“You’re right. Even so, confound that Wittenfeld—his failure was his alone. May he be cursed forever for it!”
Reinhard’s orders leapt across the void via FTL. Receiving them, Kircheis stretched out his ranks, attempting to deploy another line of defense to the rear of Wittenfeld’s regiment.
Yang, who had still been watching for his chance to pull out, noticed this movement of imperial forces and for an instant felt like his blood had stopped flowing. His way out was being shut off! Had he been too late? Should he have made his escape at some earlier time?
However, luck was on Yang’s side in this.
Seeing the sudden movement of Kircheis’s regiment, the alliance battleships that happened to be in the path of that advance were seized with panic, and paying no heed to the fact that they were near large masses, warped out.
This was not necessarily an unusual occurrence. Starships that knew it was impossible to flee would sometimes choose the fear of the unknown over certain death and flee into subspace with courses still impossible to compute. When flight was impossible, surrender was also an option, and the signal for indicating such intent was also known to both sides. But sometimes people in a frenzy of terror didn’t think of that. What sort of fate awaited those who fled into subspace, no one knew. It was like the world of the dead; there was no consensus opinion.
Nevertheless, they chose their fates with their own hands, and for the others, this spelled grave misfortune. Operators in every regiment of the imperial fleet shouted warnings at the tops of their lungs as they detected ships ahead of the formation vanishing, accompanied by the eruption of violent quakes in space-time. Those cries were overlapped by shouted orders for evasive maneuvers. The forward half of the fleet got caught up in those chaotic undulations, and several ships collided amid the confusion.
For this reason, Kircheis had to spend time reorganizing his fleet, which meant that precious minutes were given to Yang.
Wittenfeld, eager to recover his honor, was leading a numerically inferior number of subordinates in courageous battle. However, each move he made was in response to an enemy that appeared in front of him—not with an eye toward the tide of the battle as a whole.
Had he been paying attention to Kircheis’s movements, he might have been able to guess what Yang was planning, even with communications with Reinhard shut off, and thus effectively cut off Yang’s path of retreat.
Lacking an organic connection with his allies, however, his force was merely a numerically smaller unit and nothing more.
That was the state of Wittenfeld’s regiment when Yang suddenly slammed all his remaining force strength against it.
In his eagerness to make up for his prior blunder, Wittenfeld was filled with fighting spirit, and he was an able commander as well. But at that moment, he also suffered from a critical lack of the force strength necessary to make the most of those qualities.
And he was out of time.
In the space of an instant, ships just a few rows down from Wittenfeld’s flagship had been shot through and destroyed. Even so, the commander was still shouting for a counterattack, and if staff officers like Captain Eugen had not held him back, his forces would have likely faced literal annihilation.
Yang led the Alliance Armed Forces Thirteenth Fleet away from the field of battle along the escape route he had secured. Both Reinhard and Wittenfeld were looking on as that still-orderly river of lights flowed away into the distance—Wittenfeld from nearby in stunned silence, Reinhard from afar, trembling with rage and disappointment.
In the space between them were Mittermeier, von Reuentahl, and Kircheis, the last of whom had had to give up on blocking their retreat. Those three young, capable admirals opened comm channels and began to speak with one another.
“The rebel forces have quite a commander.”
Mittermeier praised him in a straightforward tone of voice, and von Reuentahl agreed.
“Yes, I look forward to meeting him again.”
Von Reuentahl was a very handsome man. His dark-brown hair was nearly black, but what surprised people when they first met him was the fact that his eyes were different colors. His right eye was black and his left eye blue—a physiological condition called heterochromia.
Nobody said, “Let’s go after them.”
They all knew that the last chance for that had been lost and had sense enough to avoid chasing after them too far. A thirst for battle alone could not keep them alive, nor could it keep alive their subordinates.
“The rebel forces have been driven from the empire’s territory, and they will probably flee to Iserlohn. That’s enough of a victory for the time being. They’re not going to feel like launching another invasion for quite a while and have probably even lost the strength to do so.”
This time it was Mittermeier who nodded at von Reuentahl’s words.
Kircheis was following the disappearing lights with his eyes. What will Reinhard think? he wondered. Just as in the Battle of Astarte, his perfect victory was flung to the ground in the very last stage. He’s not going to be in as magnanimous of a mood as last time, is he?
“E-gram from Supreme Command!” said the communications officer. “ ‘Make your way back while mopping up the stragglers.’ ”
II
“Gentlemen, you’ve all done a superb job.”
On the bridge of the flagship Brünhild, Reinhard expressed his appreciation to his returning admirals.
One by one, he gripped the hands of von Reuentahl, Mittermeier, Kempf, Mecklinger, Wahlen, and Lutz, and praising their heroic deeds, promised them promotions. In Kircheis’s case, he simply clapped him on the left shoulder and said nothing, but between the two of them, that was enough.
It was when von Oberstein informed him of Wittenfeld’s return to the flagship that the shadow of displeasure crept into the graceful countenance of the young imperial marshal.
Fritz Josef Wittenfeld’s regiment—if it could even still be called such at this point—had just returned with heads hung low. No one in the imperial military had lost more subordinates and ships in this battle than he had. His colleagues von Reuentahl and Mittermeier had both been in the thick of fierce combat, so for his part, it was impossible to lay the blame on others for his heavy losses.
The joy of victory yielded its seat to an awkward silence. Pale faced, Wittenfeld walked up to his senior officer, and, as if bracing himself for the worst, hung his head low.
“This is where I want to say that the battle is won, and you, too, fought heroically, but I can’t even do that.”
Reinhard’s voice rang out like the crack of a whip. Brave admirals who would not budge an eyebrow in the face of a huge enemy fleet unconsciously drew in their necks, cringing.
“Understand this: impatient for glory, you charged ahead at a moment when you shouldn’t have advanced. That one misstep could have thrown off the balance of our entire line of battle, and our fleet could have been defeated before the other force arrived. Moreover, you’ve done needless harm to His Imperial Majesty’s military. Have you any objection to what I’ve just said?”
“None, milord.”
His reply was pitched low and devoid of spirit. Reinhard took one breath and then continued.
“A warrior clan is upheld by rewarding the good and punishing the evildoers. Upon our return to Odin, I will hold you accountable. I’m putting your regiment under Admiral Kircheis’s command. You yourself are confined to quarters.”
Everyone must have been thinking, That was harsh. A wordless stir rose up like a cloud, until Reinhard cut it off with the word “Dismissed!” and stalked off toward his quarters, taking long strides.
The colleagues of the unfortunate Wittenfeld gathered around him and began speaking words of encouragement. Kircheis glanced at them and then followed after Reinhard. As he did so, he was being carefully observed by von Oberstein.
&nbs
p; He’s a capable man, the chief of staff said silently to himself, but it will be problematic should his relationship with Count von Lohengramm come to be seen as one of excessive privilege. A conqueror should not be bound by personal feelings.
In an empty hallway that led only to the private quarters of the supreme commander, Kircheis caught up with Reinhard and called out to him.
“Excellency, please reconsider.”
Reinhard whirled around with fierce energy. A fire burned in his ice-blue eyes. The anger he had been holding back in front of others he now let explode.
“Why do you want to stop me? Wittenfeld failed to carry out his own responsibilities. There’s no point pleading his case. It’s only natural he be punished!”
“Excellency, are you angry right now?”
“What of it if I am!”
“What I’m asking you is this: what is it that has you so angry?”
Unable to grasp his meaning, Reinhard looked back at the face of his red-haired friend. Kircheis calmly accepted his stare.
“Excellency …”
“Enough with the ‘Excellency,’ already—what do you want to say? Tell it to me clearly, Kircheis.”
“In that case, Lord Reinhard, is it really Wittenfeld’s failure that you’re angry about?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I don’t believe it is, Lord Reinhard. Your anger is really directed at yourself. At you, who have secured Admiral Yang’s reputation. Wittenfeld is merely caught in the cross fire.”
Reinhard started to say something but then swallowed it. A nervous shuddering ran through his clenched fists. Kircheis let out a light sigh and stared unthinkingly at the golden-haired youth, eyes filled with kindness and consideration.
“Is it really so maddening to have made a hero of Admiral Yang?”
“Of course it is!” Reinhard shouted, clapping both his hands together. “I managed to endure it at Astarte. But twice in a row and I’ve had enough! Why does he always appear right when I’m on the verge of complete and total victory, to stand in my way?”
“He probably has his complaints as well. Like, ‘Why can’t I face Count von Lohengramm at the start of the battle?’ ”
To this, Reinhard said nothing.
“Lord Reinhard, please understand that the road isn’t level and smooth. Doesn’t it go without saying that there will be difficulties along the way when climbing toward the highest of seats? Admiral Yang is not the only obstacle on your path to conquest. Do you really think that you by yourself can eliminate all of them?”
For that Reinhard had no answer.
“You can’t win the hearts of others by ignoring their many achievements for the sake of one mistake. With Admiral Yang in front of you and the highborn nobles at your back, you already have two powerful enemies. On top of that, you’re making enemies even within your own ranks now.”
For a time, Reinhard made not the slightest of movements, but at last with a deep sigh, the strength drained out of his body.
“All right,” he said. “I was wrong. I won’t seek redress against Wittenfeld.”
Kircheis bowed his head. It was not just for Wittenfeld himself that he was so relieved. He was also happy to know for sure that Reinhard had the broadness of mind to accept frank words of reproof.
“Could you relay that to him for me?”
“No, that won’t do.”
At Kircheis’s prompt refusal, Reinhard acknowledged what he was getting at and nodded.
“That’s true. It will be meaningless unless I tell him myself.”
If Kircheis were to pass along word of Reinhard’s intent to forgive, Wittenfeld—having been reprimanded by Reinhard—would likely continue to hold a grudge against him, while feeling gratitude toward Kircheis. Human psychology was like that. For that reason, Reinhard’s indulgence would ultimately have had no meaning, which was why Kircheis had refused.
Reinhard started to turn on his heel but then stopped and spoke once more to his trusted friend and aide.
“Kircheis?”
“Yes, Lord Reinhard?”
“… Do you believe I can seize this universe and make it my own?”
Siegfried Kircheis looked straight back into his dear friend’s ice-blue eyes.
“To whom but Lord Reinhard could such a wish be granted?”
The forces of the Free Planets Alliance had formed up into ranks of browbeaten remnants and set out on the path to Iserlohn.
The dead and the missing numbered an estimated twenty million. The numbers their computers output chilled the hearts of the survivors.
In the midst of the life-and-death struggle, the Thirteenth Fleet alone had preserved a majority of its crew alive.
Yang the magician had worked a miracle even here—already a light akin to religious faith shone in his subordinates’ eyes as they looked at the young black-haired admiral.
The object of that absolute trust was on the bridge of the flagship Hyperion. Both his legs were ill-manneredly propped up on top of his command console, the interlaced fingers of both hands rested on his stomach, and his eyes were closed. Beneath his youthful skin, there stagnated a heavy shadow of exhaustion.
“Excellency …”
He cracked his eyes open and saw his aide, Sublieutenant Frederica Greenhill, standing there a bit hesitantly.
Yang laid one hand on his black uniform beret.
“Pardon me, acting like this in front of a lady.”
“It’s all right. I thought I might bring you some coffee or something. What would you like?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
“Yes, sir.”
“With plenty of brandy, if possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frederica was about to start walking away when Yang unexpectedly called her to a halt.
“Sublieutenant … I’ve studied a little history. That’s how I learned this: In human society, there are two main schools of thought. One says there are things that are more valuable than life, and the other says that nothing is more important. When people go to war, they use the former as an excuse, and when they stop fighting, they give the latter as the reason. That’s been going on for untold centuries … for untold millennia …”
Frederica, not knowing how to respond, gave no reply.
“You think we’ve got untold millennia of that ahead of us too?”
“Excellency …”
“No, never mind the human race as a whole. Is there anything I could do that would make all the blood I’ve spilled worthwhile?”
Frederica just stood there, unable to answer. Suddenly Yang looked slightly at a loss, as if he had noticed her discomfort.
“I’m sorry, that was a weird thing to say. Don’t give it a second thought.”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll go make tea—with a little bit of brandy, was it?”
“With plenty.”
“Yes, sir, with plenty.”
Yang wondered if Frederica was letting him have brandy as a reward, though he wasn’t watching her as she left. He closed his eyes again and murmured to himself:
“Could Count von Lohengramm be aiming to become a second Rudolf … ?”
Of course, no one answered.
When Frederica came back carrying a tray with the tea, Yang Wen-li was fast asleep in that same position, his beret resting on the top of his face.
I
The series of battles that had come to be called the Battle of Amritsar—based upon the name of the stellar region in which the final encounter took place—had concluded with utter defeat for the military of the Free Planets Alliance. The alliance’s expeditionary force completely abandoned the more than two hundred frontier star systems that, thanks to the Galactic Empire’s strategic pullback, they had temporarily occupied, and just barely managed to secure their first
prize of the conflict: Iserlohn Fortress.
The alliance had mobilized a force over thirty million strong, but the survivors returning home by way of Iserlohn numbered less than ten million, and the percentage of those not returning at all was just shy of a disastrous 70 percent.
This defeat naturally cast an immense shadow over every facet of the alliance’s politics, economy, society, and military. The financial authorities turned a ghastly pale as they calculated the expenses so far and the expenses yet to come—including lump-sum payments to bereaved families, as well as pensions. The losses incurred at Astarte had been nothing compared to this.
Blistering criticism and censure rained down on the government and military from bereaved families and the antiwar faction for having launched such a reckless campaign. The rage of citizens who had lost fathers and sons because of a trivial election strategy and a hysterical staff officer’s lust for advancement hammered the government and the military down to the ground.
Among the prowar faction, even now there were apologists who defended the invasion, saying, “You speak of the great cost in lives and treasure, but there are things worthy of even greater regard than these. We mustn’t fall into war-weary ideologies based on emotion.”
However, they could do nothing but fall silent as the responses drove them into their corners:
“Never mind the money! What exactly are you talking about that’s worth more than human lives? Protecting those in power? Military ambition? So you’re saying that while twenty million soldiers were shedding their blood for nothing—while many times that number were shedding tears for them back home—human life wasn’t something that deserved your respect?”
The prowar faction could not answer, because aside from a very small number of people not furnished with consciences, everyone felt somehow ashamed of the simple fact that they were living in safety.
The members of the alliance’s High Council submitted their resignations en masse.
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