Mobilization

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Things are getting hectic around here fast. I wasn’t built for overtime.”

  The captain of the First Spaceborne Division at Iserlohn Fortress, Lieutenant Commander Olivier Poplin, had earned both immense hatred and respect from the opposing side’s fighter pilots. The number of imperial pilots who’d fallen like so much space dust through his fingers was enough to constitute an entire fleet in and of itself. Those pierced by the fangs of the dogfighting squadrons under his command numbered ten times more. His ability to band three single-seat spartanian fighter craft together as a single unit was something instilled in him by military drill command as a desperate measure, but in the world of dogfighting, where individual skill was paramount, bringing team strategy to the table was groundbreaking. In the future, he would go down in history as an ace pilot, a topflight innovator of dogfighting techniques, and a libertine extraordinaire, but only he would know which honor was highest.

  After repeated sorties, at last he had a brief respite. In the officers’ mess, he griped like an early advocate of socialism.

  “When I get back to Heinessen, I’m going to form a labor union for pilots. I’ll dedicate my life to getting rid of overwork. You just wait and see.”

  “I thought you were going to dedicate your life to women?” quipped Lieutenant Commander Ivan Konev, leader of the second airborne fleet.

  Despite being an ace of comparable ability and deeds of arms, Konev was an upright man chiseled out of basalt who steered clear of Poplin’s debauchery. While Poplin was making merry with women and wine, Konev made companions of crossword puzzle books so thick one would almost have mistaken them for dictionaries. These two contrary personalities made for a surprisingly complementary pair.

  IV

  By the next day, the Imperial Navy had been pummeling the fortress without rest, and commander of fortress defenses Rear Admiral von Schönkopf was being hotly pursued in retaliation. Employing as many gunners as he could spare, he dispatched his corps of engineers to assess all damage points and answered every shot that fired upon the fortress in kind. The operators were feeding constant updates, messages, and instructions. One collapsed from overwork, another found his vocal cords paralyzed, and both were quickly substituted. Rear Admiral Caselnes was likewise going on no sleep in preparing for mass evacuation, but a delegation of civilians had managed to push their way through and surround Yang’s quarters in protest.

  “Please, good citizens, calm down.”

  Yang’s expression was seemingly nonchalant, but it was all he could do to conceal the trepidation in his heart. His plan involved making sure that all fleet stations on Iserlohn were relatively unharmed and unobstructed. With a tactical expert like von Reuentahl as his enemy, Yang felt the battle had become meaningful again, and the possibility of being forced into a war of attrition was furthest from his mind. Add to that a populace teetering on the edge of mass hysteria, and it was a wonder he wasn’t teetering along with them.

  “Don’t worry—everything will be okay. Rest assured, we’ll get you all to a safe star zone unharmed.”

  Offering this token promise to an uneasy delegation, he could only hope that someone might guarantee that very success. More than an atheist, he was an unbeliever, and so he wasn’t in the least bit inclined to entrust the fate of himself and others to a god he’d never met. In the same way that, from time immemorial, there existed no righteousness where human anger was unnecessary, neither was there success where human ability was unnecessary. Even so, bearing the burden of five million military and civilian lives was too much for Yang to handle alone.

  Surely an intelligent man like von Reuentahl had already distilled the essence of the situation. Yang had only two paths to choose from: stay on Iserlohn or abandon it. When the time came, whether by hindering Yang’s escape or weakening his military power, any intensification of attacks would be no skin off von Reuentahl’s back. This realization only added fuel to Yang’s hatred.

  Even as the middle commanders of Yang’s fleet were busy managing frustrations between themselves and their subordinates, they were forced into a difficult position. Commander Yang Wen-li granted a single sortie but strictly prohibited going outside the range of the fortress’s main battery.

  Rear Admiral Dusty Attenborough, who gave the order, continued to sustain severe fire in close combat, but with help from the fortress’s bombardment, he succeeded in driving back imperial forces. It was, however, a half-planned retreat on the Imperial Navy’s part. Attenborough barely managed to keep his men from continuing their pursuit. Pressured by their constant griping, he begged Yang back on base to go after them again.

  “Out of the question.”

  “There’s no need to put it like that. I’m not some kid asking for his allowance. This is about the morale of our troops. Please, I implore you. Let us go out on another run.”

  “Not on your life.” Yang refused him like a miser being asked for a loan. Realizing the futility of negotiation, Attenborough could only withdraw into his dejection.

  Yang was indeed in a miserly state of mind. Maintaining a woundless fleet and preserving firepower had exhausted the lion’s share of his mental energy, and so he couldn’t help but be frugal about endangering his crew. This self-awareness put him in a considerably sour mood.

  Nicknames like “Miracle Yang” weighed heavily upon him. They harbored an unavoidable danger not only of faith but also of overestimation. Soldiers and civilians alike seemed to believe that Admiral Yang would come through somehow, but what about the one in whom they believed? What did he have to rely on? If Yang wasn’t almighty, neither was he omnipotent. In truth, he was nothing more than diligent. Among the alliance’s frontline commanders, no one had used up as many paid vacation days as him, and he would be the first to admit that his strategies and tactics were nothing more than armchair victories. As Yang had once been told, culture emerged from humanity’s innate desire to produce much by doing little, and only barbarians considered it right to exploit mind and body in search of justification.

  “And if I took full responsibility? Would you let me go then? Please, just get me out there.”

  Yang had little patience for begging. Despite being a young and highly decorated military man himself, Yang despised all militant value systems, ways of thinking, and expressions. Such thinking would earn him the designation of “walking contradiction” in the future.

  His ever-present aide Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill picked up on this. A discreet cough on her part alerted Attenborough to his commander’s discomfort. He immediately changed tactics.

  “I’ve come up with a fairly easy way to beat our enemy. Would you allow me to put it to the test?”

  Yang eyed Attenborough, then Frederica. He shook his head with a bitter smile. Frederica demanded details. Chipping away at the imperial forces as much as possible was, in the long run, not such a bad idea.

  When, after a few amendments, Yang gave Attenborough permission to proceed with his plan, the young division commander left Yang’s office with an overt spring in his step. Yang heaved a sigh and aired his discontent to his beautiful golden-brown-haired aide.

  “Don’t be so shrewd, Lieutenant. We have enough troubles as it is.”

  “Yes, I went too far. My apologies.”

  Frederica held back a smile, and so Yang didn’t complain any further. Had Rear Admiral Caselnes heard Yang’s complaint, he would’ve smiled himself. Because, for his professed “troubles,” Frederica handled almost all the paperwork.

  Approximately four hundred transports departed from Iserlohn Fortress for Free Planets Alliance territory, escorted by five times as many warships.

  In response to reports from his enemy scouting team, von Reuentahl frowned and looked over a shoulder at his nearby comrade.

  “What do you think, Bergengrün?”

  The young heterochromatic commander’s chief of staff answered tactfully.<
br />
  “On the surface, it would seem that Iserlohn’s VIPs or civilians are attempting an escape. Considering the position they’re in, it’s not unthinkable.”

  “But you’re not buying it. Your reason?”

  “This is Yang Wen-li we’re talking about. You never know what kind of trap he might be setting.”

  Von Reuentahl smiled.

  “Yang Wen-li’s a big deal, a veteran hero who makes us tremble in our boots.”

  “Your Excellency!”

  “Don’t be upset. Even I am afraid of his tricks. I’m not exactly thrilled to take von Stockhausen’s place after he had Iserlohn taken from him.”

  Von Reuentahl didn’t need to bluff to protect his honor. Accomplishments, ability, and confidence: these three fulcrums stabilized his judgment of a formidable enemy. Signs of a trap lit a signal in his brain. Then again, maybe Yang was trying to convince him of just that and coax him into a deadly pursuit. It wasn’t so easy for one first-class general to perfectly divine the tactics of another.

  After receiving word that Lennenkamp had mobilized his fleet in pursuit of Iserlohn’s evacuees, von Reuentahl flashed a deviant smile.

  “Splendid. I’ll leave it to him.”

  “But what if Admiral Lennenkamp catches the big fish? Are you really going to give up the honor of that accomplishment?”

  Bergengrün’s remarks were 80 percent warning, 20 percent suspicion that his commander was too trusting. Von Reuentahl held his tongue for a few moments to take stock of this questionable cocktail.

  “If Lennenkamp should succeed, it would mean the well of Yang Wen-li’s ingenuity has run dry. I don’t know whose misfortune it’ll be, but I don’t think he’s finished quite yet. Let’s just observe Lennenkamp’s tactics and hope he doesn’t disappoint, shall we?”

  Bergengrün nodded in silence, watching as von Reuentahl turned his tall figure in fluid exeunt. Bergengrün had once served under the command of the late Siegfried Kircheis and had since been reassigned to von Reuentahl. He began to wonder just how different these two admirals were in temperament.

  To be sure, Lennenkamp was a skilled commander. Forgoing something so simple as a linear pursuit, he divided his forces in half in a pincer attack, sending one out in a gentle arc before the enemy to cut off their escape route, while the other attempted to close off the rear. The brilliant encirclement looked complete, and so von Reuentahl, closely watching his screen, clicked his tongue in simultaneous astonishment. But only for a moment.

  The Alliance Armed Forces, following their own clever plan, had anticipated the movements of Lennenkamp’s fleet and had lured the Imperial Navy within range of Iserlohn Fortress’s anti-ship turrets. This strategy, which in the past had dealt a hard blow to Neidhart Müller, shouldn’t have worked a second time, but Lennenkamp became a repeat example. A terrible spectacle ensued as, hit by a shower of light, his fleet exploded in fireballs of obliteration. Von Reuentahl found out moments later.

  “We can’t just stand by and watch them die. Help them!”

  This time, tens of thousands of imperial light beams showered Iserlohn Fortress. Enormous amounts of energy silently impacted the fortress’s outer wall. Without making so much as a dent, the bombardment shrouded the enormous man-made globe, sixty kilometers in diameter, in a rainbow-colored mist. Storms of energy swirled along the outer wall, gun turrets and emplacements crumbling from the heat. Fragments thereof battered the outer hull with white-hot hail. The alliance’s firepower was severely diminished, and Lennenkamp’s fleet, writhing like a snake bitten on the belly, managed to restore order.

  But that didn’t mean the Imperial Navy’s bitter symphony—composed by Attenborough, orchestrated by Yang—had disclosed every movement.

  Of the Lennenkamp fleet, one forward division was still unharmed. Enraged by a desire for revenge, it stormed the enemy fleet. But even as it did so, the Imperial Navy was already showing signs of disintegration, and after a shoddy counteroffensive, the enemy commenced their retreat like sediment diffusing in a lake.

  “Even with such a thoroughly disciplined commander, it seems those cursed Alliance Armed Forces don’t feel any shame in running away.”

  Lennenkamp was by nature a man who underestimated his own enemies, but this time he was keeping a close eye on general commander von Reuentahl. Lennenkamp wanted, at all costs, to avoid being ridiculed by von Reuentahl for recovering points lost in the first half.

  Oskar von Reuentahl, insofar as his talents as a tactician and abilities as a commander were concerned, was never deserving of criticism. His subordinates had abundant confidence in him, but as a philanderer susceptible to scorn, he earned occasional animosity from his colleagues. That this animosity wasn’t deeply rooted made Chief of Staff Paul von Oberstein hate him more conspicuously than anyone. It was enough that his commendations caught the attention of so many colleagues. Moreover, when the death of Siegfried Kircheis plunged Reinhard into a stupor of grief, von Reuentahl was among the first to calm turmoil among the admirals and take advantage of threats to Reinhard’s stability to establish his dictatorial regime. Kempf, too, who’d fought and lost against Yang the year before, had a competitive streak that led him to chase too hard after success. As did Lennenkamp, of course.

  He handed down a stern command, closing in on the sluggish transports before giving the signal.

  “Stop those ships. If they refuse, open fire upon them.”

  At that moment, a flash of light bleached their entire field of vision as all five hundred transports exploded. Those who had been glaring at their screens felt like their eyes were going to burst. The flash became a rapidly swelling ball that swallowed the imperial forces whole.

  The imperial fleet lost to inertia’s perfect control, and as it decelerated was plunged into the muddy stream of its own energy. Any ships that came to a full stop were hit from behind by those that couldn’t, and together they danced into an entanglement of light and heat, all the while stretching their collision avoidance systems to their limits. Within the larger explosion, chains of smaller ones appeared, destroying everything, living and nonliving alike.

  “Of all the underhanded tricks!”

  Lennenkamp was foaming at the mouth. As the one on whom this trick was being played, he was completely deflated. His flagship had barely escaped the energy corona. Most of his ships hadn’t been so lucky.

  Not missing the chance, Attenborough ordered a rolling attack. Yang’s Officers’ Academy underclassman was a tactical prodigy in his own right. His command exceedingly and efficiently unleashed his subordinates’ zeal for combat.

  Admiral Lutz acted quickly and, in the short time it took to pull off a cross-strike, had broken through and pulverized the imperial forces. Of all the battles that had taken place between Yang and von Reuentahl, none had ever been decided with such a unilateral outcome.

  The Imperial Navy was defeated, losing more than two thousand warships and sustaining a hundred times as many casualties.

  V

  Lennenkamp returned to base utterly dejected. Von Reuentahl only looked at him as if to say, “Serves you right.” But he didn’t say it, and instead acknowledged his services and had him dismissed. Von Reuentahl didn’t see any reason to mark this as a deficit, so to speak, in their ledger. Although on a tactical level they’d conceded a step, the Alliance Armed Forces making such light of their plan ensured the Imperial Navy would be discouraged from going after them when the time came to evacuate in earnest. Had they desired a simple tactical victory, there’d have been no need for all the theatrics.

  “Does that mean we should prepare to pursue them?” asked Bergengrün.

  “Pursue them?”

  Von Reuentahl’s mismatched eyes glinted cynically.

  “Why should we have to pursue them? If we allow them to escape, we can take Iserlohn Fortress for our own without having to lift a finger. Don’t you th
ink that alone is enough of a victory for us, Bergengrün?”

  Were they to go after them on impulse, the probability of falling prey to another clever counterattack was high. Yang had been driven into battle with the Imperial Navy’s main forces. Shouldn’t they just let him go where he wanted to go?

  “But if we allow Yang Wen-li to go free, somewhere down the line he might come back to haunt us, like a disease.”

  Von Reuentahl curled his lips slightly.

  “In that case, we’d better work together on this. Our fleet shouldn’t be the only one to run the risk of infection.”

  “But, Your Excellency …”

  “I wonder if you know the maxim, Bergengrün: ‘Without prey, there’d be no need for hunters. That’s why they don’t just kill everything that moves.’ ”

  The chief of staff looked back at his commander, his green eyes quivering with the brilliance of understanding and anxiety. He spoke in a low voice.

  “Your Excellency, don’t say such rash things, which might invite useless misunderstandings. No, more than misunderstandings—they might be taken for slander. Please restrain yourself. As one of the Imperial Navy’s most renowned generals, any mistake Your Excellency makes will have a major impact on others.”

  “Your advice is sound. I’ll try to be a little more careful with my words.”

  Von Reuentahl spoke frankly and expressed gratitude for his chief of staff’s advice. Von Reuentahl knew such a man was hard to come by.

  “I’m glad you take my advice to heart. Even if we’re not going after them, we should prepare to occupy Iserlohn Fortress.”

  “Yes, get right on it.”

  And with that, von Reuentahl set in motion a bloodless recapture of Iserlohn.

  As Yang Wen-li had once said to his ward, Julian Mintz:

  “When it comes to both strategy and tactics, it’s best to lay a trap while giving the enemy what it wants.”