Dawn (19 page)

Fischer, in late middle age with silver hair and a mustache; Murai, a thin, nervous-looking man close in age to Fischer; and Patrichev, with long sideburns on his rounded face and a uniform that seemed fit to burst from the strain of holding in his body—all three of them for a while simply stared back at their young commander.

The moment passed, and then Murai asked the obvious question: “And if it doesn’t work, then what?”

“Then all we can do is run away with our tails between our legs.”

“But if we do that …”

“Then what? Don’t worry about it. Taking down Iserlohn with half a fleet was an unreasonable demand from the start. The ones who end up embarrassed in front of everybody will be Director Sitolet and me.”

After he dismissed the three of them, Yang called for his aide, Sublieutenant Frederica Greenhill.

In her position as his personal aide, Frederica had learned about Yang’s plan before the three executive officers, but she had raised no objection, nor even shown any sign of anxiety. No, far from that, she had predicted success with a certainty exceeding that of Yang himself.

“What is it that makes you so confident?” Yang just couldn’t help asking, though he was well aware what a strange thing that was to say.

“Because, Admiral, you were also successful eight years ago, at El Facil.”

“That’s still awfully flimsy grounds, though, don’t you think?”

“Maybe … but at that time, Admiral, you succeeded in planting absolute trust in the heart of one little girl.”

Yang gave her a quizzical look.

To her doubtful-looking superior, the officer with the golden brown hair said, “I was on El Facil with my mother at that time. My mother’s ancestral home was there. I clearly remember the young sublieutenant who was nibbling on a sandwich while commanding the evacuation proceedings; he had hardly enough downtime to eat. That sublieutenant, though, has probably long forgotten the fourteen-year-old girl who brought him coffee in a paper cup when he choked on that sandwich, hasn’t he?

Yang had no ready reply.

“And also what he said after his life had been saved by drinking that coffee?”

“What did he say?”

“ ‘I can’t stand coffee. Would’ve been nice if you’d made it tea.’ ”

Feeling the start of a fit of laughter coming up, Yang cleared his throat loudly to drive it from his body. “Did I say such a rude thing?”

“Yes, you certainly did. As you were crushing the empty paper cup in your hand.”

“Is that so? I apologize. You need to find a better use for that memory of yours, though.”

The words sounded reasonable enough, though they were nothing more than sour grapes. Frederica had once discovered six slides out of fourteen thousand taken of Iserlohn in which the pre- and postbattle images did not match; she had proven already how valuable her powers of memory could be.

“Call Captain von Schönkopf for me,” Yang said.

Exactly three minutes later, Captain Walter von Schönkopf appeared in front of Yang. He was captain of the
Rosen Ritter
, or “Knights of the Rose” regiment, which was affiliated with the Alliance Armed Forces ground battle commissioner’s department. He was a man in his early thirties with a refined appearance, though those of his own gender often considered him a “pretentious SOB.” Born to respectable imperial aristocrats, he would have ordinarily been standing on the battlefield in an imperial admiral’s uniform.

The Rosen Ritter had been established primarily by the children of aristocrats who had defected from the empire to the alliance, and had a history going back half a century. That history was written partly in golden lettering and partly in blots of black ink. The regiment had had twelve prior captains in its history. Four of them had died in battle, fighting against their former homeland. Two had retired after rising to the admiralty. Six had fled to their former homeland—some stealing away quietly and others switching sides in the midst of combat.

There were those who averred, “That guy’s unlucky. Since he’s number thirteen, he’s sure to become traitor number seven.” As for why the number thirteen was unlucky, there was no general consensus. One theory said it was because the thermonuclear war that had nearly eradicated humanity on Terra (and provided the impetus for the survivors to completely abolish nuclear-fission weapons) had lasted thirteen days. Another claimed it to be because the founder of an old, long-extinct religion had been betrayed by his thirteenth disciple.

“Von Schönkopf reporting, sir.”

His respectful tone of voice was a poor fit for his impudent expression. As Yang looked at this former imperial citizen three or four years his senior, he thought,
Taking a contrived attitude like that might be his way of sounding out others. Though even if it is, I can’t bring myself to go along with it on every point …

“There’s something I need to talk with you about.”

“Something important?”

“Probably so. It’s about capturing Iserlohn,” Yang said.

For a few seconds, von Schönkopf’s line of sight wandered about the room.

“That would be extremely important. Is it all right to consult a junior officer like me?”

“It can’t be anyone but you. I want you to listen close.” Yang began to describe the plan.

Five minutes later, von Schönkopf had finished listening to Yang’s explanation, and there was a strange look in his brown eyes. He seemed to be trying hard to suppress and conceal utter shock.

“Let me jump the gun and say this, Captain: this is not a proper plan. This is a trick—actually, it’s a cheap trick,” Yang said, taking off his black uniform beret and twirling it ill-manneredly on his finger. “But if we’re to occupy the impregnable fortress Iserlohn, I believe it’s the only way. If this doesn’t work, then it’s beyond my ability.”

“You’re right—there probably is no other way,” said von Schönkopf, rubbing his pointed chin. “The more people depend on sturdy fortresses, the more they tend to slip up. A chance of success most certainly does exist. Except—”

“Except?”

“If, as the rumors suggest, I were to become traitor number seven, this will have all been for nothing. If that were to happen, what would you do?”

“I’d have a problem.”

Von Schönkopf gave a pained smile at the sight of Yang’s dead-serious look.

“Yes, indeed—that would be a problem. But is that all it would be? Surely, you’d think of some way to cope.”

“Well, I did think about it.”

“And?”

“I couldn’t come up with any ideas. If you betray us, I throw up my hands and run home right then and there. There’ll be nothing else I can do.”

The beret slipped off Yang’s finger and fell to the floor. The hand of the former imperial citizen reached out and picked it up, and after brushing away the dust that hadn’t even clung to it, handed it back to the senior officer.

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. So, you’re saying you have absolute trust in me?”

“To be honest, I don’t have a lot of trust in myself,” Yang replied flatly. “But unless I trust you, the plan itself will be over before it starts. So I’m going to trust you. That’s the big prerequisite.”

“I see,” von Schönkopf said, though the look on his face said he hadn’t necessarily taken Yang at his word. The commander of the Rosen Ritter regiment glanced toward the young senior officer again with a sort of look that was partly trying to penetrate Yang’s real intentions, partly trying to figure out his own.

“May I ask you one question, Admiral?”

“Go ahead.”

“The orders you were given this time were utterly impossible. They told you to take half a fleet—with undisciplined troops equivalent to a rowdy mob—and bring down Iserlohn Fortress. Even if you’d refused, there wouldn’t have been many who would’ve blamed you. So the fact you agreed to this must mean that you already had this plan in mind. However, I’d like to know what was going on in your head underneath all that. Lust for honor? Or for advancement?”

The light in von Schönkopf’s eyes was sharp and ruthless.

“I don’t think it was any lust for advancement,” Yang said. His reply was indifferent, as though he were talking about someone else altogether. “If I’ve got people calling me ‘Excellency’ before I turn thirty, then that’s enough for me already. ’Cause first of all, if I’m still alive at the end of this mission, I intend to get out.”

“Get out?”

“Yeah, well, I get a pension, and there’s also a retirement allowance … It should be enough for me and one other to live a comfortable, if modest, lifestyle.”

“You’re saying you’ll retire under these conditions?”

Yang smiled at the sound of von Schönkopf’s voice; it as much as said he was struggling to understand.

“About those conditions: If our forces occupy Iserlohn, that will cut off what is pretty much the empire’s only route for invading us. As long as the alliance doesn’t go and do something stupid like using the fortress as a platform for its own invasion of the empire, the two militaries won’t be able to clash even if they want to. At least not on a large scale.”

Von Schönkopf listened, silently.

“At that point, it’ll be up to the diplomatic skills of the alliance government, and since we’ll have gained an advantageous foothold militarily, they may be able to manage a satisfactory peace treaty with the empire. As far as I’m concerned, I can retire with peace of mind if that happens.”

“Though I wonder if that peace can be lasting.”

“Lasting peace has never existed in human history, so I’m not gonna hope for that. Still, there have been peaceful and prosperous stretches lasting several decades. If we have to leave some kind of heritage for the next generation, the best thing we can ultimately give them is peace. And maintaining the peace that the previous generation handed to them will be the next generation’s responsibility. If each generation remembers its responsibility to future generations, a long-term peace will be maintained. If they forget, then they’ll squander that inheritance, and the human race will be back to square one. And hey, that’s okay, too.”

Yang lightly placed the beret he’d been playing with back on his head. “In short, all I’m realistically hoping for is peace for the next several decades. But even so, a peace that long would be a million times better than a wartime period one tenth as long. There’s a fourteen-year-old boy living in my house, and I don’t want to see him dragged into the battlefield. That’s how I feel.”

When Yang closed his mouth, silence fell. It didn’t last long.

“Forgive me, Admiral, but you’re either an exceptionally honest man or the biggest sophist since Rudolf the Great.” Von Schönkopf flashed a wry smile. “At any rate, that’s a better answer than I was hoping for. That being the case, I’ll do my utmost as well. For a not-so-everlasting peace.”

Neither of the two men were the type to clasp the other’s hand in deep emotion, so from there the conversation delved immediately into businesslike matters, as they discussed the details of the operation.

They were not on friendly terms, but this had less to do with individual responsibility than with tradition. They were two commanding officers of equal rank in the same workplace. It was a wonder when they didn’t lock horns with each other.

Emotional conflicts naturally extended even to the troops under their command. From the standpoint of the fortress’s garrison, the fleet was like an obnoxious houseguest that would fight outside, then come running back when things got dangerous, looking for a safe place to hide—a prodigal son, as it were. And if you asked the fleet crewmen, they would say that the fortress garrison troops were a bunch of “space moles” holed up in a safe hideout and amusing themselves by playing at war with the enemy.

Two things just barely bridged the rift between them: their pride as warriors “supporting the impregnable fortress of Iserlohn” and their enthusiasm to do battle with the “rebel army.” In fact, when enemy attacks came, they competed for success unyieldingly, even as they despised and cursed one another. This resulted in the achievement of enormous military successes.

Whenever the military authorities proposed combining the offices of fortress and fleet commander to unify the chain of command, the idea was squelched. This was because a decrease in the number of commander-level positions presented a problem for the high-ranking officers and also because there were no prior examples of the conflicts between the two leading to a fatal result.

It was May 14 of the standard calendar.

The two commanders, von Stockhausen and von Seeckt, were in their conference room. Originally, this had been part of a salon for high-ranking officers, but as it was equidistant from both their offices, it had been remodeled as a fully soundproof meeting room. This measure had been taken because neither was fond of going to the other’s office, and since they were both within the same fortress, it wouldn’t do to rely solely on televised communications.

For the past two days, communications in the vicinity of the fortress had been garbled. There was no room for doubt that a rebel force was approaching. However, there had been nothing like an attack yet. The two commanders were meeting to discuss what to do about this state of affairs, but the conversation had not advanced in a necessarily constructive direction.

“You say we should launch since they’re out there, Commander, but we don’t know where they are, so how are you going to fight them?”

Thus spoke von Stockhausen, to which von Seeckt countered:

“That’s exactly why we
should
go out: to find out where they’re hiding. If the rebels do come to attack, it’s likely they’ll mobilize a large force.”

At von Seeckt’s words, von Stockhausen gave a nod of complete self-assuredness. “Which will end with them being beaten back again. The rebels have attacked us six times, and six times they’ve been repulsed. Even if they’re about to come again, it only means six times becoming seven.”