“Precisely, Your Excellency,” the commissioner of science and technology said gravely, nodding his head. He had clearly been expecting to be complimented, but what he discerned in the handsome face of that young imperial prime minister were shades of disgust and disappointment.
Reinhard felt like saying that even a scant fifteen minutes with this man was a waste of his time.
“As a plan, it isn’t bad,” he said, “but there is one condition that would have to be met in order for it to succeed.”
“And that is?”
“The alliance military would have to sit there and quietly watch while our forces were building it.”
The commissioner of science and technology fell silent. He seemed to be at a loss for an answer.
“No, Commissioner,” Reinhard added. “I don’t mean to say the idea’s unattractive—it’s just hard to call it realistic. How about making another proposal later, once you’ve addressed what needs to be fixed.”
With a lithe movement, Reinhard started to get up. If he had to deal with this haughty, unpleasant man for even another minute, the stress was going to get to him, and he’d say something he shouldn’t.
“Please, just one moment,” said von Schaft. “That condition is unnecessary. Why, you ask? Because my idea …;”—here the commissioner of science and technology raised his voice to considerable theatrical effect—“… is to bring an extant fortress into the Iserlohn Corridor.”
Reinhard turned and looked at von Schaft head-on. The face his gaze pierced was a lump of confidence, kneaded and kilned. A flicker of interest appeared in his ice-blue eyes, and he lowered himself back down onto his couch.
“Shall we hear the details?”
The gleam of victory added another layer of gloss to the commissioner of science and technology’s too-ruddy complexion. Though the sight was hardly pleasing to Reinhard, his interest now exceeded his annoyance.
III
No one had ever described Admiral Karl Gustav Kempf as possessed of a deeply jealous nature, nor was anyone ever likely to hereafter. He was a broad-minded and fair individual, deemed outstanding both in leadership ability and in courage.
Even Kempf, however, had pride and a competitive spirit. In the Lippstadt War last year, the battlefield achievements of Mittermeier and von Reuentahl had been remarkable, and both had advanced to the rank of senior admiral, while Kempf himself had remained at the rank of full admiral. Even if he hadn’t felt slighted about that, he had felt it was a pity. After all, he had turned thirty-six this year and was older than either of them.
Then, no sooner had the new year begun than one of the fleets under his command had been subjected to some difficult combat during a border skirmish in the Iserlohn Corridor. His pride couldn’t help but be wounded, and Kempf had begun to look for a chance to reclaim his honor—in other words, for another battle. Still, he couldn’t start another fight simply to salve his wounded pride, and so unfulfilling days had rolled past as he attended to his duties of training personnel and patrolling the border.
That was what he had been doing when a message arrived from Reinhard, telling him to return to the imperial capital of Odin and present himself at the Lohengramm admiralität.
Kempf, along with his aide Lieutenant Lubitsch, was greeted at the admiralität by sublieutenant von Rücke. Von Rücke, still a young man of twenty-two, had served under Kempf for a time but had been attached to the admiralität since last year. He showed Kempf to Reinhard’s office, where the admiral spied the handsome young imperial marshal with golden hair and ice-blue eyes, and one other person besides: Tech Admiral von Schaft.
“You’re early, Kempf,” Reinhard said. “Von Oberstein and Müller will be with us shortly. Have a seat over there while you wait.”
As he did as Reinhard said, Kempf couldn’t help feeling a little surprised. He was very much aware of the young imperial marshal’s distaste for the snobbish tech admiral.
At last, Senior Admiral Paul von Oberstein arrived, followed by Admiral Neidhart Müller.
Von Oberstein doubled as both acting secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters and chief of staff of the Imperial Space Armada, and as such, there was nothing unusual about his attending an important gathering. He was, as it were, representing rear operations. On the other hand, the combat commanders would normally be represented by von Reuentahl or Mittermeier; however, neither of them were present today. Even among the full admiral stratum of the admiralty, Müller was lower in the pecking order than Kempf or Wittenfeld, and was younger as well. His successes in battle and an outstanding ability to get the job done were the reasons he wore the rank of admiral at such a young age, but he had not yet established an unshakable reputation comparable to those of his colleagues.
“Well, everyone seems to be here now,” said Reinhard. “Shall we have Tech Admiral von Schaft explain his proposal?”
At Reinhard’s prodding, von Schaft rose to his feet. The sight of him reminded Kempf of a bantam chicken, comb bristling triumphantly. He seemed like the sort for whom mental exhilaration would lead straight past confidence and on into overconfidence.
Von Schaft gave a signal, and a three-dimensional image, controlled from the operator’s room, appeared in midair. It was a gleaming silver sphere—entirely unremarkable at a passing glance. However, its shape was unmistakable to anyone serving in the military of either the empire or the alliance.
“Admiral Kempf, I wonder if you could tell us what this is?” Von Schaft spoke in the tone of a teacher, not a soldier. The fact that he was about twenty years older than Kempf was probably one reason he assumed that tone of voice.
“It’s Iserlohn Fortress,” Kempf said politely. He restrained some vocal inflections of his own due to Reinhard’s presence in the room. Probably for the same reason, Müller also seemed a bit more formal than necessary. Von Schaft nodded and stuck out his thick chest.
“Our home, the Galactic Empire, is the sole governing body of all humanity, but violent rebels refuse to recognize it, and have continuously wrought destruction and bloodshed across the galaxy for the past century and a half! Presumptuously, they dare to call themselves the ‘Free Planets Alliance,’ while in reality they are nothing more than the descendents of an extremist mob who strayed from their path as imperial subjects long, long ago. They are playing out a farce, resisting something whose scale they can’t imagine.”
What in the world does this conceited boor want to tell us? Kempf wondered silently. He hasn’t the slightest trace of humility about what he’s saying. Although their faces and attitudes were all different, none of the four listeners were impressed in the slightest by this unoriginal speech.
Von Schaft continued: “For peace throughout the universe and for the unification of the human race, we must destroy those rebels of the Free Planets Alliance. In order to do that, we can’t just respond to enemy incursions; we should attack from our side and take control of the enemy’s home territory. However, that territory is far too distant, and the lines of supply and communication far too long. Furthermore, there is only one path connecting them—the tunnel that is the Iserlohn Corridor—and because of that, the defending side has the advantage of being able to concentrate its forces. This means that the attacking side, on the other hand, is particularly limited in its tactical options.
“The imperial military was once able to strike deeply into enemy territory because we had Iserlohn Fortress as a bridgehead and could also use it as a station for resupply. However, Iserlohn is at present in the hands of the enemy, and thus the imperial military is unable to pass through the corridor to strike at the enemy’s strongholds. At present, the alliance’s military has not recovered from its crushing defeat at Amritsar or from the blows that it took during last year’s internal uprising. If only we could recapture Iserlohn, it would be possible for our military to seize all of the alliance’s territories in one fell swoop.
Moreover, Yang Wen-li, the most brilliant admiral in the alliance’s military, is at Iserlohn, and if we can capture or kill him at the same time we bring down the fortress, we will be able to deal a fatal blow to their military, from a human-capital perspective.
“However, from the standpoint of hardware alone, Iserlohn is impregnable—an artificial sphere sixty kilometers in diameter, wrapped in four repeating layers of superhardened steel, crystalline fiber, and superceramic, and each layer plated with a beam-resistant mirror coating. We can’t scratch it—not even with the high-powered cannons of a giant battleship. That’s not merely theoretical; it has been proven by the fact that the alliance military was never able to take it by attacking from the outside.
“If Iserlohn can’t be captured by fleets of warships, what, then, can we do about it? The only way to retake it is to bring to bear armor and firepower rivaling that of Iserlohn itself. In other words, to strike a fortress with a fortress. To move a fortress capable of opposing Iserlohn to a point right in front of it and attack Iserlohn from there.”
When Tech Admiral von Schaft stopped speaking and looked around at the other four men, Reinhard, who had known already what he was going to say, did not appear surprised. As for von Oberstein, even if he were inwardly surprised, it didn’t show in his face or his movements. That wasn’t the case for the others, however. Kempf took a deep breath. He was tapping his powerful fingers on the armrests of his chair, while Müller kept shaking his head as he mumbled something inside his mouth.
Von Schaft began to speak again.
“If you’re looking for a fortress within the empire that could stand up to Iserlohn, look no further than Gaiesburg Fortress, which was used as the stronghold of the aristocrat confederation during the civil war last year, and remains abandoned even now. Repair it, attach warp and conventional navigation engines, move it ten thousand light-years, and challenge Iserlohn to a duel of fortresses. The output of current warp engines is not enough to send a gigantic fortress, though, which means we must attach a dozen of them in a ring configuration and activate them simultaneously. It’s perfectly feasible with existing technology; everything else will depend on the commander’s leadership and ability to carry out the operation.”
Von Schaft sat back down, practically bursting at the seams with his inflated ego. In his stead, Reinhard rose to his feet.
“This is why I called you here.”
With his spirited, ice-blue eyes fixed upon them, the two admirals straightened in their seats.
“I name Kempf as commander and Müller as vice commander. Following the commissioner of science and technology’s plan, you are to recapture Iserlohn.”
The appointment of Admiral Karl Gustav Kempf as commander and Admiral Neidhart Müller as vice commander for this new operation made a few waves in the imperial military. This was because it was natural to assume that one of the senior admirals—either von Reuentahl or Mittermeier—would be taking command of such an operation so vast in scale and so isolated.
Naturally, neither of the two senior admirals made any public remarks about the matter, but when they were alone, they couldn’t help voicing their disappointment to one another.
“In any case,” said Mittermeier, “it was probably decided by His Lordship, Chief of Staff von Oberstein.
It was prejudice rather than guesswork that led Mittermeier to make that assertion, but he wasn’t all that far off the mark. When Reinhard had asked von Oberstein’s advice regarding the appointment of operational command, the man had not answered right away but had instead asked the opinion of Captain Ferner, who was on his team of advisors.
“If admirals von Reuentahl and Mittermeier are successful,” said Ferner, “the only rank left to reward them with is imperial marshal, and if they get that, it would make them equal in rank to Duke von Lohengramm. That wouldn’t be good for keeping order in the ranks. If, on the other hand, you choose from among the full admirals, you can promote them to senior admiral if they succeed and at the same time avoid letting von Reuentahl and Mittermeier stand too far apart from the rest. And even if they fail, you won’t have used up any trump cards, so the loss would be comparatively light.”
That opinion had been a match for von Oberstein’s thinking. To maintain order in the ranks—and to elevate the authority of the one at the top—it was vital to avoid creating a number two. That was what had worried von Oberstein when Siegfried Kircheis was alive. Kircheis had been rewarded with countless honors after he had died protecting Reinhard. There was no problem at all with bestowing excessive honors on the dead, but it was a different situation with the living. Now that Kircheis was gone, it would make no sense to let Mittermeier or von Reuentahl fill his vacant position. It was vital to create plenty of number threes but no number two, to scatter the organization’s power and functionality, and to strengthen Reinhard’s dictatorial system.
That being the case, if von Oberstein were to ever try seizing the number two spot himself, he could never avoid the criticism of opportunism.Yet even Mittermeier, who despised von Oberstein, acknowledged the fact that the man harbored no lust for position. What he wanted was something else.
“Let’s make it Kempf,” Reinhard had said when von Oberstein advised him to choose from among the full admirals. “He’s been wanting to wash away the shame of that previous defeat. Let’s give him the chance.”
For vice commander, Reinhard naturally needed someone below Kempf, and so he had chosen Müller, who was both younger and less experienced.
At that time, somewhere in the world of Reinhard’s psyche, a veil had come down between himself and the fierce passion that had brought him to this point, and he was developing a point of view by which he coldly, distantly regarded even himself. He didn’t know whether to call it a cold passion or a dry emptiness. He felt as if his legs—created so he could leap to the very heights of heaven—had suffered a striking reduction in power.
He knew the cause; he just couldn’t bear to face it head-on. Reinhard kept telling himself that he was a strong person who didn’t need the help or understanding of others. Before, it had taken no effort at all to think such a thing. All he had needed to do was turn and look back every once in a while, and Siegfried Kircheis would be right there, following behind at a half step’s distance. That had always made everything clear. That was it! The dream had been worth something because it had been shared. And that was why he’d had to realize that ambition: because it wasn’t his alone.
All of space would be his. Even if he lost his shadow, even if one of the wings were ripped from his back, still his fangs would remain. If Reinhard von Lohengramm were ever to lose those fangs, the fact that he been born into the world would lose all its meaning. Right now, he needed to sharpen them, even if they were doomed to break in the end.
IV
After the death last year of Siegfried Kircheis—that bulwark of unparalleled loyalty, insight, and ability—it had been Wolfgang Mittermeier and Oskar von Reuentahl who had emerged as the two pillars of Reinhard’s admiralty.
Both were deemed virtuoso tacticians who lacked for nothing when it came to valor and clever planning. If the circumstances demanded it, they could run a frontal breakthrough and a backward expansion, launch an all-out onslaught head-on, or take an exclusively defensive posture around a base, employing the highest standards of strategic technique. The deadly swiftness with which Mittermeier carried out his operations and the coolheadedness and persistence von Reuentahl displayed both offensively and defensively were not easy qualities to come by; when it came to reading situations accurately, standing firm in the midst of crisis, adapting flexibly to changing circumstances, and preparing for all contingencies, it was hard to say who was better.
Senior Admiral Wolfgang Mittermeier was exactly thirty years of age, with unruly honey-blond hair and light-gray eyes. While he was somewhat small of stature, he had the firm, well-balanced body of a gymnast and moved lik
e speed itself made flesh.
Senior Admiral Oskar von Reuentahl was a tall man of thirty-one with dark-brown—almost black—hair and an aristocratic sort of handsomeness, but his most striking feature was his eyes—his right eye was black and his left eye was blue. He was a heterochromiac.
In terms of reputation and accomplishments, the two of them were an even match, but neither had ever created a faction to oppose the other. In fact, they had shared many of their accomplishments by operating jointly on the battlefield. Off the battlefield, they spent a great deal of time together as friends, and to onlookers it seemed both mystifying and utterly natural that they could maintain this relationship despite their equivalent ranks and very different temperaments.
Mittermeier was of common birth, and his family was fairly average in terms of social standing and standard of living. His father was a landscaping engineer and had long been doing steady business with a clientele of aristocrats and wealthy commoners.
“In this kind of top-down society,” he had taught his young son, “the way for common folk to get by is to get a trade.”
He had surely been hoping that his son would become a technician or artisan and lead a life free of any turbulent ups and downs. And an artisan was in fact what his son had grown up to be, reaching a level at which he was even called a master. However, the field through which he had advanced was not gardening or handicrafts—but the tumultuous field called “war.”
When Mittermeier was sixteen, he had enrolled in the Imperial Armed Forces Academy. Oskar von Reuentahl had been one year ahead of him, but they had had no chance to meet one another while still in school. At the academy, upperclassmen often ganged up on underclassmen, interfering with them and applying pressure in all kinds of ways, but von Reuentahl had cared not a whit for that sort of group activity.
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