Compared to Rantemario, the strategic value of Mar Adetta was low, but tactically speaking, it was a vastly more difficult space for the imperial forces to operate in. It was impossible to calculate how many planets it had. Asteroids with radii no greater than 120 kilometers formed a vast belt, and the star itself was extremely unstable, with constant explosions taking place on its surface. This of course disrupted communications, and worse, Mar Adetta’s solar wind carried not only heat and energy, but also minuscule grains of rock, conveyed chaotically along in its turbulent flow. The larger the military force, the more difficult command and control would become. That was the intel the imperial forces received. Nearly all their astrographical knowledge of this sort came from materials obtained from Phezzan’s space traffic control bureau, and it may be said that simply by acquiring that, Reinhard had made an incomparable military achievement.
“That old man…That’s a nasty sector he’s gone and picked to fight in.”
Not even von Reuentahl and Mittermeier could help swearing under their breath. Those oaths, of course, contained an extremely potent element of admiration. This would very likely be the last battleground for the old admiral, who over the past half century had fought continually against the empire’s despotism. Recognizing that embodiment of ingenious tactics and solid backbone, both felt an urge to straighten their collars out of respect.
“Maybe we should praise him for having such courage at his age,” murmured Müller. Contained in their feelings of praise for him were particles of military romanticism and sentimentality, though there was neither exaggeration nor falsehood in their hearts. At the same time, they intuited that the old man was trying to inspire the democratic republicans by sacrificing his own life, and couldn’t help feeling a chill run down their spines. That chill was, of course, linked inseparably to exultation and satisfaction, and on that point there existed a sort of incorrigibility peculiar to the military spirit.
Like a twisted belt, a single winding corridor extended all the way through to the other side of the asteroid belt. The Free Planets’ forces were lurking somewhere within that 920,000-kilometer-long, 40,000-kilometer-wide tunnel-shaped void, waiting for the empire’s attack. They were making that fact clear for anyone to see. By their actions, they were showing their intent to challenge them.
On January 14, the Imperial Navy commenced a massive invasion of the Mar Adetta Stellar Region. Ice-blue torches were burning in the eyes of Reinhard, first kaiser of the Lohengramm Dynasty, ruler of the Galactic Empire. To the tips of his capillaries, fighting spirit coursed through those eyes. His tall, elegant form, wrapped in a splendid black and silver uniform, brimmed with the reasons that future generations would say, “a taste for warfare was in his character.” When he stood looking like that on the bridge of the flagship Brünhild, the soldiers and officers of the Imperial Navy could no longer help but see battle and victory as the same thing.
Mittermeier, one of the Imperial Navy’s Twin Ramparts, took command of the port wing from his own flagship Beowulf. At Reinhard’s side was the secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters, Oskar von Reuentahl.
Move the fleet, rearrange the formation, attack the enemy, do the maximum damage possible, then pull back out of the battlespace. No one could do that faster than Wolfgang Mittermeier. This was why he’d been crowned with the nom de guerre the “Gale Wolf.”
“He’s faster than lightning, and has good sense, too,” were the words that Oskar von Reuentahl used to praise his colleague’s superb handling of forces, and was himself praised by his colleague with these words: “His offense and defense are near perfection. In particular, I can’t touch the hem of his garment when it comes to prosecuting a battle while calmly looking across the whole of its vast battlespace.”
The imperial forces’ starboard wing was commanded by the “silent admiral”—Senior Admiral von Eisenach—with Senior Admiral Müller commanding the rear. Both were great admirals, second only to the Twin Ramparts in achievement and talent, with Müller in particular a man who’d been called “a first-rate commander” by his enemy Yang Wen-li.
“Let’s give this lifer of the Free Planets’ admiralty a fitting place to die. The age of gray-haired old men going into battle is already over.”
Von Reuentahl cautioned the young admirals against such bluster.
“That’s easier said than done. See to it you’re not the ones who get wrapped around your gray-haired old admiral’s little finger.”
The honor of commanding the vanguard went to two admirals who had made names for themselves under the command of the late Helmut Lennenkamp: von Knapfstein and Grillparzer. Reinhard wanted these two to follow the fine examples of von Reuentahl and Mittermeier. Of course, it was because their like was nowhere else to be seen that they deserved to be called Twin Ramparts, but at a time when these giants of the military were moving gradually from the front lines to the central hub, there was a need for people who could fill their shoes, even if they were only imitators.
As an additional reserve force, Senior Admiral Fahrenheit had placed his forces on standby near the outer edge of the Mar Adetta system. Depending on the tactics that alliance forces employed, they might have to move a considerable distance and range to respond to an enemy attack on their allies’ rear or flank, but it was most important to keep the door open for active operations, such as detouring to the rear of the corridor to cut off the alliance forces’ path of retreat, or pressing even deeper into the corridor to coordinate with allies in the vanguard and catch the enemy in a pincer movement. This was what most agreed with Fahrenheit’s nature. While he wanted Reinhard to give the order to invade the corridor from the outset, Reinhard knew it was impossible to use a large force to its best advantage inside a narrow corridor, and the chances were very high that the Free Planets’ military was laying a trap inside. For these reasons, Reinhard chose to open with orthodox tactics. At which point, the astrographical advantage tilted toward the alliance.
It was, in a number of ways, a battle outside the bounds of common sense, and at such times, somebody had to step up and venture a commonsensical opinion. The kaiser’s chief aide, Vice Admiral von Streit, by tacit agreement of his colleagues, took on that duty at this time.
“Surely Your Majesty need not personally meet the enemy head-on in decisive battle. If the main fleet makes straight for Heinessen, a separate force can stay behind, bottling up the enemy, and restraining them from taking any ill-advised actions. That would settle the whole matter. Even if Marshal Bucock is a seasoned tactician and has the confidence of his men, it’s ultimately a single battlespace he’s betting his life on. I think Your Majesty would do well to just ignore him.”
Reinhard had been expecting this advice, so no sign of anger or surprise showed on his face. Ice-blue auroras danced wildly in both his eyes as the young kaiser looked around at all of his staff officers. It was clear that he wanted those besides von Streit to hear his reply as well.
“Your advice is not mistaken. But this is the challenge of an aged admiral forged in countless battles, a challenge he’s likely braving death in order to make. To refuse it would be discourteous. And while I’m not without other reasons, for me and my forces, that alone should be reason enough.”
Offering no further explanation, Reinhard sealed the lips of von Streit and all the advisors under him. They had never thought that the kaiser might lose. What the kaiser’s nature had decided, no further words of advice could alter.
Even though both of them had become imperial marshals, von Reuentahl and Mittermeier’s custom of drinking wine together before a battle remained in effect. Following a strategy session aboard the flagship Brünhild on January 15, Mittermeier visited von Reuentahl in his private quarters. The cabin’s master supplied the wine.
“What do you think? About this battle?”
The marshal with the mismatched eyes didn’t answer Mittermeier’s question r
ight away. In the dark mirror of his wine, the colors of his left and right eyes became indistinguishable. When the blood-colored wine had spread at last through his veins, he moved his lips and weaved together a reply.
“If this battle has any meaning at all, it’s on the emotional level, not the rational level. The old lion and the young lion are both craving this fight. Honor will add some color to the proceedings, but in the end, a sword, once drawn, does not return to its scabbard without first being drenched in blood.”
“I never knew till today that you had the soul of a poet.”
Von Reuentahl ignored his friend’s intention to lighten the mood.
“I understand those two,” he said. “And surely you do, as well. History is thirsty when it awakens, just like a human being. The Goldenbaum Dynasty is already finished. The Free Planets Alliance might have survived up until today, but tomorrow it will end. History is craving an enormous draught of blood, Mittermeier. It can’t wait to drain the cup dry.”
Mittermeier frowned, and unusually for one praised among the empire’s most courageous admirals, a thin cloud of unease passed across his face. At last, he assayed an argument, though his voice lacked much in the way of assertiveness.
“Even if that’s true,” he said, “I think it must surely be sick of the stuff by this point…”
“I wonder. Do you believe that, Mittermeier?”
Von Reuentahl’s voice, unable to control his emotions or his reason, made him sound like he was slightly confused and was bouncing that confusion off his friend to see what he would say.
Mittermeier thumped his empty glass hard with his fingertip. “The divided universe will be united by the hands of His Majesty, Kaiser Reinhard, and he will bring peace. If, as you say, the Free Planets Alliance ends tomorrow, the morning on the day after tomorrow will shine bright with the light of peace. If it doesn’t, then everything we’ve worked for, and all of the blood we’ve spilled, will have been for nothing.”
After a long silence, von Reuentahl said, “Exactly.”
As he nodded agreement, his face took on a sort of invisible camouflage under the mild effect of the wine. Put another way, the labyrinth of his heart had become visible through his skin.
“Here is what I think, however. Even if history did get sick and tired of swilling human blood, it would only be the amount that was the problem. And as for quality? The nobler the sacrifice, the more that cruel god rejoices…”
“Von Reuentahl!” Mittermeier’s sharp voice sent a keen gust of reason and realism blowing through the circuitry of von Reuentahl’s nerves, acting like a ventilator’s fan. The alcohol and the invisible fog that had lain over his thoughts had been driven from his body, and with one raised hand, he waved away both, remaining silent until his usual lucid intellect had reoccupied his brain cells.
“I…seem to have been acting a part that I’m truly miscast for. After all, I’m no poet or philosopher—I’m just a crude soldier. I should leave this sort of thing to people like Mecklinger.”
“Thank goodness you’ve come to your senses. For the time being, we need to know what the enemy in front of us is planning, rather than the will of some ‘god of history’ we’ve never even met.”
Von Reuentahl pinched his earlobe. “At any rate, this battle is best called a ceremony. One in which we pay tribute to the Free Planets Alliance’s funeral procession. Unless it takes this form, neither the living nor the dead will be able to accept the fact of its destruction.”
After pouring the last of the wine into one another’s glasses, they looked toward the screen in silence. The crests of long waves of light, made up of countless ships both near and far superimposed upon one another, stretched away into the distance. By tomorrow, a considerable number of them would be erased forever, buried under the black boards of which the universe was composed.
At last, Mittermeier took his leave of Brünhild and returned to his own flagship, Beowulf.
Marshal Alexandor Bucock, commander in chief of the Free Planets Alliance Space Armada, was in his office on board his flagship, checking over the plan one last time.
His personal feelings aside, it was his duty as commander to do what he could to increase their chances of victory, even if only slightly.
Strictly speaking, it was impossible to determine numerically how large a force the FPA Armed Forces had been able to mobilize for this “final battle of the Free Planets Alliance.” Already, Joint Operational Headquarters had lost its ability to lead the military, and much materiel and many records had been disposed of, with only estimates and memories existing to fill the gaps. Even so, it was possible to calculate surprisingly large numbers: between twenty thousand and twenty-two thousand vessels, and between 2.3 million and 2.5 million soldiers and officers.
An extreme argument has been made that “the Battle of Mar Adetta, waged at the beginning of SE 800, was not so much the final battle of the Free Planets Alliance as a personal duel between Kaiser Reinhard and Marshal Bucock.” However, Bucock at the very least fought with the alliance’s flag raised high, while to the soldiers and officers—having run to the old admiral’s camp after abandoning an alliance government that had lost its ability to govern—it was Bucock, rather than the political and military VIPs who had gone into hiding on Heinessen, who was viewed as the symbol of the Free Planets Alliance. This was not something to be argued at the level of good and evil; it was simply a fact. The catastrophe that had followed a mere six months after the signing of the Baalat Treaty had put the FPA military at a terrible disadvantage when it came to planning a long-term strategy, though the fact that they had still been in the midst of scrapping their battleships had ironically worked in their favor.
Admiral Chung “Baker’s Son” Wu-cheng’s first step toward improving their force strength was to put himself in a self-contradictory position. While he was working to pull together a force big enough to actively deal with Reinhard’s invasion, he at the same time had to leave behind forces enough for Yang Wen-li and the rest to lead later on. As the Twin Ramparts had surmised, he viewed himself as a priest conducting funerary rites for the Alliance Armed Forces, and at the same time a midwife trying to assist at the birth of a democratic republican revolutionary military. For that reason, he had sent the former leaders of the Yang Fleet, who ordinarily would have become his able and trustworthy allies, to El Facil.
During this time, the fleets led by Murai, Fischer, and Patrichev had still not managed to reunite with Yang. In order to avoid friction with alliance forces and contact with imperial forces, they had been forced from the start to take a wide detour around the frontier sectors before heading to Iserlohn. Normally, a transit period of one month would have been a reasonable calculation, but this time they had to practically grope their way forward along a frontier route, much of which was heretofore unknown. Contact with them was lost in the Fara system, where a stellar explosion scattered the fleet. When they finally finished reassembling their formation, Fischer—that master of fleet operations—developed a high fever due to overwork, and among the frightened and upset soldiers and officers, some attempted to peel away from the armada. For a time, the fleet was faced with the danger of coming apart at the seams. At that time, Murai scrambled to gain control over the main force, while Patrichev and Soon, leading their best and brightest, put down the mutiny. Even so, that mutiny came within a hair’s width of being successful.
Patrichev had always trusted in Yang Wen-li’s cribbed philosophy of “When they run, don’t pursue,” but if he permitted the mutineers to desert in this case, there was a danger that both their objective and position would be compromised. Since they lacked sufficient confidence in handling a fleet-versus-fleet battle, one didn’t have to be Murai in order to feel nervous about protecting their secrecy. Even after imprisoning the mutineers, Patrichev continued to be vexed by repeated accidents and plots to rebel. According to Soon’s reminiscences, after hard l
abors “equivalent to one scale off the snake that was the Long March of 10,000 Light-Years,” they were able to enter the Iserlohn Corridor and at the end of January SE 800 be reunited with Yang Wen-li and the others. At that time, Yang released the more than four hundred imprisoned mutineers, and paid them their salaries for the first time since they’d left Heinessen. Half of the mutineers departed in shuttles they were given, but the other half stayed on at Iserlohn to fight along with Yang Wen-li.
Alexandor Bucock was supposed to reach his seventy-fourth birthday during the year of SE 800, but he had long since given up on having any chance to test his lung power against a birthday cake bristling with that many candles.
Chief of Staff Chung Wu-cheng entered the room with a face lacking much tension.
“How about getting a little rest, Your Excellency?”
“Hmm, I’d intended to, but in the end, if I’m going to fight, I want to put up one I can be satisfied with.”
“Don’t worry about that. Kaiser Reinhard isn’t going to do anything shocking.”
“I hope you’re right. Even so, this is going to get a lot of people killed, not to mention me. It isn’t like I’m just now realizing it, but this is a sinful thing.”
“Why not become a doctor in your next life? That way, you should be able to balance things out.”
Bucock looked at the chief of staff with surprise in his eyes. He’d never thought he would hear Chung Wu-cheng using words like “next life.” But without saying so, he breathed out a reminiscence as though speaking to himself, while rubbing his tired eyelids with his fingers.
“When I think about it, I’m probably one of the lucky ones. At the end of my life, I was able to meet two incomparably great strategists in Reinhard von Lohengramm and Yang Wen-li. And I was able to do so without ever seeing the sight of either of them getting injured or defeated.”
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 7 Page 17
