Ambition (14 page)

It was April 19, in the year 488 of the imperial calendar and 797 of the SE calendar.

This was how what came to be known as the Lippstadt War commenced.

The sixteen thousand–ship fleet led by Staden and the fifteen thousand–ship fleet led by Mittermeier drew near to one another, each choosing the shortest route toward its opponent’s home territory. The goal of this skirmish lay not in the seizure of some strategic location, but rather in the psychological effect—if any—of winning the first battle and learning something of the enemy’s tactical capabilities.

The two forces came face-to-face in interstellar space near the Artena system. However, Mittermeier positioned six million fusion mines in front of his own forces to block the enemy’s path of attack, regrouped his fleet into a spherical formation, and then idled in place. A day went by, and then another, but he would not budge from that position.

Staden grew suspicious and fearful. Mittermeier’s keen intellect and swift ferocity had earned him the nickname of “Gale Wolf.” He had been given the honor of leading the vanguard. Yet here he was, just shoring up defenses while making no move to attack. What was Mittermeier up to? He had to be planning something—Staden couldn’t imagine it otherwise. But what was he planning?

This was how Staden also halted his advance.

As Staden was grappling with the situation, what he found most frustrating were the young aristocrats under his command. Beneficiaries since birth of countless privileges, they had walked through life on the feet of others, as it were, all but free of any impediment, and had grown up looking down on those who did not possess privilege themselves—to them, a desire was a thing to be realized without effort. If they decided they wanted to win, they should simply win. Staden’s behavior looked more craven than cautious to them, and there were even those among them who said so openly. They were possessed of a morbidly obese self-respect and were completely insensitive to the feelings of others.

With soothing words and flattery, Staden continued to dissuade them from reckless action, even as he bore the sting of their abuses. This required no small effort.

“It should be just about time now. Shall we pay Instructor Staden back for all his help years ago?”

It was near the end of the third day that Mittermeier gave orders to his men.

A comm officer appeared before Staden to report that they had intercepted a transmission from Mittermeier’s fleet. Analysis of the audio had revealed that while Mittermeier was buying time by not attacking, Marquis von Lohengramm’s main force was growing nearer by the hour. Mittermeier planned to rendezvous with them, then launch an all-out assault with overwhelming numerical superiority.

Did Mittermeier leak that intentionally?
Staden wondered. However:
If that intelligence is correct, I can understand why Mittermeier would take a firm defensive position and not try to attack. If that’s the case, could Mittermeier have deliberately leaked correct information?

Staden was perplexed. He could no longer see consistency in Mittermeier’s actions. Nevertheless, he gave orders to put the fleet on heightened alert, taking into consideration the threat of a sneak attack.

The indignation of the young nobles was right on the verge of exploding. What passivity! What indecisiveness! Wasn’t the whole point of coming to this stellar region to cross swords with the enemy, test their mettle, and crush their morale? “We can’t rely on our commander any further,” they said. “All we can depend on is ourselves.”

The young nobles took counsel with one another, arrived at a consensus, and then went to Staden to demand he launch an attack. Their demands sounded very close to threats. If he refused, they might well plunge the fleet into disorderly combat anyway, after throwing him in the brig.

At last, Staden gave in and authorized the attack. However, to try and control the young nobles insofar as it was possible, he did provide them with a battle plan. The entire force was to split toward starboard and port in order to detour around the minefield. After the port wing had clashed head-on with Mittermeier’s force, the starboard wing would circle around to the enemy’s rear, attack them on their flank and back side, and drive them into the minefield. By Staden’s standards, it was a rather sloppy plan, but it was clear to see that anything too elaborate would leave his comrades unable to act well in concert.

Staden was beginning to have regrets about taking charge of a force like this. However, there was nothing to do at this point except destroy Mittermeier as swiftly as possible, then pull back out before Reinhard’s main force arrived. He took personal command of the port wing of his regiment, gave command of the starboard wing to a young nobleman named Count Hildesheim, and commenced the operation.

Count Hildesheim hurried off with his fleet. Anxious to make a name for himself, he didn’t even try to suppress his boiling aggression. Eight thousand vessels did head off in the same direction, but they were unable to maintain an orderly formation as a group.

By that time, Mittermeier’s forces had of course moved away from their original position. They had relocated to a point far outside of the minefield. Viewed from directly overhead, this placed Hildesheim’s forces
between
the minefield and Mittermeier’s force.

“Energy waves and multiple missiles approaching from three o’clock!”

As panic was seizing operators aboard every ship in the Hildesheim force, there came a flash of white light from the first fusion explosion. Before it had time to fade, the second and third explosions followed. Energy beams, fusion missiles, and huge shells launched by rail guns swarmed in with a swiftness that left no spare time for anyone to take in what was happening and enveloped the cosmos in rainbow-hued beams. When the beams vanished, everything had returned to nothingness. Human bodies, incinerated or rent asunder, had been returned to their component atoms, which mingled with the interstellar dust. Perhaps in a few billion years that mixture might form the nucleus of a newborn star.

Count Hildesheim was killed in action before he himself could realize it. He was likely the first of the highborn to lose his life in the civil war.

After crushing the desperate and disorganized counterattack of the Hildesheim force, Mittermeier had his fleet continue to advance full speed ahead. This was so as to circle clockwise around the minefield and attack Staden’s main force from the rear. Attacking the back side of an enemy force reduced by half would position him well for certain victory. And who but the Gale Wolf could have done so?

When Reinhard’s main fleet arrived, the Battle of Artena was already over. Mittermeier, praised by Reinhard for his superlative use of force strength, apologized for letting Staden slip through his fingers, then added with a smile that it was going to be a huge pain to recover all the mines he had used to set the playing field.

While elements within both the empire and the alliance were still trying to outwit or murder one another, or both, the trading state known as the Phezzan Land Dominion was bursting with industrious energy. As it continued to evade the horrors and tragedies of the war, the workings of its greedy economy were sucking up every last bit of profit to be gained from it. To all of the factions they were selling all manner of merchandise—weapons, foodstuffs, ores, military uniforms, intelligence, and occasionally people in the form of mercenaries. They were striving to monopolize all the wealth in the universe.

De la Court, located not far from the capital’s spaceport, was a bar where independent merchants gathered—the kind who traveled all over the galaxy without an asset to their names except a single spaceship and a handful of clever businessmen.

Boris Konev, age twenty-eight, was one such free merchant and captain of the merchant ship
Beryozka
. Although he had spirit enough for several men, he was still known generally only as a small-time merchant. He was enjoying a black beer during his scant free time when another independent merchant of his acquaintance called out to him.

After exchanging two or three pleasantries, the merchant said, “By the way, I’ve heard a strange rumor.”

“Most rumors are strange.”

Konev finished off his black beer and asked him about the rumor.

“Well, basically, His Excellency, Landesherr Rubinsky, has apparently got something really big in the works.”

“That chrome dome?”

The face of Rubinsky sketched itself in the back of Konev’s mind, a far cry indeed from anything pure or refined, and while he listened to the other man tell his story, he became unable to suppress an ironic smirk.

“So he makes the two great powers—the empire and the alliance—wipe each other out, and then Phezzan comes along and picks up the pieces. That’s crazy, you know.”

“Well, I said it was a strange rumor, didn’t I? Don’t laugh like that—I’m not the one who suggested it.”

“Honestly, I wonder who does come up with that kind of thing.”

Konev reached out his hand for another black beer, unaware of the grimace on one side of his mouth. As far as heuristics went, “A rumor is strange, therefore it lacks credence” was not always useful. They said Rubinsky had always been a competent leader, but it was always possible that he was really a megalomaniac and nobody knew about it or that someday he might become mentally unstable.

Phezzan was a parasite, the young Konev believed. Without a host, it couldn’t live. If its hosts, the empire and the alliance, were to be destroyed, Phezzan would wilt and die itself. It shouldn’t mess around with things it wasn’t good at, such as military affairs and politics.

“Anyway,” Konev said, deciding to change the subject, “do you know what your next job’s gonna be?”

“Yeah, get this: I’m transporting
thirty thousand
members of some kind of Earth religion. Apparently, they’re on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

“Holy Land?”

“They mean Earth.”

“Huh. So Earth is the Holy Land?” The young captain laughed mockingly.

For him, religions and gods were nothing more than fodder for jokes—can an all-powerful god make a woman who won’t listen to him? If he can’t, then he’s not all-powerful, but if he does and then can’t make her listen, well, he’s not all-powerful in that case either …

Even so, it was a fact that the Terraist faith was swelling its membership with a surprising energy. As for Konev, he couldn’t judge whether this was a positive or a negative.

After draining his second beer, Konev parted from his acquaintance, left the bar, and headed for the spaceport building, where he was allotted a small office.

“Officer Marinesk, what’s my next job?”

Officer Marinesk was only four years older than the spaceship captain, although the difference looked more like ten.

Although he was still young, Marinesk had lost half his hair, was girded with unnecessary flab, and had a face lacking in good cheer and generosity—nothing could wipe away the impression he gave of a middle-aged man exhausted by life. However, without this man’s reliable office and accounting skills, the free merchant ship
Beryozka
would undoubtedly have been sold off to some big capitalist venture long ago.