Wahlen’s flagship Salamander took two direct hits, one destroying its second walküre bay and the other landing under its bridge. On the bridge, sections of the wall and floor went flying, killing eight operators and guards instantly and injuring twenty more. Wahlen himself almost had his left arm torn off. The sleeve of his uniform was shredded, and the gleaming metal bones in his artificial hand were exposed.
His chief of staff, Vice Admiral Bürmering, rushed to his aid, but Wahlen brushed him away. “I’ve lost this arm before,” he said. “Losing it again won’t slow me down.”
As Bürmering watched, Wahlen ripped the arm from its socket, threw it to the floor, and kicked it away. Glancing at his chief of staff, the usually serious commander could not resist a joke.
“We’ve cut off our bad luck now. The only thing left to fear is cowardice!”
After three hours of desperate fighting, von Reuentahl finally relented. The final catalyst was Mittermeier punching small breaches through his defensive line and then joining those points lengthwise to advance as a united front. Had this gambit been successful—as, in fact, it almost was—von Reuentahl’s fleet would have been swept away by a wave of fire and steel. Especially since the one in that danger zone was Grillparzer.
By contrast with his comrades who had died unwillingly in battle, Grillparzer had made a different miscalculation. His plan had been to wait for the most opportune moment during battle, and then bring his spear about and strike at von Reuentahl from the rear. That moment, however, failed to come. For one thing, not all of his subordinates knew his thinking, and many of them were actively engaged in daring firefights with Mittermeier’s ships.
Seeing Mittermeier’s fearsome tactics from point-blank range, Grillparzer shuddered even as he marveled. He considered drawing in the Mittermeier fleet’s offensive to bring about the total collapse of von Reuentahl’s forces, but again hesitated over the decision. The pressure Mittermeier brought to bear was stronger than he had expected, and if he were the one to bore a hole in the dike he could very well drown. As a result, Grillparzer was forced to desperately bear up against Mittermeier’s attack simply to keep himself alive, and this bloody, unfunny farce continued until von Reuentahl turned the ships under his direct control around. As he waited, Grillparzer decided to signal his intentions to surrender to Mittermeier—but, moments before the circuit connected, von Reuentahl appeared behind him and he was forced to put the idea aside.
Through precisely concentrated firepower, von Reuentahl closed one of Mittermeier’s breaches and launched a counterattack on another, breaking through to fire along the flank of one of Mittermeier’s divisions that was in a long column formation. The combat was brief, but so intense that it left both sides with fangs shattered, and Mittermeier was forced to retreat some 600,000 kilometers.
The bloody banquet showed no sign of ending.
VI
Before these events, when Mittermeier and von Reuentahl were still on the verge of their grim battle in the Rantemario Stellar Region, an envoy arrived at Iserlohn Base. He had been sent by von Reuentahl for strategic regions, to request that Iserlohn not permit the Imperial Navy through the corridor. He was not one of von Reuentahl’s subordinates but a retired veteran living on Heinessen—and an old acquaintance of Julian and the others.
“Admiral Murai, it’s been a long time. I didn’t expect to meet under these circumstances, but I’m glad to see you looking well.”
Julian shook Murai’s hand as he offered this heartfelt greeting, but at the sight of the Thirteenth Fleet’s former chief of staff, Olivier Poplin said “Uh-oh” and disappeared, like a wild animal seeing its natural predator.
Dusty Attenborough muttered, “If I’d known he was coming back, I wouldn’t have given him that gentlemanly farewell,” but bashfully offered his hand. Caselnes and von Schönkopf grinned and saluted, and Frederica bowed her head in sincere gratitude to the man who had been a loyal staff officer to her husband.
Von Reuentahl’s choice of his former enemy as envoy was ingenious and cynical, and Murai had only accepted after careful deliberation. Whatever von Reuentahl’s true intentions, he had seen value in providing Julian and the others with information about what was currently unfolding in the former alliance territories. This was Julian’s guess at his intentions, anyway; Murai himself did not speak of them.
Von Reuentahl’s request showed his superior mettle as a villain. Offering to return the entire former alliance territory was not something to be done lightly. It suggested that, if Iserlohn took the offer, even in the worst case they would have little to lose.
But Julian was Yang Wen-li’s disciple. When faced with a decision, he spent as much time pondering its historical import as calculating the chances of success. Taken to the extreme, this was no more than imitation, but to Julian it was the torch that guided him through mazes for which he had no map.
“I’ll discuss it with Mrs. Greenhill Yang and Admiral Merkatz and give you an answer as quickly as possible. Please make yourself at home while you wait.”
“All right, but make it as quick as you can. If I get comfortable, I’ll start feeling the urge to complain about what you youngsters are doing. And my place isn’t even here anymore.”
Raising one hand, Murai headed for the guest room assigned to him.
Won’t you come back to us? Julian caught himself just before the words escaped. Provided with his old lodgings, Murai would have laughed and refused.
Julian spent the entire day considering von Reuentahl’s proposal.
If von Reuentahl meant to claim political legitimacy against Reinhard and his new dynasty, he would ultimately have to restore the bipolar system from before the New Imperial Calendar began. Would he back Erwin Josef II, who was still missing, and declare the restoration of the Goldenbaum Dynasty? Would he revive the Free Planets Alliance and become a standard-bearer for democratic republican governance? The latter possibility was ridiculous on its face. Furthermore, if von Reuentahl intended to make Reinhard his puppet while wielding true political power himself, there was no reason whatsoever for Julian and the others to get caught up in a struggle for power within the autocracy.
Ultimately, the kaiser’s reign might be autocratic in its system of governance, but, judged by his results, Reinhard himself walked the middle path. Julian and the others had to keep this in mind. The fruit of reform could not simply be dashed to the ground, even if it had been born of a system different from their own. What was more, supposing that von Reuentahl did overthrew Reinhard, it was difficult to imagine that the kaiser’s senior retainers would meekly bend the knee. Which meant such an eventuality would only mark the opening of an age of war without order or principle.
Marshal von Reuentahl was presumably very nearly Kaiser Reinhard’s equal in terms of ability in government and military affairs. Still, in historical terms, he could only ever exist as a reaction to the kaiser. To move history in the best possible direction, would it not be better to ensure that Reinhard continued to rule? Always assuming, of course, that he remained wise and just. Julian’s thoughts began to coalesce around this idea.
The problem was the other thing von Reuentahl had offered: Trünicht. This had shaken Iserlohn’s representatives, not politically but psychologically.
Julian was no exception, and had felt strongly torn on hearing the offer. Olivier Poplin had whistled and said, “Take him up on that part at least, Julian. I won’t ask for Trünicht’s head. You can have that. Just leave me an arm.”
Julian had not failed to consider a more expedient approach. They could demand Trünicht first, for example, lull von Reuentahl into a false sense of security, and then allow the imperial fleet through the corridor. This would put the empire in their debt while also allowing them to avenge their personal grudges against Trünicht.
But it would disgrace them. However deep their hatred and resentment of Trünicht, if they used his life as a strategic bargaining chip, what right would they have to criticize his own co
untless betrayals of democracy?
For von Reuentahl to offer such a condition might not be humane, but it certainly made sense in terms of political and military strategy. For them to accept it, however, would be a shameful act.
Julian suddenly thought of asking Murai about von Reuentahl’s fundamental approach to this new conflict. Was he dragging the former citizens of the alliance into the fight?
“No, he feels that this is a private battle within the empire, and the citizenry have nothing to do with it,” Murai said. “This might be another example of his arrogance, but he is sticking to it.”
Julian felt as if he had caught a glimpse of von Reuentahl’s pride at work. If the marshal dragged the former alliance citizenry into the war and carried out an uncompromising scorched-earth campaign, he could probably hold out for quite some time. But he was intentionally avoiding this in favor of direct military conflict. Some might ridicule this approach—but let them laugh.
Still, admiration was not a basis for decision-making, and Julian informed Murai that he could not accept von Reuentahl’s offer.
“A no, then,” Murai said. “Not unexpected, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry, Admiral Murai. After you went to all the effort of coming here.”
“Oh, I’m just the messenger. I didn’t have any obligation to make sure the negotiations succeeded.” Murai chuckled before his face grew serious again. “To be honest, Julian, I should be apologizing to you. I was worried that the promise of immediate benefits might lead you astray. And so I was thinking I’d have to stop you, even if it wasn’t my place to.”
“I can see why you might have worried.”
“But there was no need to, was there? You truly are Yang Wen-li’s greatest disciple.”
For Julian, this was the highest praise possible.
The decision was thus made, but many of Julian’s staff officers were disappointed. Von Schönkopf made a public counterproposal, not even bothering to keep it quiet.
“Julian, let me go back to Heinessen with Admiral Murai.”
“To visit your lovers?”
“That would be the main purpose of my visit, but there’s something else I want to do while I’m there.” He grinned with the dangerous dignity and power of an aristocratic, man-eating tiger. “Pose with von Reuentahl’s head in my left hand, Trünicht’s head under my left foot, and a tomahawk in my right hand, take a photograph, and sell it to the media.”
Poplin leaned forward. “Count me in on that one,” he said. “You can have von Reuentahl’s head. I’ll settle for Trünicht’s.”
“I thought you might say that. Always angling for the easy job.”
“No, I just don’t have any bone to pick with von Reuentahl. Certainly not enough to risk the ire of all those daughters of the empire.”
Julian sighed. “Stop it, both of you. Heinessen is under imperial military rule. Your chances of coming back alive are slim.”
“How can you live if you’re afraid to die?” said Poplin, putting his black beret on. He wasn’t smiling. Julian had started to get the feeling that Poplin wasn’t really the frivolous playboy people called him—that he was simply ironically enjoying playing that role.
“Brave words,” Attenborough said, “for a man who ran for cover the moment he saw Admiral Murai’s face.”
Poplin seemed to be about to reply, but Julian’s sense of hearing did not register it. Hoping for some solitude to think, he went to the observation deck, but found it already crowded. He was just turning to leave when Karin von Kreutzer saw him and called him over. As they gazed through the transparent wall at the field of stars, the conversation eventually turned to the military decision Julian faced. Of course, it did not expand at all into the area of specialty of the teacher they shared in common.
“Commander Poplin told me that he saw in your face we’d be sitting this one out. Is that true?”
“This one, yes. Just this one…”
Julian’s brown eyes were filled with a contemplative light. If he was honest with himself, he wanted to fight. One of the Galactic Empire’s greatest admirals was in open revolt against the kaiser. The Imperial Navy must be shaken to its core. If Iserlohn could take advantage of that…Julian heard the military adventurer inside him whispering of this sweet dream. The temptation was powerful. It was the same temptation that had led the Alliance Armed Forces to their crushing defeat at Amritsar four years ago.
If Julian had, at that point, formed an alliance with von Reuentahl and fought Kaiser Reinhard together, history would have gone in another direction. The sweet dream would have had a bitter end: an all-out assault on Iserlohn by the vast forces under Reinhard’s command.
“Unfortunately, I think you made the right decision,” Karin said. “There’s no reason to get mixed up in a private war between the kaiser and Marshal von Reuentahl. Have some confidence in your judgment.”
“Thank you. For worrying about me.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not worried about you—just irritated! If you don’t keep it together, you’ll embarrass the Yangs and doom us all.”
“I understand that.”
“You don’t understand anything. I’m not saying that you aren’t keeping it together!”
Julian was still fumbling for an answer when Karin turned and walked away with that strikingly regular tread of hers. At times like this, Julian wished he had even one percent of Karin’s father’s ability to handle her.
Of course, this did not last long. His hands were already full with responsibility, but another one was about to be added to the pile—another decision that needed to be made. When he returned to the control room, Frederica Greenhill Yang, who was speaking to a communications officer, smiled and called him over.
“It seems this is our day for unexpected guests,” she said. “Senior Admiral Mecklinger of the Imperial Navy is asking to negotiate. Will you hear him out, Julian?”
After a moment’s surprise, Julian said, “Yes, of course.” He could guess what the Imperial Navy were hoping for—the polar opposite of von Reuentahl’s requests. As he nodded to Frederica, he had already half-opened the door to his decision.
On December 3, that decision became visible on the battlefield.
The ominous news was brought to von Reuentahl by his aide, Lieutenant Commander Emil von Reckendorf.
“Your Excellency, a large fleet is approaching Heinessen from the direction of Iserlohn Corridor.”
“Imperial?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. It seems they are under the command of Senior Admiral Mecklinger. The republicans at Iserlohn granted them passage through the corridor.”
The words tension and unease were printed all over von Reckendorf’s face. Von Reuentahl looked away and began speaking to the stars.
“That boy at Iserlohn has a decent eye for strategy, it seems. Either that, or very good staff officers. I wonder if this is old Merkatz’s doing.”
This guess was incorrect. “That boy at Iserlohn” had weighed, chosen, and announced his decision without help from anyone—or anyone living, at least.
But von Reuentahl did correctly understand what Julian’s decision meant. On one hand, he was putting the empire in his debt, creating diplomatic material that could be used in future negotiations. On the other, by allowing Mecklinger through, he was effectively emptying the imperial end of the corridor of fighting strength. If Iserlohn felt the need to, they could invade imperial territory to stir up trouble or worse. Even if they harbored no such intention, they would certainly have freedom of action.
In any case, there was no longer any point in continuing the present battle. If Heinessen fell to Mecklinger, von Reuentahl would stand alone in the void and, furthermore, soon be forced to fight on two fronts.
He ordered his ships to retreat.
This was easier said than done. At this time, Mittermeier had Wahlen and Wittenfeld perfectly under his control on his left and right flank, and was using them alternately to strike von Reuentahl�
��s fleet from both sides, bleeding von Reuentahl as his own ships advanced. But, through cannon fire and feinting by the ships directly under his control, von Reuentahl was able to break up Mittermeier’s progress long enough for units to slip out of the war zone, one by one. When he saw the opportunity, he beat a hasty retreat himself, thus completing a perfect disengagement for which no one had been sacrificed at all.
“He really is one of the greatest commanders of our age. Retreating even as he fights on, and without a hint of confusion. I don’t think even the examples in tactical textbooks are this beautiful.”
Thus said Wahlen as he watched the points of light recede on his screen. Mittermeier was silent. He knew this already; there was no need to verbalize it. Gathering on his brow was a sharp, yet heavy resolution. He would end this conflict before the year was out. If it dragged on into the new year, the signal fires would go up across the Neue Land: the new dynasty is a paper tiger! If the believers in democratic republicanism convinced themselves of that, there was no guarantee they would not explode in their own rebellion. And then there were the inhabitants of Iserlohn Base—how would they react? No, Mittermeier would have to smash the eggs of danger and confusion before they could hatch en masse.
However, to end the conflict would mean killing his friend. Every commander in the Imperial Navy knew that von Reuentahl was not the sort of man who would beg for his life. Noticing the almost turbulent rise and fall of emotions on the faces of his colleagues, Mittermeier gave his orders.
“All ships, maximum combat speed. We are going to catch up to von Reuentahl before he reaches Heinessen.”
Neither his voice nor his expression brooked any argument.
I
This miserable civil war will soon bring to us the one slim happiness it has to offer: its conclusion. And even this is only a happiness by comparison with the alternative…
SENIOR ADMIRAL ERNEST MECKLINGER wrote these words in his diary after he arrived in the Neue Land, becoming one of only a handful who had traversed Iserlohn Corridor from the old imperial side to former alliance territory without braving the fires of war.
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