Yang, of course, resisted this temptation. For one thing, he had too much to do before the next wave of attacks came. There were ships to resupply with weapons, ammunition, food, and energy; wounded to evacuate; and damaged parts of the battle lines that needed reinforcement.
“We’re reaching our limit,” said Caselnes. Nodding at the warning, Yang finished resupply, evacuation, and reinforcement, and then went on to successfully repulse a third attack, this time from Bayerlein and Büro. In fact, at 2200, on May 14, the Yang Fleet actually went on the offensive, hoping to knock the Imperial Navy into disarray. They did succeed in sowing enough confusion to temporarily delay the fourth attack, a coordinated effort by the Black Lancers and Fahrenheit’s former fleet.
But the attack could not be forestalled forever. Wittenfeld’s flagship Königs Tiger charged in to attack at 0440 on May 15 with all the dignity and ferocity its name implied. It was not alone, of course, but with only a limited number of the finest pilots it attempted to smash the Yang Fleet in a single blow. Wittenfeld’s military genius showed not only in the responsiveness of his ships but also in his ability to accurately locate the center of the enemy fleet and focus his efforts there.
Yang halted the charge of his left wing battalion and temporarily shortened the battle lines to organize a counterattack against the imperial forces. This was a rare miscalculation on his part. Wittenfeld had been thoroughly defeated in their earlier encounter, but rather than it dulling his taste for combat, the memory of that loss fueled the roaring morale and powerful charges with which he now sought to regain that lost honor. Yang slowed him with a wall of beams and missiles, and then played for time while executing a delicate change of formation. Intentionally avoiding a frontal attack, Yang brushed Wittenfeld’s attack off slightly portward, and then had Merkatz move in from the flank once Wittenfeld had been lured in.
The Black Lancers were thus completely trapped in a pincer formation—except that they were far stronger than the forces that had them half-surrounded. Their numbers had fallen, but that only seemed to strengthen the unity of their command.
The cannon fire they returned and the ship-on-ship charges that followed were staggering in their brutality. Ships disintegrated into the void, crew and all, were carved up by beams, and were wheeled out of the fighting zone, losing energy in uncontrollable streams before finally exploding.
Yang held off the Black Lancers while launching broadsides at Fahrenheit’s former fleet and putting pressure on the enemy’s command systems, expending firepower so freely that it seemed that his supplies and energy would run out entirely. As a result, Wittenfeld’s attack reached its limit and became difficult to sustain.
When the Black Lancers finally withdrew, it was 1920 on May 15.
In terms of human resources, however, the Yang Fleet had already suffered an irreplaceable loss. Vice Admiral Edwin Fischer, master of fleet operations, had been killed. Wittenfeld might have been grinding his teeth over his failure to eliminate Yang Wen-li, but he had knocked one of Yang’s legs out from under him. A sustained attack on the Imperial Navy would no longer be possible.
If the Imperial Navy had attempted another attack on all fronts, Yang would have been forced to flee to Iserlohn Fortress. But even the kaiser was not omniscient. The imperial side had no way of knowing that they had inflicted a near-critical wound on their enemy.
What was more, the top leadership of the imperial military had a secret of their own: His Majesty the Kaiser was not well. The fever that had plagued Reinhard repeatedly since his coronation had come again on May 16, and von Reuentahl, as secretary-general of Supreme Command Headquarters, had consulted with Mittermeier and Hilda and decided that the entire fleet would withdraw from the corridor. Knowledge of the kaiser’s illness, of course, was not to leave headquarters.
Von Reuentahl’s strategic vision was cooler and more realistic than Reinhard’s, particularly regarding Yang Wen-li and his allies. As he saw it, the kaiser was throwing away tremendous and carefully accumulated strategic advantage out of an obsession with tactical victory. He would not go so far as to call it pointless, but it did seem to him that Reinhard was actively pursuing bloodshed that could have been avoided.
Although he remained as tight-lipped as ever, von Reuentahl could not help feeling surprised when he realized anew that Reinhard, conqueror of the entire galaxy, had prioritized his desire for battle above his tremendous intellect and the conclusions it had reached. It was not, he thought, that Reinhard loved war by nature; rather, war was like a vital nutrient that the golden-haired emperor needed to survive. And were these repeated fevers of late not a sign that the boundless craving of that spirit within him was too powerful for his body to bear, young and healthy though he was?
In any case, on May 17 in year 2 of the New Imperial Calendar, the Imperial Navy lost two million officers and men and 24,400 ships as it was ignominiously forced back out of Iserlohn Corridor.
“We can conquer an entire galaxy, but not this one man,” murmured Mittermeier, gray eyes filled with melancholy and exhaustion from the endless life-or-death battles.
They had sent vast forces into the narrow corridor and waged a fourteen-day war that had ended in failure to defeat a numerically inferior enemy. The two great pillars of the Yang Fleet—Iserlohn Fortress and Yang Wen-li himself—were still standing.
Yang Wen-li did not pursue the imperial fleet when he learned it was retreating. There were no weak links in von Reuentahl and Mittermeier’s command of their forces, and Müller was guarding the rear of the entire Imperial Navy, poised to counterattack whenever necessary. Days of fighting without a break had left the Yang Fleet at an extreme of exhaustion and attrition, as well. Above all, Yang was still deeply and heavily shaken by the death of Fischer.
When that awful news had arrived, Attenborough had turned to his staff officer Lao and heaved an uncharacteristically deep sigh. “That’s a blow. Our living star chart is now a dead star chart. We won’t be able to go for a hike in the forest without him.”
Fischer had been reserved and unassuming by nature, but everyone knew his importance to the fate of the Yang Fleet. Yang had never once lost on the tactical level, and this miracle had been made possible by Fischer’s ability to seamlessly synchronize the fleet’s movements to Yang’s unorthodox thinking. His unparalleled artistry in fleet operations and Yang’s willingness to let him exercise it had been an ideal combination, allowing both to demonstrate their abilities and maintain a flawless record of victory.
Yang put his sunglasses on, brought his hands to his forehead with fingers interlaced, and sat that way motionless for a time. He seemed to be partly mourning Fischer’s death and partly contemplating how difficult it would be to run the fleet—how elusive victory would be, from that point on. Fischer was the first of the Yang Fleet’s leadership to die in battle, and the other officers took it as a bad omen, as if the oil fueling the lamp of luck underlying their undefeated record had finally run out.
On May 18, the Yang Fleet disengaged from the battlefield and began its return to Iserlohn Fortress. But then a new shock was hurled at them.
“A message from Kaiser Reinhard!” said the communications officer aboard Ulysses. “He-he…” The businesslike calm with which the officer had begun his sentence failed him, so Julian Mintz took the communications plate and turned it toward him. Now he, too, needed a few moments to put his feelings in order and reenthrone his reason. Cheeks flushed, he conveyed the news to Yang standing beside him.
“A message from Kaiser Reinhard. He proposes a cease-fire and a meeting!”
The staff glanced at each other in quick succession before their gazes finally settled on a single shared object. Yang Wen-li was still sitting cross-legged on his command console, fanning his face with his black beret, and when he stopped fanning he ran his other hand through his black hair.
I
YANG WEN-LI DID NOT IMMEDIATELY RESP
OND to Kaiser Reinhard’s proposal that they meet. This was not due to extended rumination on the matter. His physical and mental exhaustion after days of fighting was simply so severe that neither shock nor jubilation could keep sleep at bay.
“My brain cells are porridge,” he said. “I’m in no condition to think. Just let me get some rest.”
If Yang himself had reached this point, it was unsurprising that his staff officers all felt the same way—with the exception of von Schönkopf, who had spent the battle cheekily watching from the sidelines.
“I want my bed. I don’t even care if there’s no woman in it,” said Olivier Poplin, as if renouncing half of his life.
“Anyone who wakes me will face the firing squad as a counterrevolutionary,” said Dusty Attenborough, already half-asleep as he disappeared into his own quarters.
Even the sober Merkatz gave the bare minimum of orders and then retired to his chambers. “Forget an infinite future,” he muttered. “Right now I’d settle for a good night’s sleep.”
Merkatz’s aide von Schneider tutted. “What does he intend to do if the enemy attacks again? Still, I suppose death isn’t so different from sleep, really.” With this rather alarming reasoning, he staggered toward his own quarters, but he must have expended his last strength on the way, because he fell asleep in the elevator, propped up against one wall.
Left in charge was Alex Caselnes, who now shook his head. “We’ll need at least a million princesses to wake up all these sleeping beauties,” he said.
Von Schönkopf was the only one to disembark from Ulysses steady on his feet. “If you need assistance, Admiral Caselnes, I volunteer to summon all of the female soldiers back from the land of Nod myself,” he said with a wink. When Caselnes ignored this heartwarming proposal, he strolled off to occupy the empty bar.
Thus did the sandman sprinkle the dust of slumber throughout Iserlohn Fortress. Yang and Frederica, Julian, Karin, the staff officers—all flung themselves down the well of sleep and slipped beneath the waterline of reality. As von Schneider mused uneasily before the last of his reason succumbed to fatigue, had the Imperial Navy attacked at that moment, the impregnable Iserlohn Fortress would have had to remove the “im-” from its epithet.
However, the Imperial Navy was of course extremely fatigued as well, and would remain without sleep themselves until the Müller Fleet, still guarding the rear, had withdrawn completely from the battlefield. Their assessment of the fighting capability of Yang’s faction was accurate or better, so they could not relax their guard against the possibility of a sneak attack or ambush. When their safety was finally secured, Müller tumbled straight into bed, but faced no criticism for it.
Once they were rested, the Yang Fleet emerged from their rooms like an army of starving children, filling every mess and cafeteria in the fortress. Officers and enlisted troops alike looked like refugees—except for Olivier Poplin, who went to the trouble of shaving and even putting on cologne before appearing in public. Of course, in the time he spent on this unnecessary grooming, the officer’s mess filled to capacity, and he was forced to wolf down his white stew standing in the corridor. “A textbook illustration of wasted effort,” was von Schönkopf’s assessment.
At 1330 on May 20, the staff officers were finally ready to consider Kaiser Reinhard’s proposal.
As scent particles from three cups of tea and five times as much coffee clashed in the conference room, the discussion began, but in fact Yang had already made up his mind. Inducing the kaiser to negotiate had always been the final goal of Yang’s war.
“First we drag the kaiser into Iserlohn Corridor, then we drag him out to the negotiating table. I wish we could fit him for some silver skates to make things easier for us.”
When Yang explained his fundamental political and military strategy like this, his staff officers were uncertain whether to nod solemnly or treat it as a joke. None of them were willing to defend the spirit of democracy to the last soldier. To survive and extract a political compromise from the house of Lohengramm was why they had to win. This, however exasperating it might look to outsiders, was the reason they fought.
“After all, old Büro already beat us to the hero’s death,” said Dusty Attenborough, neither entirely joking nor entirely serious. “No one will praise us for a copycat suicide. If we don’t live vigorously and well, we’re the losers.”
The Yang Fleet was prone to this sort of mildly tasteless dark humor, but it was true that none of the fleet’s leadership were so “principled” that they would doom themselves to destruction by rejecting compromise with a dictator out of hand with no consideration of the power relationships involved.
Accordingly, the message from Kaiser Reinhard itself was to be welcomed. But they were not in the fortunate position of being able to trust in it innocently. Suspicion that the kaiser was laying a trap inevitably set the basic tone for the discussion. Even if the Imperial Navy had given up hope of resolving the situation through military force, their new course would not necessarily be entirely congenial to the Yang Fleet’s aims.
“Perhaps they are just using this talk of a conference and cease-fire and what have you to lure the commander out of Iserlohn Fortress and assassinate him,” said Vice Admiral Murai. In starting the discussion this way, he was acting something like an experimental chemist seeking to draw out counterarguments and uncertainties.
Yang removed his black beret and turned it over and over in his hands.
Von Schönkopf returned his coffee cup to its saucer after one sip, perhaps not finding it to his liking. “Unlikely, I think,” he said. “That isn’t how the kaiser works. Our golden-haired boy has too much pride to resort to assassination, even if he has failed on the battlefield.”
Von Schönkopf spoke dismissively of history’s greatest conqueror, but, in his indirect way, he did grant that the framework of Reinhard’s psyche contained little in the way of mendacity.
“That may be true of the kaiser,” said Poplin, who probably would not have bothered arguing had anyone but von Schönkopf made the comment. “But surely he has a few people on staff whose values are a little different. They’ve seen a lot of bloodshed and no victory to show for it. The kaiser’s reputation as a military genius must be suffering as well. An excess of loyalty and a shortage of good judgment could inspire some of them to trickery.”
Julian sat in silence, watching Yang as the debate unfolded. He could sense that Yang already intended to accept the kaiser’s proposal. What concerned Julian now was one question: When Yang went to meet Reinhard, would Julian go with him?
Still—the kaiser relished battle. Why would he suddenly conceive the desire to settle differences through talking? This was beyond Julian’s ability to discern.
“The magnificent Kaiser Reinhard von Lohengramm was well acquainted with victory but knew nothing of peace” was one of the more biting criticisms thrown at the kaiser by the historians of later ages. Though not necessarily fair or objective, it did cut one facet of the brilliant diamond of Reinhard’s individuality. At the very least, the falsity of the statement’s opposite was undeniable fact.
Reinhard’s right-hand woman and lieutenant, Hildegard von Mariendorf, was as surprised as anyone to hear that the feverish kaiser had requested a meeting with Yang Wen-li from his sickbed. Such a meeting was something she had hoped for but never expected to see. On more than one occasion as Reinhard prepared for the Battle of the Corridor she had urged him to take that path instead to avoid pointless bloodshed.
“I doubt that Yang Wen-li wants the whole galaxy,” she said. “If a concession to him is necessary, then Your Majesty has the authority and, if I may be so bold, the duty to offer such.”
Kaiser had swept back the golden hair that tumbled forward over his brow and turned to look at his beautiful chief secretary.
“Fräulein von Mariendorf,” he said. “It sounds as though you are arguing that the resp
onsibility for having made a cornered rat of Yang Wen-li rests with me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. That is what I mean to say.”
Reinhard accepted Hilda’s rebuke with an expression more wounded than disgruntled. Even his hurt frown was elegant and youthful.
“Fräulein, you are the only one alive who dares speak so frankly to the ruler of the galaxy. Your bravery and forthrightness are to be praised, but do not think that they will always be welcome.”
Two things stopped Hilda from pressing her point further: her knowledge of what gave Reinhard spiritual nourishment, and her constant apprehension that losing this might mean losing his very reason for existence. And yet, were he to defeat Yang Wen-li in battle as he so fervently wished, perfecting his dominion over the galaxy, where would those ice-blue eyes turn? For what would those fair hands reach? Insightful as she was, it was impossible for Hilda to foresee.
She had been relieved by the decision to withdraw the fleet without revealing Reinhard’s illness. His fever was due to overwork rather than any troubling pathology, but at least the final phase of the war had been postponed.
Perhaps it was not right to think such things. No doubt she should rejoice at the idea of a peaceful resolution of the problem facing the kaiser and his empire, and pray for its success. To avoid prolonging the fight itself had always been her goal.
Nevertheless, some things about the development did not sit right with her. Along with the rest of the staff of imperial headquarters, she had advised Reinhard to take this course of action many times before, but he had always waved this away with his customary grandeur, fixated on the idea of forcing Yang to kneel to him in direct confrontation. If not for this fever, he would have maintained this course and continued the bloodshed until Yang was buried and Reinhard could move on. To repeatedly strike with greater force than your enemy could recover from in order to wear them down and, ultimately, eliminate them was not in itself a misguided strategy—so why had Reinhard departed from his original “blood and steel” ethos? Surely it was not because the fever had weakened his will…
Desolation Page 11
