The riots on Heinessen and elsewhere in the Neue Land are driven by both political and physical demands. Setting the former aside, the latter are virtually impossible to meet through military activity alone. The only solution is to restore the supply networks as quickly as possible, and I request that the administration act to effect this.
Such was the report from Wahlen that arrived at the imperial capital. Kaiser Reinhard approved it at once, ordering the Ministry of Works to see to Wahlen’s request. He also began assembling a vast force in the sectors around Schattenberg to respond to Wahlen’s request for backup.
At this time, the Imperial Ministry of Finance was formulating a five-year plan to unify the currency used across the entire territory of the new empire. However, the chaos in the Neue Land would cause delays in carrying this out. Given that it had only been a year and a half since galactic unification itself, there seemed little need for urgency, but the change of plans did not sit well with Reinhard’s perfectionist side.
Wahlen was not the sort of man to mix public with private affairs, or pursue grudges of any sort, but the child he had left behind in the older territories of the empire was never far from his mind. He could not suppress the desire to complete the imperial project of galactic unification as quickly as possible and return to his home.
Although Wahlen had not had occasion to hear Wittenfeld’s bellicose proposals with respect to Iserlohn, there could be no doubt that the existence of the republic was a factor in virtually every major development currently seen across the galaxy. Ultimately, Iserlohn would have to be destroyed.
Accordingly, Wahlen deployed his fleet at the midway point on the route connecting Heinessen and Iserlohn Fortress, making it easier for him to monitor Iserlohn’s movements—and respond, if necessary—while still allowing him to suppress the rioting in the former alliance territories. He had accepted command of the imperial forces stationed on Heinessen two months before—the days of superficial peace were over, and the true chaos of war was almost upon him. He had 15,600 ships under his command, which should have been enough to overwhelm Iserlohn’s entire military.
Admiral Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, who would turn sixty-three that year, probably lived the most regulated lifestyle on Iserlohn. The republic’s other officials joked that they could set their watches by the movements of the aging former imperial admiral.
Even the bad actors that were Attenborough and Poplin showed due respect to this exiled imperial general. Not only did they refrain from teasing him, they even treated him with the respect his position warranted. After all, no less a personage than Yang Wen-li had seen fit to welcome Merkatz as a state guest with all the honors. There was also the age difference. The thought of Merkatz stalking galactic battlefields ten years before they were even born made both of them sit up a little straighter in their seats.
After the death of Yang Wen-li, Merkatz had been given command of a fleet in the Iserlohn military for the first time. During the Lippstadt War, even if only nominally, he had moved ships by the hundreds of thousands, but his new fleet was two orders of magnitude smaller. Some might see this change in circumstances as a decline, but Merkatz himself gave no sign that it bothered him, quietly working under his commander Julian Mintz to form strategies, craft fleet plans, and lead his ships out in deployment. Naturally, he was not entirely without emotion.
An elephant treading on thin ice: that was how others had always seen Merkatz. Not just in terms of this military action, but also with respect to his position within the Iserlohn Republic. This tiny, tiny power led by Frederica G. Yang had to protect not just itself but also the trembling, vulnerable flower bud that was democratic republican governance.
February 7.
“Iserlohn’s forces are on the move.”
The report from the scout squadron reached Senior Admiral Wahlen by FTL transmission. This development, too, did not come as a surprise. It was somewhat unusual, however, that after maintaining a cordial neutrality during the Reuentahl Rebellion, Iserlohn should take action now.
“When are they expected to reach the mouth of the corridor?”
“Pardon me, Your Excellency, but they aren’t moving toward us.”
“Where are they going, then?”
Immediately after the words left his mouth, Wahlen chuckled ruefully at his own stupidity. The Iserlohn Corridor was an all but two-dimensional space. If Iserlohn’s forces weren’t coming toward the Neue Land, there was only one other way they could go.
“They are headed for the imperial end of the Iserlohn Corridor, Your Excellency. It seems they mean to invade the empire’s home territory.”
Shock rippled through Wahlen’s staff officers. A junior admiral by the name of Kamfuber raised an excited voice.
“Your Excellency! After causing us much vexation and confusion, it appears that those Iserlohn dogs are embracing self-destruction. Let us enter the corridor at once and ensure that they have no home to return to!”
Wahlen could not immediately agree with the proactive position his subordinate took. As a strategist of the finest order, he had no intention of underestimating the enemy. The commander of Iserlohn might be young, but he appeared to be deeply influenced by Yang Wen-li. Presumably he had some kind of plan. So he thought—still, if Iserlohn’s forces had left the fortress to invade the old core of the empire, it was settled imperial strategy that Wahlen should enter the corridor and threaten them from the rear. He could not simply sit by and watch as events unfolded. Like the leaders of the Iserlohn Republic, he was responsible for more than just himself.
On February 8, the Wahlen Fleet set off.
Allow the enemy to think that their wishes have been granted. At the same time, psychologically box them in until they are convinced that no other course of action exists—and don’t let them realize what you’re doing.
Here lay the essence of Yang Wen-li’s strategic approach. Yang’s insight into enemy psychology was so accurate that it had earned him the sobriquet of “Magician.” He could read the opposing side’s thinking as easily as if it were written on paper. However, he would have preferred not to. He resorted to this kind of tactical deception only because he was not in a position to establish strategic superiority. He had not been a dictator, or even the supreme commander of the alliance military. As a front-line commander near Iserlohn and nothing more, he had not been able to extend his authority beyond the bounds of those challenges that could be dealt with at the tactical level.
Several hypotheticals cast sorrowful shadows on Julian’s thinking. What if Yang had risen to head the alliance’s strategic command headquarters? What if the disastrous defeat at Amritsar had been avoided, and the alliance not lost the bulk of its military and first-class commanders? History, Julian thought, might have proceeded in a different direction altogether.
“And saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
Julian heard Yang’s voice clearly in his mind. He blushed. He had not fully understood the import of Yang’s musings in the past, having laughed them off with comments like “You sure do hate working.” The laughter of ignorance, indeed.
Three hundred years ago, an obscure republican known as Ahle Heinessen had managed to find his way through this dangerous corridor brimming with hardship with only a handful of allies by his side. This had been the Long March, with which the history of the Free Planets Alliance began. That history had ended in SE 800, but the memory of Ahle Heinessen and his ideals must never be lost. Such a loss would only give strength to a social system in which people yielded their political responsibilities to others, giving their “betters” carte blanche to rule over them.
IV
February, SE 801. The Iserlohn Revolutionary Army entered its first battle since receiving that name. The operation was indisputably a daring one. Perhaps it was an act of foolishness that would succeed only in destroying the cordial relationship just recently established between
the Republic and the Galactic Empire. Julian was particularly apprehensive of the latter possibility. During the Reuentahl Revolt, they had allowed the Mecklinger Fleet safe passage through Iserlohn Corridor, creating an impression of what might be called amicable neutrality by showing that they would not offer indiscriminate support for any armed anti-imperial uprising. Now, however, they were about to strike the first blow in a new conflict.
Julian’s flagship was the veteran battle craft Ulysses. It was helmed by Captain Nilson, who had risen to his rank by the time of the alliance’s dissolution. Both ship and captain had proven their experience and luck, and expectations were high that they would continue to do so. Now, if only Vice Admiral Fischer were still alive to direct the fleet, Julian found himself thinking wistfully.
As he was leaving a conference with Yang prior to what would be his final battle, Edwin Fischer had actually made a rare joke. With a mild expression but an awkward tone, he had said, “I think I’m finally getting the knack of ordering all these ships around. When peace returns, I might even go ahead and write a book. Can’t let Admiral Attenborough earn all the royalties.”
But now Fischer was gone. The masterful commander, taciturn and loyal, who had understood his responsibilities and the significance of his presence perfectly, was no longer among the living. Yang, too, who had made full use of Fischer’s genius, also survived only in records and memories. Having lost both, Iserlohn nevertheless had to fight on—and with fewer than ten thousand ships at best.
They must be mad, thought Waagenseil, the imperial admiral guarding the end of Iserlohn Corridor closest to the empire’s home territory. When the first reports of the enemy’s movements had arrived, Waagenseil had been unable to resist making some indiscreet remarks to his subordinates.
“Those mangy stray dogs on Iserlohn have been howling so long they’ve convinced themselves they’re wolves. The only thing a stray dog understands is the whip. Be strict when you train them, so they will never forget the limits of their power again.”
The use of such bluster was an unfortunate habit among the commanders of the imperial army, who had never tasted defeat at the hands of anyone but Yang Wen-li. Reinhard made a point, underscored by Mittermeier, of reprimanding those who spoke in this way, but as it sprung from an excess of victor’s exuberance, it was not an easy flaw to amend.
There was also a certain psychological proclivity that seemed to crave disorder, as exemplified by Admiral Grillparzer, whose lust for glory had led him to betray von Reuentahl the previous year. This was also caused in part by intelligence on the Iserlohn fleet’s relative paucity of ships.
Waagenseil began to move his fleet of 8,500 vessels. This information reached Iserlohn along with his “mangy stray dogs” remark, which caused Attenborough to make a noise of disgust on the bridge of Ulysses.
“Mangy stray dogs, are we? Quite a way with words. Who does he think he’s dealing with?”
“The disgrace of the galaxy. Enemies of peace and unity. Fanatical traitors. Bloodstained clowns dancing on the razor’s edge with nooses around our necks. Products of a culture of pure irrational optimism with no thought for our deaths tomorrow…”
Poplin reeled the possibilities off cheerfully.
“You’re certainly no slouch when it comes to insulting yourself.”
“What do you mean by that? I have no taste for masochism.”
“Weren’t you just insulting us?”
“Well, I was certainly insulting you.”
Almost as if he had been waiting for that moment, Lieutenant Commander Soon “Soul” Soulzzcuaritter handed a document to Attenborough for approval. Attenborough quickly scanned it, signed it, and handed it back. Soul saluted and turned to leave. Watching him go, Attenborough muttered, “Well, in any case, to die tomorrow, we must first survive today.”
“Exactly right. Let’s make sure we retain the right to die tomorrow, if not later.”
0420, February 12. At a point near the imperial-side entrance to Iserlohn Corridor, the two fleets faced off. Against 8,500 imperial ships, Iserlohn had 6,600. The clustered points of artificial light drew nearer to each other, then stopped once they were a mere 2.9 light-seconds—870,000 kilometers—apart. The tension soared on both sides, finally reaching its breaking point at 0435.
“Feuer!”
“Fire!”
The orders raced through the communications circuits on both sides. For Julian, it was the first time he had ever given orders to open fire, but he had no time to ponder the sensation. In an instant, explosions bloomed across the main screen on Ulysses’ bridge, forming a flowerbed of death and destruction. Violent waves of light and heat raced toward the ship, which was positioned in the central part of the formation, ten ranks from the front.
The Imperial Navy was all too familiar with the power of Thor’s Hammer, which meant it would be a challenge to lure them within firing range. At the tactical level, this was the matter that preoccupied the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army. When a weapon is too powerful, it often becomes the object of excessive faith, warping tactical judgment and leading to defeat before it can even be used. Five years ago, that had been demonstrated in bold, crimson letters by Yang Wen-li himself. Now Julian would have to verify the proposition for himself.
Ulysses’ bridge was dyed every color of the rainbow by the beams of light streaming out from its main screen. With each pulsing flare of brightness, several ships were lost and thousands of souls interred in heat and flame. Allied vessels deployed to Ulysses’ fore opened their gun ports as a wave of incoming energy caused Ulysses itself to roll gently.
Julian was no Kaiser Reinhard, of course, but he was used to the battlefield, and believed in the efficacy of military force, even if that belief was conditional. That was why he had voiced his intention of joining the military to Yang, and why he had followed through on it. Last year, however, Julian had been forced to confront the fact that he had always intended to serve under Yang. The ambition that now sprouted in his breast was unlike any he had felt before.
The two fleets appeared to more or less hold their own against each other until 0540, when there was an almost imperceptible shift in the rhythm of the battle. The Imperial Navy advanced in a wave to secure more ground, and the Iserlohn fleet fell back to maintain the same distance, replying only with cannon fire. At last, they began to fall back even farther of their own accord.
Cracks began to show in the imperial formations. As if being sucked into a vacuum, their ships advanced in a disorderly fashion, drawn further and further into the corridor’s depth. It was 0630, just over two hours since combat had begun.
The fighter squadrons that had emerged from Iserlohn’s fleet returned to their motherships.
Poplin’s team of single-seater spartanians had achieved results that would go down in the history of fighter combat. Of the 240 spartanians, sixteen had failed to return. However, as records would one day reveal, the Imperial Navy had lost no fewer than 104 of its own single-seater walküren.
Corporal Katerose “Karin” von Kreutzer had downed two of those walküren herself, and contributed to the destruction of two more. The keenness of her reflexes, judgment, and visual perception seemed inborn. Which parent could she have inherited them from?
As leader of the squadron, Poplin had shot down five of the enemy, bringing his total score since graduating from flight school to over 250. This was a worthy showing for any ace, already putting him among the ten deadliest pilots in the 150-year history of the war between the Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance. One of the five he had downed had been gunning for Corporal von Kreutzer from her left rear flank, but he did not mention this to her.
Waagenseil saw his forces stream into the corridor in a somewhat disorderly pursuit of the enemy, but sensed little danger in it.
His aim was parallel pursuit. If their ships were mingled with the enemy’s, Iserlohn Fortress would
not be able to fire Thor’s Hammer. Back when the fortress had been one of the empire’s prized possessions, the alliance Marshal Sidney Sitolet had used this technique to “tear off some of that thick makeup Iserlohn wears,” as he put it. His assault had failed in the final stages, but the lessons to be learned from it were hardly insignificant, and Waagenseil had not failed to take note of them.
All this, however, was within the bounds of what Julian had foreseen. He had a trick planned that was more than worthy of Yang Wen-li’s star pupil. It began by calculating the precise time that Wahlen’s fleet would arrive in the space around Iserlohn Fortress, starting from its entering the Corridor from the side that had once led to alliance territory. Julian continued gradually pulling the Iserlohn fleet back in response to the hourly updates he received on Wahlen’s position. The attention to detail and psychic stamina he showed while executing this two-day strategy, all the while dangling in front of Waagenseil the possibility of parallel pursuit, reminded those around him of his guardian and teacher.
Soon, without even realizing it, the Imperial Navy had been drawn completely within range of Thor’s Hammer.
When they did realize it, a wave of terror instantly engulfed the entire fleet. Waagenseil, too, seeing at once that his strategy had failed, desperately ordered a retreat. It was at exactly this moment that the Wahlen Fleet arrived on the battlefield. When the report reached Julian, he licked his parched lips unconsciously.
The fleet’s formation was solid and devoid of obvious weakness, as if reflecting the character of Wahlen himself. He had charged into the corridor after learning via distant Phezzan that Waagenseil had engaged. Creating a pincer formation to trap the Iserlohn forces from both sides was another fundamental imperial strategy.
In one past battle, Yang Wen-li’s innovative strategy of placing a disguised supply fleet before the main combat fleet had left Wahlen sipping from defeat’s bitter chalice. Only Yang could have pulled that off; Wahlen was a veteran commander of expansive abilities, against whom standard military doctrine was all but useless. This was even truer in a case like the present one, when the forces under Julian’s control were small in absolute terms. To compensate for this, Julian would need to reposition his forces rapidly; above all, Thor’s Hammer would be indispensable. But in order to use that weapon, he would have to convince the imperial forces that they had a good chance of trapping the Iserlohn fleet in a pincer formation. This was why Julian had been so preoccupied with controlling the movements of his fleet. Yang had been able to leave this to Fischer, but Julian had been forced to do it himself. In a bittersweet irony, the fact that Iserlohn’s forces were so reduced since Yang’s time was exactly what made it possible for Julian to keep the whole fleet straight in his mind.
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