemies given cause for boasting. These transgressions are worthy of death a thousand times over, and it is only with the greatest of shame that I have returned here alive, that I may give report of these matters to Your Excellency and await your judgment. As the blame for this loss lies entirely with this humble officer, I ask that you deal leniently with my men—”
He bowed his head low, and a scarlet rill appeared from the lower edge of his bandage, running down the side of his cheek.
For a time, Reinhard stared at the defeated admiral with an icy gaze. At last he opened his mouth and spoke, in front of attending vassals who were holding their breath in suspense.
“The fault does not lie with you. If you can redeem y
our loss with a victory, that will be enough. Good work on a distant campaign.”
“Excellency …;”
“I’ve lost Admiral Kempf already. I can’t afford to lose you as well. Rest until your wounds are healed. After that, I’ll order you returned to active duty.”
Still on one knee, Müller lowered his head even farther, then unexpectedly tumbled forward and lay there on the floor unmoving. For a long while, he had silently endured anguish and stress of both the mind and the body, and in the instant of his release, he lost consciousness.
“Get him to the hospital. And then promote Kempf. Make him a senior admiral.”
On Reinhard’s orders, Captain Günter Kissling, the new captain of his personal guard, signaled his men and had Müller carried away for treatment. Those present breathed a sigh of relief and rejoiced to see that their young lord was a man of such generosity.
But in fact, Reinhard had indeed been furious when he first learned of that miserable defeat. It would have been one thing if the tide had turned against them and they’d been forced to withdraw, but never had he dreamed that they would lose 90 percent of that whole force. When he had heard that news, he had thrown his wineglass down on the floor and sequestered himself in his study. He had intended to come down hard on Müller. But then he had looked in the mirror and seen the pendant on his breast, and remembered the late Siegfried Kircheis. There was no doubting that Kircheis, who at the Battle of Amritsar had pled with him to forgive Wittenfeld’s mistakes, would have asked Reinhard to forgive Müller as well.
“You’re right,” he had said. “A man like Müller isn’t easy to come by. I’ll not be so foolish as to have him killed over a fruitless battle. Are you happy now, Kircheis?”
Thus Reinhard showed mercy toward Müller, but toward Tech Admiral von Schaft, his attitude was entirely different.
“If you’ve anything to say for yourself, let’s hear it,” he said after summoning him. From the very start, he assumed an attitude of condemnation. Brimming with confidence, however, von Schaft responded:
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