Dawn

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  And so at the close of the eighth century SE and the fifth century IC, the Galactic Empire—undisciplined and uncontrolled simply because of its immense size—and the Free Planets Alliance—having lost the ideals of its founding period—continued on with their struggle mainly out of inertia, with Phezzan in their midst. According to the calculations of certain economists, the relative national power of the three states was as follows:

  Galactic Empire 48 percent

  Free Planets Alliance 40 percent

  Phezzan Dominion 12 percent

  The balance of power was precarious.

  Moreover, the total population of humanity, which had numbered three hundred billion at the height of the Galactic Federation’s prosperity, had by this time plummeted to forty billion, due to the long years of chaos.

  The distribution was twenty-five billion living in the empire, thirteen billion in the Free Planets, and two billion in Phezzan.

  “It would be nice if something would work out, but it doesn’t look like it will.”

  That was a statement that described the situation nicely.

  What turned that situation on its head was the appearance of one young man on Odin, the third planet of the Valhalla system. Named after the chief deity of Norse mythology, Odin was the hauptplanet to which Rudolf had relocated the capital of the Galactic Empire. The name of that young man of icy beauty and fearless countenance was Count Reinhard von Lohengramm.

  Reinhard von Lohengramm’s last name was originally Müsel, and in IC 467 (SE 776) he was born into an impoverished family that was aristocracy in name only. Reinhard’s life changed when he was ten years old, and Annerose—his elder sister by five years—was taken away to the inner palace of Emperor Friedrich IV. Reinhard, a youth with golden hair and ice-blue eyes, became lieutenant commander of a division of imperial guards at age fifteen, receiving accelerated promotions thanks both to his own talent and to Annerose’s favor with the emperor.

  When he reached the age of twenty, he received the title of Count von Lohengramm and was promoted to the position of senior admiral in the Imperial Navy. This sort of extreme personnel management is typical of dictatorships, but with rank also comes responsibility. Had he been a noble of fine ancestry, there would have been no great need to prove himself, but because Reinhard was nothing more than “the little brother of the emperor’s favorite,” he had no choice but to do so.

  At almost the same time, the Free Planets Alliance gained a new strategist. This was Yang Wen-li, who was born in SE 767 and enlisted at age twenty. Yang Wen-li had never aimed for a career in the military, and if a series of coincidences hadn’t pushed him in the right direction, he would have reached the end of his life not as a creator of history, but as a spectator.

  “There are things you can do and things you can’t do.”

  That was Yang’s pet philosophy. Toward fate, he had a much more passive disposition than Reinhard, but on the other hand, he had great adaptability and inventiveness. Even so, he remained uncomfortable with war and the soldier’s job of prosecuting it, and for the rest of his life, the military authorities were never free of his requests to “chuck my rank and retire.”

  At the start of SE 796 and IC 487, Reinhard led a fleet numbering twenty thousand vessels on an expedition. His goal was to bring the rebel forces—who so audaciously referred to themselves as the Free Planets Alliance—to heel, and through that achievement establish his own personal position.

  The alliance’s military had organized a fleet of forty thousand ships to intercept him. One of the staff officers in that fleet was named Yang Wen-li.

  Count Reinhard von Lohengramm, was twenty years old that year, and Yang Wen-li was twenty-nine …

  I

  Imperial Navy captain Siegfried Kircheis froze for a moment when he stepped onto the bridge, standing riveted in place in spite of himself. The depths of space were before him, scattered with countless points of light—overwhelmingly massive, seeming to envelop his entire body.

  For a moment, he stood there silent, but an instant later, the illusion that he was floating in an infinity of blackness disappeared. The bridge of the battleship Brünhild, Kircheis knew, was designed in the form of a gigantic hemisphere, the upper half of which was a single display screen. Dragging his senses away from the sky and back down to the ground, Kircheis took another look around the bridge.

  The illumination in the vast chamber was extremely muted, creating a crepuscular dimness. Crew were moving to and fro amid countless screens, consoles, meters, computers, and communication devices of all sizes. The movements of their heads and limbs brought to mind schools of migratory fish swimming in the currents.

  Kircheis’s nostrils detected the faint tang of an almost imperceptible odor. It was one with which soldiers in space were well acquainted, produced by the blending of recycled oxygen, ozone given off by machinery, and adrenaline secreted by tense soldiers who would soon be facing combat.

  The young red-haired man turned to face the center of the bridge and walked toward it with long strides. Although he held the rank of captain, Kircheis was not yet twenty-one. When he was out of uniform, he was “nothing but a handsome, redheaded beanpole,” as the female officers in the rear service whispered. From time to time, it bothered him that his age and his rank were so out of proportion to one another. He wasn’t able to accept his circumstances in the cool, calm way that his commanding officer did.

  Count Reinhard von Lohengramm had his command chair tilted backward and was staring intently into the sea of stars that flooded over the display screen above. Kircheis felt a soft resistance from the air as he drew near. A soundproof force screen was up. Conversations taking place within a five-meter radius of Reinhard would be inaudible to anyone on the outside.

  “Stargazing, Excellency?” he asked.

  A moment after hearing Kircheis’s voice, Reinhard shifted his line of sight and returned his chair to an upright position. Although he was still sitting down, his uniform—functional and black, with silver highlights here and there—made clear the tight masculinity of his slender, well-balanced limbs.

  Reinhard was a handsome young man. One might even say that his good looks were without peer. His white, oval face was adorned on three sides with slightly curling golden hair, and his lips and the bridge of his nose had an elegance that brought to mind a sculpture carved by the hands of some ancient master craftsman.

  But what could never be captured in lifeless sculpture were his eyes—ice-blue eyes that shone with light like the blade of a keenly polished sword, or the gleam of some frozen star. “Beautiful ambitious eyes,” gossiped the ladies at court. “Dangerous ambitious eyes,” whispered the men. Either way, it was certain that those eyes possessed something other than the inorganic perfection of sculpture.

  Looking up at his faithful subordinate, Reinhard answered, “Yes, I love the stars.” Then he added, “Have you gotten taller again?”

  “I’m the same 190 centimeters that I was two months ago, Excellency. I don’t think I’m going to grow any taller.”

  “Seven centimeters taller than me is certainly plenty,” Reinhard replied. In the sound of his voice was the ring of an overcompetitive schoolboy. Kircheis smiled faintly. Until about six years ago, there had been virtually no difference in their heights. But when Kircheis’s growth spurt had begun to put a distance between himself and Reinhard, the blond-haired lad had been genuinely frustrated. “Are you going to leave your friend behind and just grow up by yourself?” he had sometimes complained. That was the childish side of Reinhard, of which only Kircheis—and one other—knew.

  “I see,” Reinhard replied. “So, what business brings you up here?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the battle formation of the rebel military. According to reports from three of our surveillance craft, they are closi
ng in on our forces from three directions at uniform velocity. May I use your console’s display?”

  The young senior admiral nodded assent, and Kircheis moved his hands rhythmically over the console. On the display screen occupying the left half of Reinhard’s command console, four arrows floated into existence, positioned at the top, bottom, left, and right sides of the screen, and all were advancing toward the center. Only the arrow at the bottom of the screen was colored red. The other three were green.

  “The enemy’s Fourth Fleet lies directly ahead of us, and we estimate that its force numbers twelve thousand vessels. Its distance from us is 2,200 light-seconds. At our current velocities, we will make contact in about six hours.”

  Kircheis moved his finger around the screen. On the left side was the alliance’s Second Fleet, with a force of fifteen thousand vessels, approaching from a distance of 2,400 light-seconds. On the right side was the Sixth Fleet, numbering thirteen thousand vessels, advancing from a distance of 2,050 light-seconds.

  With the development of the antigravity field system—along with all manner of radar-permeability devices, ECM waves, and materials that rendered radar useless in determining the position and strength of enemy forces centuries ago, the militaries of the galaxy had turned back to reliance on classical methods such as manned surveillance craft and observation satellites. After calculating the time differences and factoring in the element of distance, intelligence gathered in this manner could then be used to learn the enemy’s position. Add to this the estimated levels of heat emission and mass, and a usable—if imperfect—calculation of force size could also be obtained.

  “So in total forty thousand ships, eh? Twice the size of our fleet.”

  “They’re attempting to envelop us by coming in from three directions.”

  “And I suppose our senile old generals have all gone pale in their faces … or red, perhaps.” Reinhard allowed a spiteful smile to flash across his fair-skinned face. Though he had just been told that he was being surrounded by a force twice the size of his own, not a hint of panic was visible in Reinhard’s expression.

  “Pale, without a doubt,” replied Kircheis. “The five admirals have come here in haste to request a meeting with Your Excellency.”

  “Oh? After they shot off their mouths saying they didn’t even want to see my face?”

  “Do you decline to meet with them?”

  “No, I’ll see them. In order to enlighten them.”

  The five men who appeared before Reinhard were Admiral Merkatz, vice admirals Staden and Fogel, and rear admirals Fahrenheit and Erlach. These were the “senile old generals” of whom Reinhard had spoken, though perhaps that term was too harsh. Merkatz—the eldest of them—was not yet sixty, and the youngest—Fahrenheit—was only thirty-one. It was not that they were too old, but that Reinhard and Kircheis were too young.

  “Our thanks, Your Excellency,” Merkatz said, speaking for all of them, “for permitting us to offer our opinions.” Merkatz had joined the service long before Reinhard had been born, and was rich in knowledge and experience of both combat and military administration. His medium-height, thick-boned build and sleepy-looking eyes gave him the appearance of an unremarkable middle-aged man, but his record and reputation were far greater than those of the likes of Reinhard.

  Taking the initiative, Reinhard politely replied, “I understand what you wish to say, milords.” In form only, he was following the etiquette that Merkatz had displayed. “You wish to bring our disadvantaged circumstances to my attention.”

  “We do, Your Excellency,” answered Vice Admiral Staden, advancing a half step forward. Staden was in his midforties, slender as a knife, and gave the impression of a man with a very sharp mind. As a soldier, he was the “staff officer” type who excelled in tactical theory and speech-making.

  “The enemy has double the number of ships that we do. Moreover, they are attempting to envelop us from three directions. This means that in terms of battle readiness, we are trailing behind the enemy already.”

  Reinhard’s ice-blue eyes gleamed coldly as he looked straight at the vice admiral. “In other words, you are saying that we will lose?”

  “I said nothing of the sort, Excellency. But it is a fact that we are at a disadvantage in terms of preparedness. If you’ll look at your display screen, you’ll understand.”

  Seven sets of eyes focused on Reinhard’s console display.

  The positions of the two opposing forces, as Kircheis had shown to Reinhard, were indicated there. From outside the sound-deadening field, a number of soldiers were casting deeply curious glances at the high-ranking commanders. Then, at a glare from Vice Admiral Staden, they all hurriedly averted their eyes. After pausing to clear his throat, the vice admiral began to speak again.

  “Many years ago, a fleet that was the pride of the empire was delivered a most regrettable defeat by the rebels of the so-called Free Planets Alliance. This is the same formation that they used then.”

  “You speak of the Dagon Annihilation, correct?”

  “I do. It was a truly regrettable defeat.” A deep, heavy sigh escaped the vice admiral’s lips. “Victory in that battle rightfully belonged to humanity’s true ruler—His Highness, the emperor of the Galactic Empire—and to his faithful servants, the officers and soldiers of our military. But they were caught off guard by the rebel forces’ cunning trick, and in the end, a million of our bravest, best, and brightest died meaningless deaths. If—in the coming battle—we were to follow in the footsteps of those who came before us, it would be certain to bring grief to His Highness, so—it was my foolish thinking, but would it not be wiser to make an honorable withdrawal now, rather than rushing impetuously forward in pursuit of achievement?”

  Foolish thinking indeed, you worse-than-incompetent blatherer, Reinhard thought. But when he opened his mouth, he said, “I acknowledge your eloquence, milord. Your argument, however, I cannot accept. Withdrawal is out of the question.”

  “But … why? May we hear your reasoning?”

  The look that rose up in Vice Admiral Staden’s eyes seemed to append, you unteachable whelp, but taking no mind of it, Reinhard replied, “Because we are in a position of overwhelming tactical advantage over the enemy.”

  “What do you mean?” Staden’s eyebrows quivered noticeably. The admirals all stared at the handsome young commander—Merkatz dumbfoundedly, and Fogel and Erlach in utter shock.

  Only Fahrenheit—the youngest of the five—had a look of interest brimming in his light-aquamarine eyes. Born into lower-class aristocracy, Fahrenheit openly professed that he had become a soldier in order to eat. He had an established reputation as a planner of high-mobility, high-speed attacks, though it was also said that he was lacking in tenacity when it came to intercepting attacks.

  “It would seem you have an opinion that is difficult for dullards such as ourselves to understand. We would be grateful if you could explain your meaning in more detail.”

  Vice Admiral Staden’s voice grated on Reinhard’s ears. Thinking to himself, I’ll rip that irritating tongue of yours out the day after tomorrow, Reinhard granted his request: “I said that we have the advantage for two reasons. First, the enemy forces are divided along these three vectors, while our forces are concentrated in one place. While the enemy has the advantage in terms of overall numbers, we have the advantage over any of these three divisions.”

  The admirals listened, saying nothing.

  “Secondly, when it comes to moving from one battlespace to the next, our force—which is located in the center—is able to take a shorter route than any of them. In order for them to move to another battlespace without fighting us, they will have to make a wide detour. This makes both time and distance our allies.”

  The silence of the admirals stretched on.

  “In other words, we exceed the enemy in both mobility and concentration of firepower. If these are no
t the conditions for victory, what would you call them?”

  In a sharp, cutting tone of voice, Reinhard finished speaking. Kircheis thought for a moment that the five admirals had frozen into crystal on the spot. Reinhard had turned the thinking of the older, more experienced military men on its head.

  Reinhard transfixed the shocked, unmoving Vice Admiral Staden with an ironic gaze, pressing his advantage.

  “We are in no danger of envelopment. We have a fine opportunity to destroy the enemy on each vector. You tell me not to make the most of this opportunity and to make a meaningless withdrawal, but to do so would not be merely passive—it would be criminal. Why? Because our mission is to do battle with the rebel forces and destroy them. ‘An honorable withdrawal,’ you said. But where is the honor in failing to complete the mission with which His Imperial Highness has charged us? Does this not resemble the self-justification of a coward, milord?”

  At the mention of “His Imperial Highness,” a ripple of tension ran through the bodies of four of the admirals, excluding Fahrenheit. Reinhard thought it all absurd.

  “So you say, Commander,” began Staden, attempting to plead with him. “But although Your Excellency may call this a ‘fine opportunity,’ you are the only one here who believes it to be so. Even from the standpoint of commonsense tactics, it is impossible to accept. For a strategy which has no proven track record—”

  This one’s not just incompetent, he’s an imbecile, Reinhard concluded. An unprecedented operation can’t have a track record. Its record will begin with the coming battle, will it not? Speaking aloud, he said, “Then tomorrow, milord, you will verify its record with your own eyes. Is that not acceptable?”

  “Are you certain of success?” asked Staden.

  “I am. But only if all of you follow my strategy faithfully.”