“It’s the battleship Hyperion!”
The operator almost doubted himself, even as he said it.
The young heterochromatic admiral was surprised all the same. Of course, he expressed none of that in his speech and conduct. It was unthinkable that the enemy commander had come out himself. He’d heard Yang was resourceful, but did he have what it took to lead an army?
Yang and von Reuentahl were both thirty-one years old. Although this was mere coincidence, that fact that they had both came to be associated with the battlefield and could boast of high ranks and distinguished service at such a young age was harder to believe.
“All ships, charge! Full speed ahead!” von Reuentahl commanded.
They could decide the outcome in one stroke. Every imperial officer wished to be the one to capture and kill Yang. It was a monumental accomplishment, and the young von Reuentahl felt his fighting spirit stoked by the prospect.
The flagship Tristan spearheaded the imperial fleet rushing toward Hyperion. But when it was just within firing range, the operator shouted, and the ship was rocked by a dull impact as an enemy ship rammed it from an oblique angle.
An assault landing craft had attached itself to the belly of Tristan using a strong electromagnet, fired a heat drill, and sprayed an oxidizing agent. After about two minutes, a two-meter hole had eaten its way through both ships’ inner walls, through which a landing unit clad in armored suits poured into Tristan.
So that was Yang’s game. Had he just tripped up a first-rate, if not even more capable, commander like von Reuentahl using a second-rate trick? Using his flagship, on which he was not even present, as a decoy, he’d lured von Reuentahl forward, crashed an assault craft into him, and infiltrated his ship, perhaps with the intention of making him a prisoner of war. The plan had been proposed by von Schönkopf.
“Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Prepare for emergency counterattack!”
Amid the blare of warnings and sirens, firefights and hand-to-hand combat had already escalated along the ship’s central passageway. The Rosen Ritter regiment, equipped with composite-mirror shields that reflected laser fire, rushed enemy soldiers with reckless heroism and by their carbon-crystal tomahawks left a mosaic of fresh blood on the floor, walls, and ceiling. The imperial defenders were no less brave than the intruders. Even as soldiers crushed by tomahawk tumbled into death, they gripped their laser rifles, using their remaining strength to fell enemies with relentless fire before falling into pools of their own blood.
“Never mind these minions. Our objective is their commander. Find the bridge,” ordered von Schönkopf to his subordinates.
As he stood there wielding his tomahawk, enemy soldiers lay dead at his feet, never to move again.
“Don’t let anyone leave this ship alive. Make them realize their reward for recklessness!”
This was the command of Vice Admiral Bergengrün, who’d made a name for himself under Siegfried Kircheis. After Kircheis’s death, he’d become von Reuentahl’s chief of staff, but as a diligent man of high intelligence, he’d taken it upon himself to command this counterattack.
On the chief of staff’s orders, the imperial soldiers assumed a pincer attack formation on either side of the passage. Von Schönkopf charged, felling two enemy soldiers with a swing of his tomahawk. Showered in his comrades’ blood, with another blow he took down three more men who sprang at him. Only he and two other soldiers made it through, leaving the others entangled in a free-for-all.
Whether he would call them comrades or not, fortuity was on his side. Seeing a group of soldiers running his way, he opened a side door and jumped inside. There were cries of surprise as two soldiers attending an officer unholstered their blasters.
Beams crossed in the ten-square-meter room, and two men on each side fell to the floor amid short-lived screams. Left standing in the room were von Schönkopf and one imperial soldier, who still held the suit he had been putting on to join the fight.
Seeing that the intruder was fully armed, he didn’t cry for help but instead cocked an eyebrow and turned to face him instead. In addition to his extraordinary boldness, his magnificent black-and-silver imperial uniform, and particularly the golden desk that only an admiral would have, strengthened von Schönkopf’s convictions.
“Admiral von Reuentahl?”
The young admiral, being addressed in the imperial manner, nodded at his unmistakably brazen intruder.
“Yes. The alliance’s scouting dog, I presume?”
His voice was calm, which pleased von Schönkopf greatly. He tightened the grip on his tomahawk. He offered no surrender, knowing it was futile.
“I am Walter von Schönkopf. I’ll have you remember that in these last brief moments.”
No sooner had he spoken than his tomahawk cleaved the air.
Von Reuentahl wasn’t foolish enough to block the slashing attack. His long, well-proportioned body, under perfectly conscious control, flew two meters backward. The tomahawk swung parallel to the floor where his head had been just a moment before. When von Reuentahl aimed his blaster, the tomahawk seemed to defy the laws of inertia as it came swinging from the other direction with even greater speed. Von Reuentahl ducked. The carbon-crystal blade shaved a few strands of dark-brown hair off the top of his head. Von Reuentahl rolled on the floor and jumped as he pulled the trigger. A glittering saber of light would have pierced his opponent’s helmet had he not blocked the beam with his tomahawk. The tomahawk’s handle split under its force.
Reduced now to a broken handle, the tomahawk flew from von Schönkopf’s hand and knocked the blaster from von Reuentahl’s. Both men, now barehanded, glared at each other, nodding in unison. Von Schönkopf pulled a long combat knife from his belt. Von Reuentahl jumped for the corpse of an allied soldier that had caught the corner of his eye and snatched a bloodstained knife from it.
He kicked off the floor, and the knife glinted in a vertical arc. The superceramic blades clashed, burning their wielders’ eyes with sparks. They stabbed, slashed, knocked each other down, and stopped each other’s blows in an equal dance. Try as they might to bury their knives in each other’s flesh, the impeccable balance of their offense and defense was not so easily broken.
There was a rush of footsteps as the Rosen Ritter regiment came rushing in, having found their commander. Imperial soldiers weren’t far behind.
Captain Kasper Rinz mowed down several imperial soldiers from the side, bathing in a mist of their blood. He rolled onto the floor. More soldiers fired at the intruders, using their fallen comrades’ bodies as shields.
Angry bellows, fresh blood, and flashes of light filled the room. With no outcome yet decided, von Reuentahl and von Schönkopf were absorbed into a wave of soldiers.
Within three minutes, the alliance soldiers had been driven from the room, and Vice Admiral Bergengrün could at last make out his commander’s figure.
“Your Excellency, are you all right?”
Von Reuentahl nodded silently. As he straightened his disheveled hair with a palm, his mismatched eyes glistened with self-deprecation. What a joke this had turned out to be. Here he was, a fleet commander, having just engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Despite having fought bravely against his enemy Senior Admiral Ofresser last year, he didn’t feel much like smiling.
“So those are the infamous Rosen Ritter?”
“Yes, it would seem so.”
“Stop the fight and withdraw. I was too eager to win and ended up following the enemy’s lead. And now, because our timing was off, a regiment has invaded the flagship.”
“There’s no excuse for this.”
“It was never your responsibility to begin with. I was too hotheaded. Let me cool off a little and we’ll start afresh.”
When Yang heard of this, he recognized that von Reuentahl was not only talented, but a capable, first-rate commander.
Von Schönkop
f, who had returned to Iserlohn Fortress on the assault landing craft, appeared before Yang in full armor, helmet in hand, to give his report. His blood-splattered suit, coupled with his fearless expression, made him seem like a knight of the legendary Round Table.
“I almost had him, but the big fish got away. We did succeed in invading the flagship, so not all was lost.”
“That’s regrettable.”
“Indeed, and perhaps they’re thinking the same thing. He was a most worthy opponent—an even match at every turn.”
“So we failed to change history after all.”
Yang smiled, and von Schönkopf grinned back. Both men knew Yang was only joking.
V
Von Reuentahl had shown extraordinary ability. He had withdrawn his forces from the melee formation and reorganized a systematic file of troops. Moreover, he had succeeded in doing this while continuing to fight against Yang’s fleet. Of course, Yang had tried to take advantage of the enemy’s retreat, but with no gap in sight to afford pursuit, he had abandoned the idea and received his fleet at the fortress. The battle had ended in a draw.
Yang sat cross-legged on his commander’s desk, sipping unpleasantly from his cup of black tea. The reason for his sullen expression was not the state of the war before him, but the taste of his tea. The leaves were fine, but he’d steeped it too long, and so it left a bitter taste on the tongue. Remembering how skilled Julian had been at brewing tea, letting go of Julian weighed even more heavily on his mind. Yang knew he was selfish for thinking this.
“Superior enemies are everywhere you look,” commented Caselnes, taking a sip of coffee that was clearly not to his liking.
Yang dangled one leg from the desk, kicking it lightly.
“He shouldn’t have let up on his attack, but he is one of the Imperial Navy’s Twin Ramparts. There’s something different about him.”
Yang was never sparing when it came to complimenting his enemies. Von Schönkopf asked a pointed question: Although the present situation was developing toward a battle between fortress and fleet, would von Reuentahl put him in check when it came to a game of chess between fleets?
“I don’t know. Kempf should’ve been inferior to von Reuentahl in terms of tactical flexibility, but we came out on top, albeit barely. Who knows how the chips will fall?”
“Please don’t say things to disappoint me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I believe you can defeat Reinhard von Lohengramm. What’ll happen if you can’t defeat his subordinate?”
“You’re free to think whatever you like, but subjective confidence doesn’t necessarily lead to objective results.”
Yang was speaking as much to himself as to Caselnes. When he’d faced the brave general Karl Gustav Kempf of the Imperial Navy, he’d thought for sure he’d lose to Reinhard’s subordinate, but somehow things had grown even more severe and, as Caselnes said, formidable enemies had abounded.
In the wake of this confrontation, imperial forces discreetly kept their distance from Iserlohn Fortress.
If the Imperial Navy came anywhere within range of the fortress’s main battery, the fortress could fire its guns or engage the enemy in close combat with a surprise attack, but the enemy gave no response to their silent invitation. Yang had tried the orthodox method of deploying his fleet in small increments and sustaining enemy fire in the hopes of luring them within firing range.
But von Reuentahl’s authority was being followed to the letter, without a single kink in the Imperial Navy’s movements. By repeatedly advancing and retreating with almost artistic timing, they sowed anxiety into the hearts of the fortress operators.
More than ever, von Schönkopf regretted not killing von Reuentahl when he’d had the chance.
On December 9, the Imperial Navy launched a surprise offensive. They stopped their patrol outside the range of the fortress’s main gun. Of those ships, a group of five hundred employed a hit-and-run tactic, attacking from close range.
It was a kamikaze mission. If hit directly by the 924 million megawatt energy beam of Thor’s Hammer, those five hundred ships would be instantly vaporized. No amount of speed or mobility would be enough to escape it, as the fortress’s peripheral guns and emplacements were set up to combat precisely these types of evasive maneuvers. Despite being aware of this, von Reuentahl launched his attack. Thus, the battle began anew with even greater intensity and swiftness.
The fortress’s turrets took several direct hits, glowing white and dissolving like pillars of salt. Those left pointing skyward fired rapid arrows of energy. The smaller ships did a nosedive. Unable to shake the grip of Iserlohn’s artificial gravity, they spun into the fortress’s outer wall and exploded. As one wave withdrew, the next rushed in to take its place, assaulting the outer wall with a continuous downpour.
Thirty minutes later, the Imperial Navy had lost more than two thousand vessels, while Iserlohn had recorded more than two hundred damage reports. Von Reuentahl’s commands were subtle. With enviable ingenuity, his ships approached a blind spot of the fortress turrets and made a small breach in the fortress’s outer wall by concentrating the full extent of their firepower. They sliced it open, scalpel to wound.
Although not a fatal wound, it was enough to damage the nerves of the defending side. Yang was tactically overwhelmed.
Although Yang had been expecting this battle, von Reuentahl had taken initiative from the start. Von Reuentahl’s attacks withstood anything that came their way, and the deftness with which he nursed his wounds was unrivaled. This was not the work of a creative artist but a meticulous engineer tidying up the blueprints laid out on his desk. Frederica was secretly worried, for Yang was clearly deficient in his usual brilliance and vitality. Although failure wasn’t certain, neither was it far off.
“I’ve never fought such a boring battle before,” said Lieutenant Commander Olivier Poplin, as he took a meal in the pilots’ mess hall, still in his uniform.
When they launched, the enemy didn’t approach, and if the enemy attacked, it wasn’t their turn. It was nothing more than an artillery battle left to the solid outer wall. There was zero enjoyment in this for a man of Poplin’s disposition.
“I can’t wrap my head around the enemy’s behavior. Aren’t they just toying with us?”
Ivan Konev looked at his comrade, hoping his doubts would be validated. Poplin impolitely downed his bread and pork sausage with some light beer before responding.
“I rather prefer a man who treats war like a game.”
“This isn’t a question of your preferences. I’m worried about what the empire has up its sleeve.”
“I know that, but however much you’re worrying, you can be sure our commander has been worrying about it much longer. He gets zero points as a lover, but as a strategist no one can top him. That boor.”
“As opposed to you?”
Konev thought this cynicism might upset him, but the young ace who boasted more of his piloting in bed than in the air laughed calmly.
“I’m not that conceited. I’m more of a quantity over quality kind of guy. Philanthropism is a demerit for someone like me.”
As Poplin pointed out, Yang knew the Imperial Navy’s true motives. But knowing he was helpless to do anything about it sank his heart to the bottom of a heavy ocean. Just as Yang had discerned Reinhard’s strategy and tactical plan during last year’s coup d’état, so had he done this time. But to what effect? Wasn’t it better to be the actor than the predictor? Didn’t that guarantee a far more meaningful life?
Had Julian been there, he would have told him, “There’s no use in being depressed.” And Yang was indeed depressed. So much so that he wanted to scream, “Don’t you know what’s going to happen to the Free Planets Alliance?!” He wanted that flaxen-haired boy by his side more than ever. He deeply regretted letting go of Julian. Even more vexing was that he had no way of measuring whether his regret was
well-founded.
VI
Von Reuentahl’s attack on Iserlohn ended in failure on December 9. Damage notwithstanding, Iserlohn once again proved its impregnability, and von Reuentahl withdrew his fleet. But this was a superficial development, and one that had been anticipated. The Imperial Navy’s objective all along had been to bring about a large-scale attack on Iserlohn, then make its failure known throughout the alliance and Phezzan.
Here, an epic yet bitter play was being staged. The alliance government and its people would delude Phezzan and, in a performance intended to cause misjudgments, write a script that would accelerate a historic change.
Commander of the Imperial Navy’s Iserlohn invasion forces, Senior Admiral Oskar von Reuentahl, relayed the immensity of Iserlohn’s defenses and resistance to the capital, and requested reinforcements from Reinhard von Lohengramm. Reinhard expressed his regret over von Reuentahl’s hard fight and conveyed to the Imperial Navy’s highest-ranking staff officers his intention of capturing Iserlohn in one swift action. Senior Admiral Wolfgang Mittermeier, Admiral Neidhart Müller, and the others on standby in the stellar regions surrounding the capital were given orders to launch.
“Head for the Iserlohn Corridor and carry out your duty as efficiently as possible. Should you need any further manpower, I will personally depart from the capital and join your ranks.”
“As you wish. We’ll give it our all.”
The admirals knew that Reinhard’s command contained a false proper noun. He was heading for a different corridor altogether.
Reinhard saw off Mittermeier and the others as they headed out from the military spaceport. Standing beside him was his secretary, Hildegard von Mariendorf, or Hilda, who watched Mittermeier’s flagship, Beowulf, blotting out the stars as it pushed its way through the upper atmosphere.
“It’s begun, hasn’t it?”
Seeing Hilda standing there, clad in her black-and-silver uniform, and treated for all like a commander, Reinhard nodded with boyish enthusiasm.
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