Sunset

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Iserlohn had only a fraction of the Imperial Navy’s ships, and its troop situation was even more dire. Under normal circumstances, at least a million soldiers would have been needed to fight this battle. With their actual numbers at half that level, it was simply impossible to man each individual ship in the fleet. There were limits, too, to centralized control from the bridge.

  Julian compensated for this severe disadvantage with a stratagem that was almost too bold. He had a tenth of Iserlohn’s vessels set to autonomous operation and positioned them towards the rear of the fleet’s left flank, giving the impression that they were being held in reserve. If the imperial forces detected the ruse and concentrated their attacks on this part of the formation, Iserlohn’s battle lines would crumble in an instant.

  Had Reinhard been in full health, he might have seen through Julian’s trick—in fact, he almost certainly would have. Strictly speaking, it was nothing but a variation on a tactic once used by Yang, who had often used automated ships as props in his magic shows; further back in the annals of tactical history, Marshal Sidney Sitolet had used these methods in an attack on Iserlohn Fortress itself. In a way, automated ships were an alliance tradition.

  Because this particular unit of automated ships often feinted in the direction of Iserlohn Corridor or the Imperial Navy’s right flank, the imperial commanders were forced to spare some of their attention for it and prepare a response. This alone would have made the ships an effective presence on the battlefield. As a tactician, however, Julian was greedier than that.

  If given the opportunity, he intended to use the autonomous ships as a decoy while he attacked Reinhard’s flagship Brünhild directly. He did not expect Reinhard to fall for such an obvious trick, but the only other way the Iserlohn forces could win was by luring their imperial counterparts within firing range of Iserlohn Fortress’s main cannon, Thor’s Hammer. Julian wondered if he had gotten so caught up in the circumstances that he had made an error of strategic judgment, but to follow that line of thought at this point amounted to deplorable perfectionism—one of the less salutary tendencies he had inherited from Yang.

  As for Reinhard, he had settled on a straightforward approach to the battle.

  “There is no need for convoluted stratagems. Launch attacks in an endless, unbroken chain until the enemy is ground away.”

  Vast numbers, reliable supply lines, and the correct utilization of both: like Yang Wen-li, Reinhard knew that the true road to victory lay in these things. His will to conquer had reason as its companion, and this reason had always prevented his genius from running wild. On this occasion, however, mild unease over his own powers of concentration had forced a note of caution into his tactics. As he considered the enemy’s formation and movements, Reinhard muttered to himself, “Such a deep formation, and with so few vessels…I see Merkatz has lost none of his ability.”

  Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz did not care for surprising gambits. Steady, thorough, and unfailingly rational: this was the consensus in textbooks on his approach to military strategy. In his later years, Reinhard von Lohengramm and Yang Wen-li outshone him with their dazzling brilliance, but that is precisely what made him the model which the average officer of later generations would strive to emulate. Few dared to set their sights on becoming the next Yang or Reinhard, and none succeeded in doing so.

  Blazing barrages of cannon fire merged into bands of terrible light that scattered organic and inorganic particles across the void, writhing in vast clouds that were themselves like malevolent, living beings.

  Iserlohn’s forces fought valiantly, but they were so outnumbered it was unclear how long they could last.

  “How are we supposed to fly this cruiser with just fifty-two men? How? Press-gang the spiders, too?”

  “You don’t know how good you’ve got it. I was once part of an eighty-man party that had to put away a feast for three hundred. It was for some commander’s second marriage, but the bride eloped with the groom’s son. The reception was canceled and we were left with a mountain of food.”

  “You hear that, boys? Forget the spiders, this ship’s got some kind of pig-ox hybrid on board. I bet his stomach goes up to the top of his skull!”

  Even teetering on the brink of disaster, Iserlohn’s troops continued to trade jokes and insults, as had been their practice since the days when they were known as the Yang Fleet. As Olivier Poplin put it, “Every joke is a drop of blood.”

  When Julian was younger, he had thought of himself as part of this camaraderie, but after Yang’s death his taste for humor and irony had all but vanished, replaced by a painful earnestness. His sense of humor had depended entirely on the presence of a catalyst named Yang Wen-li.

  Additionally, Julian’s situation at that moment was, in a sense, the opposite of the kaiser’s. Reinhard, the historic conqueror, was forced to make allowances for the impact of his physical state on his mental condition; Julian, the rebel leader, had to be careful to prevent his mental state from excessively interfering with his physical condition.

  Beams of light from the screen illuminated Julian’s face in vivid colors. He had not slept for over twenty-four hours. His nerves had been so worked up that, somewhat pathetically, he had not been able to.

  Julian was torn over what to do. The Imperial Navy’s maneuvers were not as agile as he had expected. Their cannon fire was dense and their formations broad and deep, but hadn’t there been more of a dynamism to Kaiser Reinhard’s tactics before? Sluggishness, however, also meant solidity, and Julian was unable to find any openings for tricks to stir up the imperial fleet. With their minimal numbers, the most important thing for Iserlohn’s forces was to avoid being dragged into a protracted battle of attrition.

  “Traps are more successful when you can fool the enemy into believing that their predictions were correct or their hopes realized,” Yang had once told him. “The money goes on top of the pit.”

  Julian viewed Yang as the greatest psychologist in military history. If this assessment was overgenerous, “among the greatest psychologists” was not. Many of Reinhard’s feared and famed admirals made appearances in Yang’s career as honorably defeated foes; more often than not, they had fallen victim to some psychological snare laid by Yang. Indeed, Reinhard himself had done the same.

  Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier, commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada, was by nature a master of lightning-quick maneuvers, but he also knew how to control the impulse to strike for momentary advantage. This is what enabled him to unleash explosive force just when the timing was right. Far to Mittermeier’s starboard, however, Wittenfeld’s “goody two-shoes act” (as Attenborough called it) could be maintained no longer. At 2330 on May 30, the Black Lancers that made up the right wing of the imperial fleet began a ferocious maneuver.

  Under Wittenfeld’s command, they arced toward the Iserlohn forces’ left wing, tracing pale silver trails through the inky void, descending on them like some vast and ravenous bird of prey.

  “Enemy incoming!”

  The Iserlohn forces’ operator sounded shaken. It was not easy to hold firm against the sheer menace and pressure of the Black Lancers’ charge, their ships growing larger on-screen by the second. Energy beams and missiles by the thousands rained on Iserlohn’s ships, sparking a riot of explosions; some vivid, some colorless. Attenborough’s orders went out, and Iserlohn’s fleet met the assault with a curtain of heat and light of their own.

  Flashes. Fireballs. Howling storms of energy.

  High-density cannon fire left ragged holes in the Black Lancers’ ranks. But the damage to Iserlohn’s fleet was also great. And, unlike the Imperial Navy, their ability to recover numerically was severely constrained.

  When the intense firefight subsided, Iserlohn’s formations were thin and forlorn, and even the indomitable Attenborough had to order all ships under his command to fall back, though not without a noise of irritation.

 
A disturbing thought passed through his mind: Was this the beginning of the end? Would Iserlohn’s fleet continue to dwindle until it melted away entirely into the cosmic abyss?

  IV

  “Iserlohn’s ships appear to be preparing to withdraw toward the corridor. I propose we cut off their retreat, and then encircle and destroy them. Do I have His Majesty’s permission to proceed?”

  The transmission arrived from Wittenfeld at 0240 on May 31. Reinhard rose from a shallow slumber and, with the help of his attendant Emil von Salle, donned his uniform. He would have preferred to have showered as well, but that would have been unwise in his condition.

  Steeped in fever, he dragged himself from his quarters to the bridge. The sensation reminded him of his first experience of low gravity in elementary school. A slowly growing, queasy feeling, like being drunk on cheap liquor, also infiltrated his consciousness.

  Finally, the bridge appeared before him. He saw his staff officers straighten and salute. But then his vision swayed and rapidly darkened. It seemed to Reinhard that he cried out, but it did not register in his hearing.

  “Your Majesty!”

  Emil’s scream sent shivers down the spine of every staff officer attached to Imperial Headquarters. Before their very eyes, the invincible young conqueror had crumpled to the ground. Formally, Reinhard had never bowed his head before anyone but the kaiser of the Goldenbaum Dynasty; now, his golden mane had been forced into an unwelcome kiss with the bridge’s floor. His eyes were closed; the blood that showed through the inorganic white of his cheeks burned with an unhealthy crimson light. Commodore Kissling and Lieutenant Commander von Rücke ran to his side, lifting him off the floor between them. Angry cries and orders flew back and forth across the room, and medics and nurses rushed in as a tension very close to terror electrified the air. The unconscious kaiser was placed on a stretcher and carried back the way he had come, with Kissling, von Rücke, and Emil by his side.

  Senior Admiral Mecklinger’s face was somewhat pale, but he appeared to have maintained his composure. He turned to a nearby doctor.

  “Medic,” he said.

  “Y-yes, sir?”

  “Do not think that ‘unknown causes’ will suffice this time. Determine what ails the kaiser and administer the best treatment possible.”

  Privately, the medic gave thanks that the gentlemanly Mecklinger was the kaiser’s chief advisor rather than Wittenfeld. But his gratitude was premature, as he realized when Mecklinger reached out and seized him by the collar.

  The “Artist-Admiral’s” eyes flickered with a blue flame, burning at absolute zero. “Understand, medic, that your position brings with it certain responsibilities. If you cannot help the patient, you are no better than a village doctor. You will live up to my expectations, I trust?”

  Deathly pale, the medic nodded, and Mecklinger released his grip on the man’s collar. He smiled out of one side of his mouth.

  “My apologies, medic. It seems I got somewhat overexcited.”

  Speechless, the medic could only rub his throat.

  “The kaiser is unconscious.”

  The report that reached Marshal Mittermeier was awash with shock and fear. The Gale Wolf felt witch breath freeze the inner walls of his stomach and heart. His gray eyes, so rich in vitality, showed icy cracks. Nevertheless, confining his shock to his own body, he turned to his staff officers, whose faces were drained of color, and offered a sharp reprimand.

  “Calm yourselves. The kaiser has not left our mortal plane. Those who lose their composure today will face His Majesty’s wrath tomorrow.”

  Although Mittermeier was relatively slight of build, his presence at times like this overwhelmed even the tallest of his officers. They straightened up without realizing they did so. The warrior they served under was without equal, not just in the Imperial Navy, but in the entire galaxy.

  “More importantly,” Mittermeier continued, “this information must not reach the enemy. I want a partial shutdown of the comm network. Report only that to headquarters.”

  Mittermeier knew that Mecklinger was aboard Brünhild, and trusted him to take care of matters as necessary to prevent unrest at headquarters. This might mean throwing away the possibility of victory in the battle now unfolding, but under the circumstances this bitter pill would simply have to be swallowed.

  Was the Lohengramm Dynasty’s history fated to end before it had even spanned three full years? This horrifying prospect shot sideways through Mittermeier’s neurons. On the periphery of the consciousness of the commander hailed as the greatest treasure of the Imperial Navy, the twins known as Terror and Despair raised their abhorrent birthing cry.

  “Well, von Reuentahl, what do you think I should do? A lot of nerve you’ve got, leaving me to deal with this while you watch from Valhalla with drinking horn in hand.”

  Mittermeier’s complaint to his deceased friend was more than half serious. Even with the Gale Wolf’s daring and quick thinking, this situation would be difficult to control. He even found himself wondering what von Oberstein would do if he were there—proof of just how serious his state of mind was.

  And so the Imperial Navy was trapped in a snare of its own devising. By closing off part of the communications network and ordering strict radio silence on the subject of the kaiser’s condition, they prevented the Iserlohn fleet from learning of it, but at the same time cut vital links in their own chain of command.

  Mittermeier and Mecklinger had established a sort of wordless coordination with one another. It was working very near perfectly, but those who did not know of the kaiser’s illness could not enjoy its benefits. The question of when and how to convey the facts to Eisenach and Wittenfeld, still commanding the fleet’s wings, posed a new challenge for Mecklinger and von Streit.

  Particularly problematic was Wittenfeld. He had unleashed a wave of violence at the Iserlohn forces, charging farther ahead than any other imperial unit. At 0515, however, his advance was halted by a cannon formation constructed by Admiral Merkatz.

  Merkatz’s artfully constructed wall of fire and light prevented Wittenfeld’s ferocious charge. This could not hold the Black Lancers at bay forever, but it did buy Attenborough enough time to regroup his fleet, which he did by 0600.

  In his flagship Königs Tiger, Wittenfeld kicked against the floor of the bridge in frustration. Then he contacted Brünhild, the fleet’s mobile headquarters, to request mobilization of reserve forces for a second attack.

  The reply from headquarters, however, instructed him to refrain from dangerous aggression and fall back.

  “You oaf!” the orange-haired commander screamed at Mecklinger’s image on-screen, shaking his fist. “Put the kaiser on. Put him on, or I will fly to Brünhild myself by shuttle to petition His Majesty in person!”

  He was quite serious, and the Artist-Admiral could not help an internal tsk of frustration.

  “Admiral Wittenfeld, I am chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters by His Majesty’s direct appointment. Issuing battlefield movement orders to you and the other admirals is within the authority delegated to me by the kaiser. If you object to my instructions, we can debate the matter in His Majesty’s presence at a later date. For now, however, you have been given orders to retreat and I expect you to obey them.”

  Mecklinger felt that he had no choice but to put things in those terms, but this only provoked Wittenfeld to even greater rage. Furious, Wittenfeld offered an impolite and inartistic counterargument.

  “You doggerel-spewing cur! Since when do you play von Oberstein’s tunes on that piano of yours?”

  “A song by a jackal is more than sufficient to serenade a boar,” said Mecklinger, who was also an accomplished pianist.

  Meanwhile, during this severe but unconstructive exchange between headquarters and the fleet’s right wing, the left wing maintained its distance from the Iserlohn fleet.

  Ignoring the urg
ings of his staff officers, von Eisenach thought for some time before eventually raising his left hand and moving its upraised thumb back and forth. His chief of staff Admiral Grießenbeck, interpreting the wordless order, had the von Eisenach fleet begin a swift, temporary withdrawal from the close fighting on the front lines. When Iserlohn’s ships gave pursuit, the von Eisenach fleet rebuffed them with three rounds of concentrated cannon fire, then got back into formation with perfect precision. With this, von Eisenach had positioned the fleet to respond immediately to any orders from the kaiser, whatever they might be. But the silent admiral would have to wait a surprisingly long time before any such orders were received.

  V

  0920, May 31.

  The Battle of Shiva, having reached peculiar impasse, appeared, as it were, suspended in a sluggish backwater of time. Cannons roared, firing shots that turned ships into fireballs, and more and more dead were produced, but all with a strange lack of dynamism. It was as if the energies of both life and destruction were somehow being prevented from full combustion.

  At the rear of the Imperial Navy forces was a unit that was as yet entirely unharmed: the fleet commanded by Neidhart Müller, the “Iron Wall,” known for keeping his head in a crisis. Having received no orders from the kaiser to engage the enemy, Müller could only sit on the bridge of his flagship Parzival watching the swarms of light flicker on the screen.

  “Admiral Müller, we did not come to this battlefield to eat lunch. My men are eager to enter the fray and give the republicans a taste of our cannon.”

  The hot-tempered young staff officer was almost at boiling point. Müller raised a hand slightly to restrain him.

  “We cannot simply act without orders from His Majesty,” Müller said. “We have no choice but to wait for instructions from headquarters.”

  That said, Müller did recognize how peculiar it was that such orders should not have been received yet. A shadow of confusion spread its tiny wings in his sandy brown eyes. The kaiser Müller knew would have already ordered him to go around and attack the enemy from the rear, or at least on their flank, would he not? Given the vast difference in numbers, such a tactic would have been more than feasible. Still, as things stood, Müller, like von Eisenach, could only wait.