“Fire!”
“Fire!”
The same order, issued in the same language.
The field of stars vanished, outshone by myriad beams of light. Vessels cloaked in energy-neutralization fields glowed like colossal fireflies. Those unable to endure the burden exploded in all directions, spattering the vivid paints of death and destruction across a rampageous canvas of shadow and light. Balls of light and fire erupted without rhyme or reason, as if the goddess of war were shaking them off a broken necklace. This continued with the second exchange. Warships were torn open with exhalations of energy that sent animate beings and inanimate objects hurtling into the vacuum together. Space filled with silent screams; heat and flame enfolded the casualties in a blazing shroud. However noble a military unit’s commander may be, it exists for one purpose: to secure supremacy by force. The most effective means of doing so is murder. To kill and to die are the duties of a soldier.
Beams and missiles created pockets of ghastly day in their corner of the endless night. Holes opened in hulls and vomited motive components into the void. Soldiers being burned alive rolled screaming across floors, watching blood and innards spill from their dying forms.
At the outset of the Second Battle of Rantemario, also known as the Clash of the Twin Ramparts, the Reuentahl fleet was 5,200,000 soldiers strong while the Mittermeier fleet had 2,590,000, giving the former the numerical advantage. Accordingly, von Reuentahl went on the offensive and Mittermeier defended. By rights these should have been the basic battle postures of the two sides, but Mittermeier made skillful use of the mobile forces under his direct command to repeatedly block the Reuentahl fleet’s attempts at penetration. It was clear that any victory would be hard-won. Mittermeier had opened hostilities knowing that he had the numerical disadvantage in order to create a situation in which von Reuentahl would choose defeat in detail rather than a protracted war of resistance. Strategically, he expected a short and decisive confrontation; at the tactical level, he only needed to hold the line against Reuentahl’s fleet until his own allies arrived in force, leaving the final stages of the conflict for later. Such was Mittermeier’s basic position.
The balance of military force shifted with surprising speed.
At 0830 on November 25, Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld arrived with his fleet on the scene. The frenzied pace of his advance had left a few ships behind, but he still had more than ten thousand, which would have no small effect on the state of the conflict.
“Further, harder, bolder, tougher!” This was the motto of the Black Lancers, to whom cowardice, passivity, and hesitation were anathema.
“Charge!” shouted Wittenfeld on the bridge of his flagship Königs Tiger as it took its place at the head of the Black Lancers’ offensive. “Let’s give Mittermeier a break for breakfast!”
Legend has it that Wittenfeld had skipped breakfast himself that day, and was eating a frankfurter with extra mustard even as he stood before his bridge’s main screen. If this was an intentional act of bravado, it is hard to avoid criticizing it as overdone.
On the bridge of his flagship Tristan, von Reuentahl made a noise of disgust. “The Black Lancers are here, I see.” While fighting alongside them as allies, he had not, in all honesty, thought the Black Lancers especially intimidating. Now that they appeared before him as the enemy, he could not deny the sinking feeling of being explosively overwhelmed. Each and every one of the overlapping points of light charged toward him with its fangs bared in open hostility.
A chain of explosions lit up the area, expelled energy surged across the field in waves, but the Königs Tiger led the Black Lancers toward the Reuentahl fleet without slowing or weakening. They had an almost arrogant air about them, and the Reuentahl fleet’s left flank was so intimidated and unnerved that their formation slipped a fraction. Mittermeier’s largest formation responded by focusing its main cannons there, firing three volleys, and began a relentless approach under cover of concentrated firepower. It was 0915.
IV
Wittenfeld’s Black Lancers had lost half their number during the Battle of the Corridor in April and May of that year. Since then, however, they had been merged with the former Fahrenheit fleet, and in purely numerical terms were 10 percent larger now than they had been at the founding of the Lohengramm Dynasty.
Both the original Black Lancers and the former Fahrenheit fleet had been renowned for daring and valor under skilled leadership, but in military organization fifty added to fifty does not necessarily make a hundred. And the more capable and individual a unit is, the more difficulty it has integrating with others.
At Rantemario, the original Black Lancers moved in lockstep with Wittenfeld’s orders, flooding the battlefield with their usual ruthlessness: everything before them was the enemy, and every enemy was to be annihilated. Members of the former Fahrenheit fleet, however, were a fraction slower to advance. This opened a gap which part of the Reuentahl fleet was able to slip into, setting off chaotic dogfights that rippled outward in waves.
With imperial forces on both sides of the battle, ships of the same make mingled together, making it difficult to distinguish friend from foe. This confusion was one of the defining marks of the Second Battle of Rantemario.
“Don’t embarrass yourselves!” roared Wittenfeld. “We’ve fought imperial forces before—remember the Lippstadt War? This is no time to get squeamish about it!”
With their distinctive lacquer-black exteriors, Wittenfeld’s ships were in no danger of being misidentified by either side. The exact same paint job had been given to the ships reassigned from the Fahrenheit fleet, of course, but their crews could not escape the lingering feeling that they had been the victims of a takeover. Some still believed that Wittenfeld’s mad rush at the Battle of the Corridor had been partly responsible for Fahrenheit’s death, and although this was in the past now, they remained unhappy with how things had turned out. Fahrenheit had enjoyed the confidence of his fleet, and some of his former troops who were now in the Black Lancers had indeed served under him in the Lippstadt War three years ago—battling von Reuentahl and the rest of Reinhard’s forces. Now, reassigned to Wittenfeld’s command, they were fighting von Reuentahl again, this time on Reinhard’s behalf. This must have inspired no small number to reflect on the bitter ironies of fate.
At 1700 on November 25, the Wahlen fleet joined the Black Lancers on the battlefield, bringing roughly equivalent might to bear. Until that point, Mittermeier had shown patience; the entry of Wahlen’s ships should have granted him security in the superiority of his forces. But, as he considered the overall arrangement of the two sides on his sub-screen, he noticed one enemy unit that was moving oddly.
“What do we have here?” he wondered aloud.
Lieutenant Commander Kurlich, one of his staff officers, replied, “They must be under the direct command of Marshal von Reuentahl.”
“Obviously. Irregulars, perhaps?”
What concerned Mittermeier was what the maneuvering of the unit, presumably the enemy’s most elite force, might indicate about its intentions. Its lines of activity were neither simple nor straight, and it took some time before Mittermeier made a noise of irritation. “I should have known,” he said.
The Bayerlein fleet, which was already ahead of the rest of Mittermeier’s forces, advanced further as if dragged out by a partial enemy retreat, and its retreat was partly cut off.
Mittermeier had warned Bayerlein not to fall for any traps that von Reuentahl might lay, but the commander’s youth and ferocity rendered him incapable of applying the brakes to an attack that had begun to accelerate.
Von Reuentahl watched the approaching fleet with fierce coldness, then turned to his own aide, Lieutenant Commander von Reckendorf, with a smile.
“What do you say, von Reckendorf? Shall we show our inexperienced comrade what tactics are?”
Von Reuentahl was young enough to be called inexperienced himself, but the difference in dignity and formidability between him and Bayerl
ein was far greater than would be expected from the five years separating their actual ages.
The Reuentahl fleet drew Bayerlein’s ships into the center of a dense ring of fire, showering them with beams and missiles from close range. Bayerlein tried to retreat even as he returned fire, but with every alternation between the two actions von Reuentahl pressed his advantage further, and by the time Mittermeier came to the rescue the losses were severe. Bayerlein’s second-in-command, Vice Admiral Remar, was killed, along with three other admirals.
“They got us,” said Bayerlein, visibly regretful on the communications screen. “My sincere apologies.”
“They’re still getting us,” Mittermeier replied unsmilingly. “It’s too soon to use the past tense. Let’s hope we can add a contrastive conjunction soon.”
The metaphor would have suited Mecklinger more, but the Gale Wolf let it be, sinking back into thought.
Von Reuentahl may be perfect, but his subordinates are not. Therein lies the key to victory.
Of course, Mittermeier could not have known about Grillparzer’s betrayal, or that von Knapfstein had gotten caught up in it, but even so he found it difficult to believe that either of them were willing to die for von Reuentahl, so he decided to concentrate his firepower on these weak links in the enemy chain of command. It was an unremarkable idea, but the sheer volume of fire he brought to bear on them, and the speed with which he did so, were remarkable indeed. In just moments, the Knapfstein fleet was all but overwhelmed. Unable to bear up under Mittermeier’s ferocious offensive, von Knapfstein pulled his ships back, formations in tatters. He worked desperately to rebuild the command structure, but Mittermeier did not allow him time to finish. Von Knapfstein’s defensive line fell apart like a crumbling sandcastle.
“Damn that Grillparzer! When is he going to turn on von Reuentahl?”
This was the formless chain that restricted von Knapfstein’s judgment and actions. He was not without ability of his own, having been appointed by Reinhard and trained as a tactician by the late Helmut Lennenkamp. He was viewed as one of the officers who would bear the Galactic Empire on his shoulders five or ten years from now.
For his own, internal reasons, however, he was unable to exercise his full abilities. He was a puritanically serious man by nature, and part of him was uncomfortable with betrayal and deception, no matter how it was explained away as loyalty to the kaiser. Furthermore, the enemy he faced was simply too powerful. By the time he heard his operators screaming, his flagship was already trapped in a mass of fireballs, each explosion setting off the next. Death battered his ship’s energy-neutralization field with crimson sparks and, with vast and unseen hands, began to pry open the cracks that appeared in its hull.
“Preposterous! This cannot be!” Von Knapfstein’s scream was directed at both a higher power and at man. Space-time was full of injustice. He was neither an active rebel against the kaiser nor an active betrayer of those who were; why did he have to be the first to die in this meaningless battle?
In the next moment, a column of fire tore his flagship apart, and von Knapfstein’s flesh and spirit were reduced to atoms along with his ship in a vast sphere of white-hot light. The practically infinite microscopic grains that make up time sucked the dying man’s objections into the unfathomable dark.
It was 0609, November 29.
Von Knapfstein’s death was surely the most senseless in the whole civil war. What was more, only one other person knew this: Grillparzer, the very man who had talked him into his double betrayal. The accomplice paid for his crime long before the ringleader.
The report of von Knapfstein’s death was brought to von Reuentahl ten minutes later.
“I see,” von Reuentahl said. “A shame. I wish that could have been avoided.”
Von Reuentahl did not, of course, have a complete picture of the circumstances. His sympathy was simply what common courtesy required. Of course, even if he had known all the details, he might well have said exactly the same thing.
Grillparzer received the report of his colleague’s death silently and without expression. Whether he shook his head internally at von Knapfstein’s bumbling, or rejoiced that he would be able to claim this dark achievement all for himself in the near future, no one would ever know.
That moment might have been the most favorable one for his betrayal, but he failed to take the decision. Under Mittermeier’s punishing offensive, he had no breathing room. If he abandoned his resistance, he would be torn to shreds in an instant, before he could even begin his betrayal.
Without a commander, the Knapfstein fleet’s chain of command was in tatters, and the best it could manage was a despairing and largely ineffective counterattack as it wavered to and fro.
Despite the worsening situation, von Reuentahl’s tactical mastery allowed him to successfully create an imbalance in the Mittermeier fleet’s formation. By carefully balancing areas of sparseness and density in the distribution of his firepower, he created a fault line between the Black Lancers and the rest of Mittermeier’s fleet.
Under a barrage of missiles, the Black Lancers had their weakness as defenders exposed. For a moment it seemed as if they would descend from half panic to full rout.
“Hold the line! Hold the line, damn you!” Wittenfeld stamped his foot on the floor of Königs Tiger’s bridge, his orange hair in flying. “If anyone falls back, blow them away with Königs Tiger’s main cannon. A true warrior would prefer that to living on as a coward!”
Such an order would never be carried out, but when his vice chief of staff, Rear Admiral Eugen, broadcast it on the comms circuit, his ships froze in horror and the disorderly rout was ended before it began. Meanwhile, Königs Tiger not only had not frozen, it continued to advance through the storm of fireballs and light. Even inorganic objects like beams and missiles seemed to give it a wide berth, as if fearing its savagery.
“Who knows what Wittenfeld might do, eh? I suppose notoriety has its uses.”
Von Reuentahl laughed, and it did not seem entirely cynical. Whatever their motives or aims, it was true that the Black Lancers had stepped back from the brink to reestablish their fighting spirit and formation. Even von Reuentahl’s masterful offensive was blocked by their iron arm.
This in turn set off a positive chain reaction in the near-antagonistic attitude of the former Fahrenheit fleet.
“Remember Marshal Fahrenheit, and do him proud!” said Vice Admiral Hofmeister, once known as one of the fiercest leaders under Fahrenheit’s command. “We can’t let those raging Black Lancer boars steal the show!” And he led his colleagues in switching from a defensive posture to an offensive one.
Nothing upsets the calculations of a commander like morale igniting such as this, in a plane irrelevant to the dictates of strategic logic. The awe and admiration among the Imperial Navy for Yang Wen-li had not just been because of the countless miracles he produced from his magician’s hat. He also maintained morale at the highest level among his subordinates, right up until his death.
The Black Lancers knew little of cooperation or coordination, but they hurled themselves against approaching death and destruction with absolute fearlessness. Von Reuentahl watched the battle unfold in shock, cool and collected manner so rattled that he almost laughed in disbelief. In the end, he avoided the foolishness of facing the zealots head-on, but was forced to retreat on every front. Even then, the way his fleet remained orderly to the last, creating no clear opportunity to attack, was to Wittenfeld and the others another example of his charmless perfection as a commander.
V
November 30. Combat continued incessantly, relentlessly.
Both sides were led by commanders of equal ability, able to accurately perceive tactical shifts and respond with swift countermeasures. As a result, while both sides took losses, neither suffered a critical blow, and the battle began to resemble a war of attrition.
This did not bode well for von Reuentahl. If both sides lost combat strength at the same rate, his forces would
be buried in a bottomless marsh of fire and light. Mittermeier’s fleet would be worn down, too, but behind it waited another, completely unharmed and under the kaiser’s direct control.
Mittermeier was not a patient man by nature, but he knew how dangerous it would be to act rashly with von Reuentahl as opponent. He imposed double the forbearance on himself, enduring physical and mental consumption that would have made a weak-willed commander faint.
And, of course, his friend and mighty opponent was doing the same.
“I think I finally understand how hard Yang Wen-li had to work,” von Reuentahl said to himself with a rueful smile. “Not to mention his true greatness.”
Facing an enemy with near-unlimited regenerative power brought fatigue as agonizing as a rasp to the nerves. How stupid those fraudulent tacticians were who prattled of “striking a large force with a small one.” Even the bravest, most loyal soldiers had limits to their physical and mental energy. If they were to recover, it was necessary to have enough to allow some to rest and recuperate while others fought the next battle. This was why large armies were so effective.
Von Reuentahl had absolutely no illusions about the morale of his troops this time. In part this was linked to his having no illusions about himself, but as a result he was apparently able to exercise his coolheadedness as a tactician to the fullest.
1600, December 1. Wittenfeld, who had been in the thick of the fighting since it began, was finally forced to temporarily retreat and regroup. For just a moment, von Reuentahl’s fleet had the edge in firepower over the enemy’s front lines. Von Reuentahl shortened the line and, using concentrated fire to hold Mittermeier’s fleet back from advancing, led the agile units under his direct command in an attempt to strike at their enemy’s left flank. Success would have left Mittermeier’s ships partly encircled, vulnerable to walls of firepower on both left and right
But this dramatic offensive was nipped in the bud by a swift response from Senior Admiral Augustus Samuel Wahlen. The exchange of fire was so furious that it overloaded the sector with the energy it unleashed and created a gigantic energy cyclone that dragged in ships from both sides.
Upheaval Page 18
