Yang Wen-li looked around the staff on the bridge: his wife and aide Frederica, vice admirals von Schönkopf and Murai, his staff officer Patrichev, and Lieutenant Commander Soon “Soul” Soulzzcuaritter. Caselnes had been left behind to guard Iserlohn Fortress, and Merkatz and Fischer were off pursuing their own assigned missions. And then there was Julian Mintz, who had been a staff officer without portfolio at headquarters since the beginning of the year. This was the so-called Yang Family of that period in its unassuming battle formation.
“The Imperial Navy is led by the greatest emperor in history and commanded by too many great generals to count. They can’t all fit inside Iserlohn Corridor at once, and that fact is going to be the key to our survival. Let’s lean on it as hard as we can.”
Yang spoke as if calmly explaining facts rather than brimming with confidence, but it was exactly this that planted in the hearts of his subordinates the seed of the idea that victory was assured. One of the reasons that Yang was known as “the Magician” was surely his almost supernatural ability to inspire faith in others, right up until his own death. His subordinates had a joke that they had borrowed from the ancients to express that faith:
“What’s the best plan Yang Wen-li ever came up with?”
“Whatever plan he comes up with next!”
1045: Reports arrived of a sudden approach by the Imperial Navy. The entire Yang Fleet was put on alert level one. 1130: Attenborough’s advance guard arrived and joined Yang’s main forces on its left wing to stare down the advancing enemy.
“Good work,” said Yang through the viewscreen.
“Just remember this when you’re divvying up the spoils,” said Attenborough. There was no time for further banter.
The posture Yang adopted when commanding a fleet had not changed since the first time he had captured Iserlohn Fortress. He always sat on the command desk, one leg crossed over the other with his knee in the air, and today was no exception. Every so often his staff would glance over at Yang sitting in this way to calm their breathing.
An operator’s voice betraying an understandably nervous quaver rang out across the bridge.
“Enemy has passed through the yellow zone and entered the red zone. Distance to main cannon firing range 0.4 four light-seconds.”
“Ready cannons,” said Yang. He raised one hand, but not to give the signal to open fire. Instead, he removed his black beret and ruffled his ungovernable black hair. Oliver Poplin, currently in the cockpit of a spartanian fighter craft far from the bridge, had once compared this habit to the way cats raise their fur when threatened.
“Enemy has entered firing range!”
Yang put his black beret back on and raised his right hand. Julian took a deep breath, and at the moment he filled his lungs completely and began to exhale, Yang’s hand fell again.
“Fire!”
“Fire!”
Vast gouts of light and energy raised silent winds that roiled their corner of the galaxy.
The screen bloomed with explosions. Concentrating their firepower was the Yang Fleet’s specialty. They might even have been better at it than feigning retreat.
The wall of light and heat brought the charging Black Lancers to a sudden stop. Wittenfeld was enraged, and the barrels of the fleet’s cannons began erupting in vengeful flame.
It would be pointless to view the battle waged in and around Iserlohn Corridor in SE 800—year 2 of the New Imperial Calendar—after the complete collapse of the Free Planets Alliance as a struggle between good and evil. Rather, it was a clash between peace and freedom, or between will to power and faith in institutions. The imperfect scales of justice might come down on either side depending on whether the one who held them supported—or simply preferred—Reinhard von Lohengramm or Yang Wen-li.
To those fighting the battle, of course, no such neutral standpoint was possible. Death, and the meaning of death, rested on the outcome of this battle.
Fahrenheit had rushed forward to fight alongside the Black Lancers after sending word to the kaiser that the battle had begun, and now the two imperial fleets adopted spindle formations as they faced the C-shaped fleet under Yang’s command.
The Yang Fleet’s formation had the advantage in a frontal firefight, being able to deploy a far greater number of cannons. Both imperial commanders itched to regroup, but with the risk of getting in each other’s way and the immediate danger from the enemy guns ahead, that would be almost impossible.
“We should let the boars of the Black Lancers use their tusks to dig their own graves,” hissed Commander Sanders. Fahrenheit reprimanded his adjutant curtly for the rage- and persecution complex–inspired outburst, but he was unable to put aside his own discomfort with the situation either. As it happened, Wittenfeld was dissatisfied also. Fahrenheit, he felt, should have hung back as a secondary force; his insistence on advancing alongside Wittenfeld would only restrict both from maneuvering freely in the narrow corridor.
Wittenfeld’s vice chief of staff Rear Admiral Eugen’s brow was almost undetectably furrowed. Eugen was said to be the most cautious man in the Black Lancers, and it took a few more seconds of hesitation before he decided to offer his opinion to their commander. Wittenfeld was standing before the main screen, arms folded and orange hair tousled.
“Your Excellency, it appears that this was a trap to lure our forces into the corridor. If we are to avoid arousing the kaiser’s anger any further, I believe we must retreat—even if this does entail certain sacrifices.”
It was the phrase “the kaiser’s anger” that seemed to make an impact on Wittenfeld. In truth, he had already reached the same conclusion as Eugen himself. But if they retreated in this formation, they were in danger of being pursued and half-surrounded by the Yang Fleet. Would it not be better to push forward and break through the enemy at their center? Wittenfeld made a decision that would have surprised no one who knew him.
The Black Lancers began to stir. In a direct, frontal attack, they were said to be the most destructive battalion in the galaxy. It seemed to Wittenfeld that the only way to overcome their current situation was to use this destructive power to the fullest and create their own path through the center of the Yang Fleet.
At Wittenfeld’s command, the main guns of each ship in his fleet showered the other side in a triple volley of fire. Then the Black Lancers surged forward in a furious charge.
The Yang Fleet fell back to absorb the attack gently. Or, at least, the center of the fleet did. The left and right wing, on the contrary, moved forward. In moments, the fleet had adopted a deep formation like an elongated V. The timing, flexibility, and perfect coordination they displayed was the fruit of much hard work on the part of Vice Admiral Fischer, master of fleet operations.
The Yang Fleet’s deep defensive line erupted into a wall of fire, shattering the Black Lancers as they approached. Imperial ships black as lacquer became tumbling fireballs that melted into the black lacquer of space.
The Imperial Navy returned fire. Exposed to the Yang Fleet’s cannons though they were, they continued to advance in perfect formation. They hoped to force a close-range battle, even a mixed one, and to use their overwhelming offensive capabilities to obliterate the Yang Fleet entirely. If Yang lost control of the situation for the merest moment, his fleet would dissolve into nothing more than a band of washouts.
IV
“Remember the Vermillion War last year, imperials? Remember what a crippling, devastating, inexcusable loss that was for you? You would have been ground into space dust if we hadn’t taken pity on you. We saved your lives, and you repay us with yet another invasion? Your kaiser may have a pretty face, but he’s nothing but a good-for-nothing punk.”
Attenborough’s taunts enraged the Imperial Navy as he pulled off the impressive feat of pivoting directly from successfully completing his mission to drag the Black Lancers into Iserlohn Corridor to joining the Yang Fleet on
its left wing for a new attack on the enemy.
The communication channels on both sides filled with belligerent cries.
“Sieg Kaiser!”
“Damn the kaiser!”
The Black Lancers attacked in harrowing waves. Each time they charged, the front lines absorbed the disciplined fire of the Yang Fleet that produced fireballs in great quantity before the front receded. But before long they regrouped and charged again, and each time they did they battered the Yang Fleet severely and unavoidably. On the bridge of Yang’s flagship Ulysses, explosions bloomed into a flower bed of light, and the unleashed energy created such turbulence that it disturbed the once-even density of their formation.
A Yang Fleet patrol ship exploded with white-hot light, and a lacquer-black warship burst through the afterimage toward them. Yang’s staff officers felt their hearts leap in their chests. Energy beams emerged like blades from Ulysses’s starboard and port sides, and in the concentrated cannon fire the enemy ship was annihilated, leaving only a mass of heat.
“Does that idiot Wittenfeld think he can win just by charging?” muttered lieutenant commander Soon Soul. But Yang wasn’t so quick to dismiss Wittenfeld’s acumen.
From a purely military perspective, the Imperial Navy’s capacity to recover was effectively infinite, while the Yang Fleet’s was close to zero. Accordingly, in the worst case, the imperial side could simply force a war of attrition. As long as the Yang Fleet’s losses matched their own, before long the enemy would be wiped out and they would be the victorious survivors. It was hardly worth dignifying with the word “tactic,” but ultimately this was where the purpose of fielding a massive army lay.
“Our two fleets together add up to thirty thousand ships,” Wittenfeld had said to Fahrenheit. “We could bury them all, ship for ship, and still have ten thousand to spare!”
As irresponsible as this sounded, it did evince an understanding of the strategic high road. However, even the veteran orange-haired commander had to admit that the true situation was far from “ship for ship.” In fact, their losses were staggering compared to the enemy. Sometime after the tenth wave was shattered, Wittenfeld’s chief of staff Admiral Gräbner and vice chief of staff Rear Admiral Eugen decided that the Black Lancers would have to temporarily retreat and let the Fahrenheit Fleet take over as the main offensive force.
“A massive army doesn’t need tactical finesse,” Fahrenheit told his officers. “Stay on the attack. Keep pressing forward and hit them hard.”
His judgment and decision were correct. If their momentum faltered, they would only give Yang room to bring them down through his artistic and magical tactics. The Fahrenheit Fleet had to keep up its offensive, not giving the enemy time to respond.
Their initial charge was so ferocious that even the Black Lancers went pale with shock. The guns of the Yang Fleet pounded the uninvited guests with fire and flame. But, at this point, Yang’s side was at a disadvantage in terms of fatigue in the ranks. After exchanging fire a few times, Fahrenheit detected this and concentrated his forces on the left wing of the Yang Fleet, where Attenborough had command. His plan was to break through the left wing and then come around clockwise to strike at the flank of Yang’s main fleet.
The maneuver was successful. With the two parts of the Yang Fleet temporarily severed, Fahrenheit’s attack on the main body’s flank was brutal, but met with a ferocious response.
Fahrenheit’s fleet bored into the mass of enemy ships, taking high-density fire from left and right and becoming a mass of fireballs exploding in chain reaction. They formed a brilliant necklace of death and destruction.
Wittenfeld watched his comrades’ bitter struggle from afar. His own fleet had already finished regrouping, and he had no doubt that the Yang Fleet was nearing exhaustion, so he ordered a new attack. This time the charging Black Lancers were met with only scattered and sporadic fire, allowing them to throw part of the Yang Fleet into disarray.
It appeared that Wittenfeld and Fahrenheit had successfully merged and recombined their forces. They were unaware, however, that this was the key to the devious trap that had been laid for them. The two imperial marshals had concentrated their ships at the center of what moments later became a ring of fire and closed in on them.
Even had they foreseen this outcome, no other way had been open to them. Neither could have left the other to stand alone. In less than half an hour, every screen in the Imperial Navy blazed with gunfire and the tide of the battle had turned completely. Despite Yang Wen-li’s numerical disadvantage relative to the imperial fleets, he had managed to corner the enemy by making good use of the hazardous area at the end of the corridor. This time it was the right wing of the Yang Fleet that forced Fahrenheit’s ships back against the danger zone, and the man directing that wing was none other than imperial defector Admiral Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz.
“Merkatz?!”
When Fahrenheit heard the name of his old acquaintance, an electric flash ran through his blue eyes and he turned his gaze to the points of light that filled his screen. An expression far from animosity crossed the angular face of the famed general who had been revered under two dynasties yet was still only thirty-five years old.
“Fine. This suits me better anyway,” muttered Fahrenheit. Now hemmed in between enemy fire on one side and the danger zone on the other, he put his remarkable tactical prowess to work reorganizing the fleet under his command and focusing their firepower on a single point in the net that surrounded them in order to open a hole. Meanwhile, Wittenfeld knocked another corner of the Yang Fleet into disarray and fled for the corridor’s exit, abandoning any further resistance. But these actions, too, were exactly what Yang had anticipated. He responded by opening the net that surrounded the two enemy fleets and then reforming around them, engulfing their ships in a deep battle situation.
Yang had used the nature of the corridor itself to put Fahrenheit and Wittenfeld in a brutal position. Their only route of retreat was now a long, narrow sector where the Yang Fleet’s firepower was concentrated. To leave the corridor, they would have to pass through a storm of fire and heat. If they tried to adopt an offensive stance en route, they would only succeed in marching in orderly ranks right into the wall of enemy fire; if they decided not to commit the error of turning their head to face the enemy, they would have to flee as fast as they could while the Yang Fleet shredded their exposed flanks.
“A terrifying thing, Yang Wen-li’s ingenuity. And yet, even with that knowledge, I have ended up just where he wants me…Looks like my military service has been mined out.”
A self-mocking shadow flowed soundlessly down Fahrenheit’s cheeks.
At the open gates of Yang’s flagship Ulysses, spartanians were about to emerge.
“Dry Gin, Liqueur, Sherry, Absinthe. All companies, are you ready to scramble?”
Commander Olivier Poplin’s voice was so free of tension that it might have been about to lead them on nothing more than a long hike. He had once revealed his secret for cheating death to a curious interlocutor: “Underestimate everything.” Certainly he was a master of that particular art.
His subordinates shared the same devil-may-care attitude—or perhaps arrogance. They were veterans who had survived countless battles, large and small, since the days of the Free Planets.
At least, most of them were.
Poplin glanced at Corporal Katerose “Karin” von Kreutzer’s face on one corner of the screen in his ship, watching her prepare for her first sortie. He grinned, and light danced in his green eyes like sunbeams.
“Feeling scared, Karin?”
“No, Commander, I am not feeling scared!”
“That’s right, never let it show. Even clothes that are too big at first fill out as you grow. The same goes for courage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This has been Poplin’s Irresponsible Life Advice Line, where we say what we like because it�
��s not our problem.”
Seeing Karin struggle for a formal reply to this, the young ace laughed.
“All right, Karin, off you go. If you can do 62.4 percent of what I’ve taught you, you’ll be fine.”
Karin felt as if she’d used up that 62.4 percent within moments of takeoff. The absence of “up” and “down,” the protestations of her inner ears, the anxiety of not knowing quite where you were—in less than a minute, she had experienced them all.
Katerose von Kreutzer, pull yourself together! Do you want him to laugh at you?!
Him? Who was him? For a moment, Karin had the unpleasant feeling that the path of her heart was not a straight line.
The spartanians soared through the battlefield of space. The speed felt pleasant in body and soul, but her course was not as stable as it might have been. The vast hull of a warship filled her vision and she hurried to pull up the nose of her craft. Executing a roll, she realized that she did not even know if the warship had been friend or foe. Your first sortie was also where you first realized how unprepared you were. She felt the truth of this in her every nerve. She struck her helmet with a closed fist, then checked her instruments, checked her position, spoke the figures aloud. Seeing a ship coming from the other direction, she put her hand to the neutron cannons in terror, then realized that it was a Yang Fleet craft and was terrified again by what she had almost done.
U-238 slugs left fire trails behind them, weaving a deadly embroidery in the void. Red, yellow, white—dazzling knives sliced eternal night into a thousand slivers, each one greedily consuming countless human lives.
“Underestimate everything!”
The moralizers of the world would surely narrow their eyes in disapproval of these words, but Karin recited them as if they were the holiest of incantations. And it was true that if an enemy of education such as Walter von Schönkopf could roam the universe unpunished by the heavens, the framework of society deserved all the underestimation it got.
Desolation Page 7
