Merkatz was skeptical of how effective that would be. While it would be nice if Reinhard were kind enough to attack all nine strongholds one by one per special invitation of his enemies, what were they supposed to do if he didn’t? If Reinhard were to render each stronghold impotent by destroying its supply lines and communications grid, and then head straight to Gaiesburg for an all-out assault, von Braunschweig’s strategy would be proven useless. Worse than useless, actually, since positioning large forces at each stronghold would naturally leave Gaiesburg shorthanded.
When Merkatz expressed to Duke von Braunschweig his opinion on the matter, the duke’s face changed color dramatically. The transformation was as vivid as if captured with time-lapse photography.
At times such as these, his attendants would throw themselves to the ground and apologize, foreheads pressed against the floor as they begged their master’s forgiveness.
Merkatz, of course, did no such thing.
When at last Duke von Braunschweig wrung from his throat a reply—“Well then, what should we do?”—Merkatz explained, feigning unawareness of von Braunschweig’s state of mind.
While there was no need to abandon the idea of the nine strongholds, there was also no need to station large forces at them. Instead, each stronghold’s function should remain limited to reconnaissance and electronic surveillance of the enemy, with combat potential concentrated at Gaiesburg.
“So we drag the golden brat all the way to Gaiesburg for a decisive battle? Hmm, that way we go out to meet an enemy that’s far from home on a distant campaign and fight them at the peak of their exhaustion.”
Duke von Braunschweig said this to demonstrate he was not entirely ignorant of military tactical theory.
“Exactly.”
But at Merkatz’s terse reply, another voice spoke up, saying, “Actually, there’s an even more effective tactic we can use.”
It was Admiral Staden, who fancied himself an expert on strategic theory.
Previously, he had served under Reinhard at Astarte, but unlike Merkatz, he did not recognize Reinhard’s talents.
“And what would that be, Admiral Staden?”
“A partial revision of Commander in Chief Merkatz’s idea,” Staden said, with a sidelong glance at Merkatz.
The seasoned admiral frowned. He could easily guess what Staden was about to say. It was going to be the same idea that Merkatz had for a certain reason already abandoned.
“In short, we organize a large-scale second force and, after luring the golden brat to Gaiesburg, send them in the opposite direction to Odin, where they will capture a weakly defended capital and pledge our support to His Majesty the Emperor.”
“Hmm …”
“Then, once we’ve had him issue an imperial edict to the effect that Marquis von Lohengramm is the real rebel traitor, his and our positions will be reversed. The golden brat will become an orphan in space, with no home to go back to.”
That was exactly what Merkatz had expected. He looked down at his coffee, which still hadn’t touched his lips. Staden was a theorist but somehow lacked insight when it came to realities on the ground. It was certainly true that Marquis von Lohengramm had emptied out the imperial capital of Odin. And why had he done that? Because there was a reason he felt he could empty it so carelessly. If Staden would only think about that, he would realize that his proposal could have no realistic effectiveness.
“Splendid!” cried a young noble, Count Alfred von Lansberg. His face was flushed with excitement. With one exclamation after another, he praised the grandness, the elegance, the aggressiveness of Staden’s proposed plan, easily encouraging it with an unselfish and childlike innocence.
“So,” he added, “who’s going to command the second force? It’ll be a great honor and responsibility.”
Then the room fell dead silent.
Count Alfred von Lansberg’s words had stirred the mire, releasing something akin to a miasma that had been lurking at the bottom.
Capture the imperial capital of Odin; steal away the young emperor. It was he who succeeded in doing that whose deeds would be the greatest and most highly distinguished in this civil war. The accomplishments of the one who lured Reinhard away to Gaiesburg would be lost in the glare of such an outstanding achievement, like asteroids passing in front of a star.
It went without saying that whoever marked the most distinguished accomplishments in the war would have the loudest voice in the postwar order. Most importantly, by becoming the emperor’s protector, one made an ally—even if only as a formality—of the highest authority in the empire, which would make it possible to monopolize position and power by invoking imperial decree.
Commander of the second force.
The shortest route to ultimate power.
Which must not be handed to anyone else.
In the eyes of Duke von Braunschweig and Marquis von Littenheim, there arose glares that shone like layers of oil on water.
Already, the discussion had moved away from strategy and tactics, and shifted to the dimension of political gamesmanship. They had barely looked at the forest, but already they were appraising the value of its black sables’ furs.
Merkatz had known this would happen. That was why he had abandoned this strategy in his mind, even though it might appear to be highly effective from a purely military point of view. It was a plan that could only be brought to fruition through highly unified will and organization. An unshakable, mutual trust between the commander of the main force and the commander of the secondary force must not be lacking.
And that did not exist in the military of the noble confederacy. That was exactly why Marquis von Lohengramm could feel so free to leave Odin lightly defended.
From the start, the noble confederation had been built on a foundation of hatred toward Reinhard for besting his betters. No consensus had been established on the question of who would inherit Reinhard’s position and authority should he be brought down. It was an easy thing to cause a crack in their solidarity.
And now Staden had caused exactly such a crack before the fighting had even started. In terms of results, it could be said he had just done the enemy an enormous favor. Now their phony solidarity had yielded its seat to raw avarice. Self-centered passions were rising like a volcano’s sulfurous fumes from Duke von Braunschweig, Marquis von Littenheim, and the other aristocrats, and Merkatz was taken with the feeling that he was suffocating.
Could he win against Reinhard like this?
And even if he could—for whose sake would he be winning?
II
For Merkatz, the word “operation” thereafter came to mean a futile choice between compromise and sticking to his guns while knowing full well he would be ignored.
At the time when he became commander in chief of the actual combat forces, the young aristocrats, eager for battle, had greeted him with a spirit of welcome, but the mood soon soured. Unused to being ordered around by others, they had found it extremely difficult—albeit not impossible—to hold their own egos in check. The older ones should have been guided by good sense equivalent to their years, but they were apt to stir up the radicalism of the youths in order to use it to their own advantage.
The first thing that Merkatz was forced to compromise on was sending out a vanguard under the command of Staden, who clearly viewed him as a competitor. Many young aristocrats, eager to quench their thirst for battle, were drawn in by his words:
“First, I’d like to test their mettle in combat.”
Do you also need to go out and get your nose bloodied? Merkatz thought. It wasn’t that, though; they needed to do it in order to be convinced for themselves.
The young aristocrats didn’t even try to hide the fact that they were preparing for battle, so information regarding the launch of the “brigand force” had reached even Reinhard’s desk.
“Call Mittermeier up here
.”
When Admiral Wolfgang Mittermeier, rather small of build though quite agile in appearance, appeared before him, Reinhard asked: “I understand you learned tactical theory under Staden when you were in officers’ school.”
“I did, milord. If there’s anything the matter—”
“There’s word that Staden is leading the first wave of the noble—brigand—forces. It seems they intend to try their luck and go a round with us.”
“Ah, so it’s started at last,” the bold young admiral said calmly.
“How about it? Can you beat him?”
The hint of a smile that rose up in Mittermeier’s eyes was keen and indomitable.
“Instructor Staden had a wealth of knowledge, but when fact and theory were at odds, his tendency was to give priority to theory. As students, we used to badmouth him, calling him ‘Theory-Weary Staden’.”
“Very well, then. Here are your orders: lead your fleet out toward the Artena Stellar Region, and meet your former instructor there. In five days, I’ll come as well. You may engage him in battle before then or strengthen our defenses and wait. I leave full operational control to you.”
“Yes, sir!”
Mittermeier bowed and left the bridge of the flagship Brünhild with a definite spring in his step. Whatever else might be said, it was a warrior’s honor to stand at the head of the attack.
It was April 19, in the year 488 of the imperial calendar and 797 of the SE calendar.
This was how what came to be known as the Lippstadt War commenced.
The sixteen thousand–ship fleet led by Staden and the fifteen thousand–ship fleet led by Mittermeier drew near to one another, each choosing the shortest route toward its opponent’s home territory. The goal of this skirmish lay not in the seizure of some strategic location, but rather in the psychological effect—if any—of winning the first battle and learning something of the enemy’s tactical capabilities.
The two forces came face-to-face in interstellar space near the Artena system. However, Mittermeier positioned six million fusion mines in front of his own forces to block the enemy’s path of attack, regrouped his fleet into a spherical formation, and then idled in place. A day went by, and then another, but he would not budge from that position.
Staden grew suspicious and fearful. Mittermeier’s keen intellect and swift ferocity had earned him the nickname of “Gale Wolf.” He had been given the honor of leading the vanguard. Yet here he was, just shoring up defenses while making no move to attack. What was Mittermeier up to? He had to be planning something—Staden couldn’t imagine it otherwise. But what was he planning?
This was how Staden also halted his advance.
As Staden was grappling with the situation, what he found most frustrating were the young aristocrats under his command. Beneficiaries since birth of countless privileges, they had walked through life on the feet of others, as it were, all but free of any impediment, and had grown up looking down on those who did not possess privilege themselves—to them, a desire was a thing to be realized without effort. If they decided they wanted to win, they should simply win. Staden’s behavior looked more craven than cautious to them, and there were even those among them who said so openly. They were possessed of a morbidly obese self-respect and were completely insensitive to the feelings of others.
With soothing words and flattery, Staden continued to dissuade them from reckless action, even as he bore the sting of their abuses. This required no small effort.
“It should be just about time now. Shall we pay Instructor Staden back for all his help years ago?”
It was near the end of the third day that Mittermeier gave orders to his men.
A comm officer appeared before Staden to report that they had intercepted a transmission from Mittermeier’s fleet. Analysis of the audio had revealed that while Mittermeier was buying time by not attacking, Marquis von Lohengramm’s main force was growing nearer by the hour. Mittermeier planned to rendezvous with them, then launch an all-out assault with overwhelming numerical superiority.
Did Mittermeier leak that intentionally? Staden wondered. However: If that intelligence is correct, I can understand why Mittermeier would take a firm defensive position and not try to attack. If that’s the case, could Mittermeier have deliberately leaked correct information?
Staden was perplexed. He could no longer see consistency in Mittermeier’s actions. Nevertheless, he gave orders to put the fleet on heightened alert, taking into consideration the threat of a sneak attack.
The indignation of the young nobles was right on the verge of exploding. What passivity! What indecisiveness! Wasn’t the whole point of coming to this stellar region to cross swords with the enemy, test their mettle, and crush their morale? “We can’t rely on our commander any further,” they said. “All we can depend on is ourselves.”
The young nobles took counsel with one another, arrived at a consensus, and then went to Staden to demand he launch an attack. Their demands sounded very close to threats. If he refused, they might well plunge the fleet into disorderly combat anyway, after throwing him in the brig.
At last, Staden gave in and authorized the attack. However, to try and control the young nobles insofar as it was possible, he did provide them with a battle plan. The entire force was to split toward starboard and port in order to detour around the minefield. After the port wing had clashed head-on with Mittermeier’s force, the starboard wing would circle around to the enemy’s rear, attack them on their flank and back side, and drive them into the minefield. By Staden’s standards, it was a rather sloppy plan, but it was clear to see that anything too elaborate would leave his comrades unable to act well in concert.
Staden was beginning to have regrets about taking charge of a force like this. However, there was nothing to do at this point except destroy Mittermeier as swiftly as possible, then pull back out before Reinhard’s main force arrived. He took personal command of the port wing of his regiment, gave command of the starboard wing to a young nobleman named Count Hildesheim, and commenced the operation.
Count Hildesheim hurried off with his fleet. Anxious to make a name for himself, he didn’t even try to suppress his boiling aggression. Eight thousand vessels did head off in the same direction, but they were unable to maintain an orderly formation as a group.
By that time, Mittermeier’s forces had of course moved away from their original position. They had relocated to a point far outside of the minefield. Viewed from directly overhead, this placed Hildesheim’s forces between the minefield and Mittermeier’s force.
“Energy waves and multiple missiles approaching from three o’clock!”
As panic was seizing operators aboard every ship in the Hildesheim force, there came a flash of white light from the first fusion explosion. Before it had time to fade, the second and third explosions followed. Energy beams, fusion missiles, and huge shells launched by rail guns swarmed in with a swiftness that left no spare time for anyone to take in what was happening and enveloped the cosmos in rainbow-hued beams. When the beams vanished, everything had returned to nothingness. Human bodies, incinerated or rent asunder, had been returned to their component atoms, which mingled with the interstellar dust. Perhaps in a few billion years that mixture might form the nucleus of a newborn star.
Count Hildesheim was killed in action before he himself could realize it. He was likely the first of the highborn to lose his life in the civil war.
After crushing the desperate and disorganized counterattack of the Hildesheim force, Mittermeier had his fleet continue to advance full speed ahead. This was so as to circle clockwise around the minefield and attack Staden’s main force from the rear. Attacking the back side of an enemy force reduced by half would position him well for certain victory. And who but the Gale Wolf could have done so?
When Reinhard’s main fleet arrived, the Battle of Artena was already over. Mittermeier, prai
sed by Reinhard for his superlative use of force strength, apologized for letting Staden slip through his fingers, then added with a smile that it was going to be a huge pain to recover all the mines he had used to set the playing field.
III
While elements within both the empire and the alliance were still trying to outwit or murder one another, or both, the trading state known as the Phezzan Land Dominion was bursting with industrious energy. As it continued to evade the horrors and tragedies of the war, the workings of its greedy economy were sucking up every last bit of profit to be gained from it. To all of the factions they were selling all manner of merchandise—weapons, foodstuffs, ores, military uniforms, intelligence, and occasionally people in the form of mercenaries. They were striving to monopolize all the wealth in the universe.
De la Court, located not far from the capital’s spaceport, was a bar where independent merchants gathered—the kind who traveled all over the galaxy without an asset to their names except a single spaceship and a handful of clever businessmen.
Boris Konev, age twenty-eight, was one such free merchant and captain of the merchant ship Beryozka. Although he had spirit enough for several men, he was still known generally only as a small-time merchant. He was enjoying a black beer during his scant free time when another independent merchant of his acquaintance called out to him.
After exchanging two or three pleasantries, the merchant said, “By the way, I’ve heard a strange rumor.”
“Most rumors are strange.”
Konev finished off his black beer and asked him about the rumor.
“Well, basically, His Excellency, Landesherr Rubinsky, has apparently got something really big in the works.”
“That chrome dome?”
The face of Rubinsky sketched itself in the back of Konev’s mind, a far cry indeed from anything pure or refined, and while he listened to the other man tell his story, he became unable to suppress an ironic smirk.
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