Dawn

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Yang lightly waved one hand toward his aide.

  “Sublieutenant, enemy ships would appear to be closing. If I live through this, I’ll make it a point to eat healthy for the rest of my life.”

  The alliance’s force strength had already been halved. The death of a daring and brilliant tactician like Admiral Uranff had come as a particularly hard blow. Morale was not good. How long could they hold out against a thoroughly prepared Imperial Navy that was coming against them, on the heels of victory and ready to employ all the proper tactics?

  Von Reuentahl, Mittermeier, Kempf, and Wittenfeld—courageous admirals of the empire—lined up the noses of their battleships and charged forward in a tight formation. Although this had the appearance of the sort of brute-force assault that ignores the finer points of strategy, Kircheis was leading a separate force to circle around to the alliance’s back side, so it in fact both disguised the empire’s intent to catch the enemy in a pincer movement and was the sort of ferocious attack needed to avoid giving the alliance a chance to catch its breath.

  “All right,” Yang ordered. “All ships: maximum combat velocity.”

  The Thirteenth Fleet began to move.

  The clash of the two forces was on. Countless beams and missiles hurtled past one another, and the light of nuclear explosions seared the darkness. Hulls were rent asunder and sent flying through the empty space, tumbling in mysterious dances, borne along by winds of pure energy. Across their eddies the Thirteenth Fleet haughtily sped, racing toward the enemy that lay ahead of them.

  The Thirteenth Fleet’s assault was carried out according to a schedule of decelerations and accelerations that Fischer had calculated with utmost precision on Yang’s directive. The Thirteenth Fleet rose fearsomely up from the light of Amritsar’s immense flames, like a tattered corona sent flying from its sun by centrifugal force.

  As the swift assault leapt toward them from that unexpected angle, the Imperial Navy commander who undertook to meet it was Mittermeier. He was a courageous man but had undeniably been taken by surprise; he had let Yang take the initiative.

  The Thirteenth Fleet’s first attack was quite literally a blistering one for Mittermeier’s regiment.

  Its firepower was concentrated to an almost excessive density. When a single battleship—and a single spot on the hull of that battleship—was struck by half a dozen laser-triggered hydrogen missiles, how could it possibly defend itself?

  The region surrounding Mittermeier’s flagship was made an enveloping swarm of fireballs, and Mittermeier, taking damage on his own port side as well, was forced to pull back. Even in retreat, however, his remarkable skill as a tactician was plain to see in the way he was flexibly changing his formation, keeping the damage he took to its barest minimum, and watching for his chance to strike back.

  Yang, on the other hand, had to content himself with dealing a limited amount of damage, as he dared not pursue the enemy too far. Damn, Yang thought, just look at all these talented people Count von Lohengramm has! Although if we still had Uranff and Borodin on our side, we could have probably fought the empire on equal footing …

  Just then, Wittenfeld’s regiment came rushing in at high speed, interposing itself in the space between the Thirteenth and Eighth fleets—a region called Sector D4 for convenience’s sake. It was a move that could only be described as daring or foolhardy.

  “Excellency, a new enemy has appeared at two o’clock.”

  Yang’s response—“Uh-oh, that’s a problem”—could hardly be called a proper one.

  Yang had a strong point in common with Reinhard, though. He recovered his wits quickly and started giving orders.

  On Yang’s command, the fleet’s heavily armored dreadnoughts lined up in vertical columns to form a protective wall against enemy fire. From the gaps between them, gunships and missile ships—weakly armored but with mobility and firepower to spare—laid down a ruthless barrage of return fire.

  One after another, holes opened up all over Wittenfeld’s regiment. Even so, he didn’t drop speed. His return fire was witheringly intense and caused Yang’s blood to run cold when one part of his dreadnought wall crumbled.

  Even so, there was no serious damage to the Thirteenth Fleet as a whole, although the wounds suffered by the Eighth were deep and wide. Unable to counter Wittenfeld’s speed and fury, columns of ships were being shaved off the Eighth Fleet’s flank, and it was steadily losing both its physical and energy-based means of resistance.

  The battleship Ulysses had taken damage from imperial cannon fire. This damage was of the “minor but serious” variety. What had been destroyed was the microbe-based wastewater treatment system, and for that reason, the crew was forced to continue fighting with their feet drenched in regurgitated sewage. This would surely make for a delightful war story if they ever returned home safely, but if they died out here like this, it was hard to imagine a more tragic and ignominious way to go.

  Yang could see before his very eyes an allied fleet on the verge of dissolving into the depths. The Eighth Fleet was like a flock of sheep, and the Wittenfeld regiment a pack of wolves. Alliance vessels flew this way and that trying to escape, only to be destroyed by vicious, incisive attacks.

  Should we go and help the Eighth Fleet?

  Even Yang had his moment of hesitation. Judging by the enemy’s spirited action, it was clear that if the Thirteenth Fleet made a move to assist them, things would degenerate into a rough-and-tumble brawl, and their systematic chain of command would not hold. That would be the same as committing suicide. In the end, there was nothing he could do but order more concentrated cannon fire.

  “Forward! Forward! Nike, goddess of victory, is flashing her panties right in front of you!”

  Wittenfeld’s commands could hardly be called refined, but they certainly raised his men’s morale, and heedless of fire incoming from the side, the swarm of Schwarz Lanzenreiter utterly dominated Sector D4. It looked as though the forces of the alliance had been split in two.

  “It would appear we’ve won,” said Reinhard, allowing just the faintest hint of excitement to creep into his voice as he looked back at von Oberstein.

  Looks like we’ve lost, Yang was thinking at almost the selfsame instant, though he couldn’t say so out loud.

  Since ancient times, the utterances of commanders had possessed a seemingly magical power to make the abstract concrete; whenever a commander said, “We’ve lost,” defeat would inevitably follow—though examples of the opposite were extremely rare.

  Looks like we’ve won.

  It was Wittenfeld who was likewise thinking this. The alliance’s Eighth Fleet was crumbling already; there was no fear now of being caught in a pincer movement.

  “Good, we’ve got a step up on them. Now it’s time to finish them off.”

  Wittenfeld was thinking eagerly, The Thirteenth Fleet has preserved a lot of its strength, but I’ll deliver a killing blow in a dogfight.

  “Have all vessels that can function as mother ships deploy walküren. All others, switch from long-range to short-range cannons. We’re going to fight them up close.”

  That aggressive intent, however, had been anticipated by Yang.

  When the imperial force’s firepower temporarily weakened, Yang instantly intuited the cause: a switchover in their attack methodology. Even though it might have taken them longer, other commanders could also have guessed what Wittenfeld intended. He had moved too early. When Yang saw the error, he determined to put it to maximum use.

  “Draw them in,” he said. “All cannons, prepare for a sustained barrage.”

  Minutes later, the roles had reversed, and it was the imperial forces of Sector D4 that were facing imminent defeat.

  Seeing this, Reinhard spoke out unconsciously: “Wittenfeld blundered into that. He sent out his walküren too early. Can’t he see that they’ve become easy prey for the enemy fusillade?”<
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  It seemed that a chink had appeared in even von Oberstein’s icy demeanor. His naturally pale face looked as if it were illuminated by a comet’s tail. “He wanted to secure victory with his own hands, but …”

  The voice in which he answered was nearer a groan than anything else.

  The alliance forces, having drawn Wittenfeld’s regiment into range for a point-blank attack, were dealing out destruction and slaughter at will. Launched from magnetic-rail cannons, artillery shells of superhard steel pierced the armor of enemy ships, and bursts of fusion shrapnel and photon rounds reduced walküren, and their pilots, to microscopic particles.

  Colorful and colorless flashes overlapped with one another, as every instant saw the opening of gateways to the netherworld, through which ever more soldiers were passing.

  It seemed that the black of the Schwarz Lanzenreiter—Wittenfeld’s pride and joy—was coming to suggest the color of burial shrouds.

  The communications officer turned toward Reinhard and shouted, “Excellency! Communiqué from Admiral Wittenfeld—he’s requesting immediate reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements?”

  The communications officer recoiled from the young, golden-haired marshal’s pointed response.

  “Yes, Excellency, reinforcements. The admiral says he’s going to lose if battle conditions continue to worsen like this.”

  The heel of Reinhard’s boot sounded harshly against the floor. If there had been an unsecured station chair nearby, he would have probably been kicking it over.

  “What is he thinking?” Reinhard shouted. “That I can pull a fleet of starships out of my magic top hat?”

  An instant later, though, he had his anger under control. A supreme commander had to remain calm at all times.

  “Message to Wittenfeld: ‘Supreme Command has no surplus forces. If we send in ships from the other lines of battle, the whole formation will become unbalanced. Use your present forces to defend your position with your life, and execute your duties as a warrior.’ ”

  No sooner had he closed his mouth than he issued a new command.

  “Break off all communications with Wittenfeld. If the enemy picked that up, they’ll realize the difficult spot we’re in.”

  Von Oberstein’s eyes followed Reinhard as he turned his gaze back toward the screen.

  Harsh and cold, but the correct thing to do, thought the silver-haired chief of staff. Still, could he take the same action toward any man, without respect of person? A true conqueror must have no sacred cows he’s unwilling to grind into hamburger …

  “They’re doing well, aren’t they?” Reinhard murmured as he stared at the screen. “Both sides, I mean.”

  Though their supreme command was far to the rear and their overall command structure lacked smoothness, the alliance forces were putting up a good fight nonetheless. The Thirteenth Fleet’s maneuvers were particularly impressive. Yang Wen-li was their commander, Reinhard had heard. It was often said that a great general never had weak troops. Would that man always appear standing in his way on the road he must travel?

  Reinhard unconsciously looked back at von Oberstein.

  “Has Kircheis arrived yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  The chief of staff answered simply and clearly, but then asked a question which, intentionally or no, had a ring of sarcasm to it. “Are you concerned, Excellency?”

  “I’m nothing of the sort. I was just checking.”

  Swatting aside the question, Reinhard closed his mouth and stared at the screen.

  At that moment, Kircheis, leading a huge force amounting to 30 percent of the entire fleet, was taking a wide detour around the Amritsar system’s sun and swinging around toward the rear of the alliance forces.

  “We’re a little later than planned. Hurry!”

  In order to escape detection by alliance forces, Kircheis’s regiment was flying near the surface of the sun, but its navigational systems had been affected by magnetic and gravitational fields more powerful than anticipated, to the point that the astrogators had been forced to work out their courses using primitive percom calculators. That was why his forces had lost speed, although now they had finally reached the region of space they were bound for.

  To the rear of the alliance force lay a deep, wide minefield.

  Even if imperial forces were to circle around to their aft, they would find their advance blocked by forty million fusion mines. That was what the alliance leadership believed. Yang was not entirely persuaded, but he figured that even if the enemy did have an effective means of getting through the mines, they couldn’t do it quickly, so it would be possible to prepare a formation for fighting back by the time they arrived at the battlespace.

  However, the empire’s tactics surpassed even Yang’s expectations.

  Kircheis’s order was relayed down the chain of command: “Release directional Seffl particles.”

  The imperial military, one step ahead of the Alliance Armed Forces, had succeeded in developing Seffl particles that could be aimed in a single direction. Their first deployment? This battle, now.

  Pulled along by spy vessels, three tube-shaped emission devices drew near to the minefield.

  “Do it quickly,” Captain Horst Sinzer, one of the staff officers, said in a loud voice, “or there may not be any enemies left for us.”

  Kircheis showed a hint of a wry smile.

  The densely clustered particles penetrated the minefield like a pillar of cloud in the interstellar medium. The heat and mass detection systems with which the mines were equipped did not react to them.

  A report arrived from the ship at the front of the vanguard: “Seffl particles have penetrated to the far side of the minefield.”

  “Very well. Ignite them!”

  At Kircheis’s cry, the lead vessel carefully aimed three beam cannons, each in a different direction, and fired.

  An instant later, the minefield was speared by three enormous pillars of fire. After the white-hot light had subsided, holes had been bored through the minefield in three places.

  Three tunnel-shaped passages—two hundred kilometers in diameter and three hundred thousand kilometers long—had been created in the very midst of the minefield in hardly any time at all.

  “All ships, charge! Maximum combat velocity!”

  Driven by the commands of the young red-haired admiral, the thirty thousand ships under his command raced through these tunnels like swarms of comets and bore down upon the alliance’s undefended rear.

  “Large enemy force sighted aft!”

  The swarm of luminescent objects was so great that their numbers were impossible to determine, and even as alliance operators were detecting them and crying out in alarm, hole after hole was beginning to open in the alliance’s ranks due to cannon fire from the vanguard of Kircheis’s regiment.

  Astonished, the commanders of the alliance forces lost their wits. Their terror and confusion, amplified many times over, infected their crews—and in that instant, the alliance lines crumbled.

  Ships broke ranks, and the imperial forces rained down cannon fire against alliance vessels beginning to scatter in disorder, pounding them mercilessly, smashing them into pieces.

  The victor and the vanquished had been decided.

  Yang looked on in silence at the sight of his allies in full rout. It just isn’t possible for human beings to anticipate every situation, he realized belatedly.

  “What do we do, Commander?” asked Patrichev, making a loud noise as he swallowed hard.

  “Hmmm … It’s too early to run away,” he replied in a voice that somehow sounded like he was talking to himself.

  On the other hand, victory was in the air on the ridge of the imperial flagship Brünhild.

  “I’ve never seen a hundred thousand ships set to flight before.” Reinhard’s voice was like that of a yo
uth as it rang out. Von Oberstein responded prosaically:

  “Shall we bring the flagship forward, Excellency?”

  “No, let’s not. If I were to intercede at this stage, I’d be accused of robbing my subordinates of opportunities to distinguish themselves.”

  That was a joke, of course, and it showed just how fully at ease Reinhard was.

  Though the battle itself was building toward its final curtain, the intensity of the slaughter and destruction showed no sign of waning. The fanatical attacks and the hopeless counterattacks were repeated again and again, and in localized pockets there were even imperial units that found themselves at a disadvantage.

  At this stage, no one was even thinking of how much meaning there was in tactical victory; those who had victory before them were apparently striving to make it more thorough, while those on the verge of defeat seemed to be praying that they might atone for their ignominy, even if by taking just one more enemy soldier with them.

  But what was bleeding the victorious imperial forces even more than this insanely intense combat was the organized resistance of Yang Wen-li, who was staying behind on the battlefield so that his allies might escape to safe territory.

  His technique involved concentrating his firepower on localized regions so as to divide the empire’s force strength and disrupt their chain of command, then dealing blows to the separated forces individually.

  The intoxicating feelings that made noble, tragic beauty out of self-destruction and shattered jewels were utterly alien to Yang. While covering the flight of his compatriots, he was also securing an exit route for his own forces and watching for his chance to withdraw.

  Von Oberstein, glancing back and forth between the main screen and the tactical computer panel, spoke a warning to Reinhard: “Someone needs to reinforce Admiral Wittenfeld—Admiral Kircheis or anyone will do. That enemy commander is aiming for the weakest part of the envelopment. He’s planning to break through with one sudden push. Unlike before, our forces can afford to spare some ships now, and should do so.”

  Reinhard scratched his golden hair and swiftly shifted his gaze: to the screen, to several different panels, and to his chief of staff’s face.