Dawn (20 page)

“This fortress is truly amazing,” the fleet commander said, implying,
It’s not because you’re particularly capable
.

“At any rate, it’s a fact that the enemy’s nearby. I’d like to mobilize the fleet and go find them.”

“But if you don’t know where they are, you’ve got no way of finding them. Wait a little longer.”

Just as the conversation was beginning to go in circles, there was a call from the communications room. It said that a strange transmission had been picked up.

Although the jamming was fierce and the transmission faded in and out, at last it revealed the following situation:

A single Bremen-class light cruiser carrying vital communiqués had been dispatched to Iserlohn from the imperial capital of Odin but had come under enemy fire inside the corridor and was presently being pursued. They were seeking rescue from Iserlohn.

The two commanders looked at one another.

In a growl from the back of his thick throat, von Seeckt said, “It’s unclear where in the corridor they are, but at this point we have no choice but to move out.”

“But is that really a good idea?”

“What do you mean by that? My troops are a breed apart from space moles who only want security.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The two of them arrived at the joint operations meeting room and took their seats, disgusted faces side by side.

Von Seeckt gave orders to launch the fleet to his own staff officers, and von Stockhausen stared off in another direction while he was explaining the situation.

When von Seeckt finished speaking, one of his staff officers stood up from his seat.

“A moment, please, Your Excellency.”

“Ah, Captain von Oberstein …” said Admiral von Seeckt, without one iota of goodwill in his voice. He hated his newly assigned staff officer. That salt-and-pepper hair, that pale, bloodless face, those artificial eyes that emitted a strange glow from time to time—he didn’t like any of it.
He’s a very portrait of gloom,
he thought. “You have some opinion?”

At least on the surface, von Oberstein seemed unperturbed by his superior officer’s halfhearted tone.

“I do.”

“Very well, let’s hear it,” von Seeckt prodded reluctantly.

“Well then, I’ll tell you. This could be a trap.”

“A trap?”

“Yes, sir. To draw the fleet away from Iserlohn. We mustn’t go out. We should observe the situation without making a move.”

Von Seeckt snorted with disdain. “So what you want to say, Officer, is that if we go out, the enemy’s waiting, and if we fight, we’ll be defeated.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Well then, what did you mean? We’re soldiers, and fighting is our duty. Rather than seeking our personal safety, we should think proactively about destroying the enemy. And more importantly, what can we do if we can’t help a friendly ship that’s in trouble?”

He felt antipathy toward von Oberstein, and he also had to consider his appearance in front of von Stockhausen, who was observing this development with an ironic smile. Also, von Seeckt was a guns-and-glory sort of leader, the kind who couldn’t bear to wait on the sidelines when the enemy was before him; it was not in his nature to stay holed up in the fortress and wait for an assault. He believed that if he did that, a career spent on battleships would have been a waste.

“I don’t know, Admiral von Seeckt—your staff officer does have a point. We know the precise positions of neither our enemies nor our allies, and the danger is great. How about waiting just a little bit longer?”

It was von Stockhausen’s opinion from the sidelines that decided the matter.

Von Seeckt said so flatly.

At last the Iserlohn Fleet, composed of fifteen thousand ships large and small, commenced leaving port.

Von Stockhausen watched the departures via the screen of the port traffic control monitor in the fortress command room. The sight of the battleships like huge towers on their sides and sleek streamlined destroyers launching in orderly formations, departing for a battlefield in the void, was truly magnificent.

“Hmph. I hope you come back smarting,” von Stockhausen murmured to himself. He could not bring himself to say things such as “die” or “lose,” not even as a joke. That was his own way of exercising moderation.

About six hours passed, and then once again a transmission came in. It was from the Breman-class light cruiser in question, and the following words were teased out from the static: “We’ve finally arrived near the fortress but are still under pursuit by attacking rebel forces. Request artillery bombardment to cover our approach.”

As he ordered the gunners to make preparations for covering fire, von Stockhausen wore a deeply bitter expression. Where had that imbecile von Seeckt gone off to? It was a fine thing to talk a big game, but was the man not even capable of helping an ally who was all alone out there?

“Ship reflections on-screen!” reported one of his men. The commander gave orders to augment and project the image.

The Bremen-class light cruiser was approaching the fortress with all the unsteadiness of a drunkard. The multiple points of light that could be seen in its background were, of course, enemy vessels.

“Prepare to fire!” von Stockhausen ordered.

However, just before entering firing range of the fortress’s main cannons, the ships of the alliance force halted altogether. They were floating—timidly, it seemed—beyond an invisible border, and when they saw the Bremen-class light cruiser heading into port, guided by a signal from the fortress’s port traffic control room, they began turning their noses around in apparent resignation.

“Prudent fellows, you know it’s hopeless.”

The imperial soldiers broke out into raucous laughter. Their confidence was as unshakeable as the fortress was impregnable.

Having entered port and been moored there by magnetic fields, the Bremen-class light cruiser was a tragic sight to behold. Just by looking at its exterior alone, it was possible to make out a dozen or so damaged areas. White shock foam was sticking out of rents in the hull like the intestines of some animal, and the number of hairline cracks was impossible to count, even with the fingers and toes of a hundred soldiers.

Hydrogen-powered cars loaded with ground crew came racing toward it. These were not fortress troops, but troops under the Iserlohn Fleet’s commander, and they sympathized from the bottoms of their hearts when they saw the ship’s wretched condition.

A hatch on the light cruiser opened, and a youthful-looking officer appeared, white bandages wrapped around his head. He was a handsome man, but his pale face was sullied with a caked, reddish-black substance. “I’m Captain Larkin, commander of this ship. I’d like to see the commander of this fortress.”

He spoke the official language of the empire clearly and articulately.

“Yes, sir,” said one of the maintenance officers, “But what in the world is going on out there?”

Captain Larkin gave a frustrated sigh. “We aren’t too sure ourselves. We came from Odin, you know. However, it looks like somehow your fleet has been destroyed.”

Glaring sharply at the ground crew as they swallowed hard and peered at him in disbelief, Captain Larkin shouted, “It appears that somehow the rebel forces have come up with a new way to pass through the corridor. This threatens not only Iserlohn but the survival of the empire itself. Quickly, now, take me to the commander.”

Full Admiral von Stockhausen, who had been waiting in the command room, rose from his chair when he saw five of the light cruiser’s officers enter the room surrounded by security personnel.

“Explain the situation—what’s going on out there?” As von Stockhausen walked toward the captain with long strides, his voice was pitched higher than usual. He had been informed already, and if the rebel forces had devised a way to pass through the corridor, it meant that the very significance of Iserlohn’s existence would be called into question and it would be up to him to develop some way to counter the movements of rebel forces.

Since Iserlohn was itself a fixed-point construction, it was exactly for times like these that the Iserlohn Fleet was needed. And von Seeckt, that wild boar, had gone charging off with it! Von Stockhausen was having trouble maintaining a calm demeanor.

“This is what’s happened …” The voice of this Captain Larkin was low and weak, so von Stockhausen, feeling impatient, drew near to the man. “This is what’s happened: Your Excellency von Stockhausen, you have become our captive!”

A frozen instant melted, and by the time the security guards had with sharp curses drawn their blasters, Captain Larkin’s arm was wrapped around von Stockhausen’s neck, and a ceramic firearm—invisible to the fortress’s security system—was pointed at the side of his head.

“Why, you …” growled Commander Lemmrar, head of the command room’s security detail, his ruddy face growing even redder. “You’re friends with those rebels. How dare you try such an outrageous—”

“I’m going to ask you to remember me. I’m Captain von Schönkopf of the Rosen Ritter regiment. I’ve got both hands full right now, so I can’t wash off the makeup to greet you properly.” The captain laughed as though invincible. “To be honest, I didn’t think things would go this well. I made sure to forge an ID card before I came, but nobody even checked it. That’s a good lesson to learn—that no matter how secure the system, it all depends on the people running it.”

“And who is that lesson for, I wonder?” With these ominous words, Commander Lemmrar aimed his blaster at both von Stockhausen and von Schönkopf. “You planned on taking hostages, but don’t think that you rebels are the same as imperial soldiers. His Excellency the Commander is a man who fears dishonor more than death. There is no shield here to protect you!”

“His Excellency the Commander seems annoyed at being so overestimated.” Smiling scornfully, von Schönkopf shot a glance toward one of the four men encircling him. That man produced a ceramic disc, small enough to hold in his hand, from beneath his imperial uniform.

“You know what that is, right? It’s a Seffl particle emitter.”

Von Schönkopf spoke, and it was like an electric current had run through the wide chamber.

Seffl particles were named for their inventor, Karl Seffl. A researcher in applied chemistry, he had synthesized the particles for mining ores and performing civil engineering work on a planetary scale, so—to put it briefly—these particles were like a gas that would react to a set amount of heat or energy, setting off an explosion within a controllable range. Humanity, however, had always adapted industrial technologies to military use.

Commander Lemmrar’s face looked almost completely dark. Blasters, which fired energy beams, had just become impossible to use. If anyone fired, everyone would go down together. The Seffl particles in the air would be ignited by the beam, reducing everyone in the room to ashes in an instant.

“C-Commander …”

One of the security guards had raised his voice in what sounded like a shriek. Commander Lemmrar, eyes brimming with a vacant light, looked at Admiral von Stockhausen. Von Schönkopf loosened his arm ever so slightly, and after taking two ragged breaths, the commander of Iserlohn Fortress surrendered.

“You win. It can’t be helped—we surrender.”

Von Schönkopf let out a sigh of relief in his heart.

“All right, everyone: you know what to do.”

As instructed, the captain’s subordinates set about their tasks. Port traffic control programs were altered, all manner of defense systems were deactivated, and sleeping gas was released throughout the fortress by way of the air-conditioning system. Technicians who had been hiding inside the Bremen-class light cruiser disembarked and executed these operations with skill and efficiency. While only a small group of people yet realized what was happening, Iserlohn was being invaded, as if by a cancer, and its functions shut down.

Five hours later, the imperial soldiers were released from a sleep as cloudy as bean soup and were stunned speechless to find themselves stripped of their arms and taken captive. Adding up all combat, communications, supply, medical, maintenance, traffic control, technical, and other personnel, their full number rose to five hundred thousand. With its gargantuan factories for production of food and other necessities, Iserlohn was equipped with an environment and facilities capable of supporting a population, including fleet personnel, exceeding one million. The empire’s intention that Iserlohn must be an “eternal fortress” in both name and in fact was clear to see.

However, officers and troops of the Alliance Armed Forces Thirteenth Fleet were now in command.

Iserlohn Fortress, which in the past had like a vampire consumed the blood of millions of Alliance Armed Forces soldiers, changed hands without a single drop of new blood being shed.

The communications officers had been hard at work trying to raise the fortress, and at last, turning pale, they called for Commander von Seeckt. Having eliminated the persistent jamming waves, they had finally restored communications, but what they had received from the fortress was a transmission saying, “A mutiny has broken out among the men. Requesting assistance.”

“A mutiny inside the fortress?” Von Seeckt clucked his tongue. “Can’t that incompetent von Stockhausen even control his own men?”

Von Seeckt’s feelings of superiority were being tickled by the polite request for aid. When he thought about how this would leave his colleague indebted to him in no small measure, he felt delighted all the more.

“Putting out the fire at our feet has priority. All ships, head back to Iserlohn immediately.”

“Wait just a moment,” someone replied to von Seeckt’s order.

The voice was so quiet as to cast a pall of gloom over the bridge, and yet it riveted the entire room. When von Seeckt saw the officer who had come out before him, an expression welled up on his face of open hatred and opposition.
That salt-and-pepper hair, those deathly pale cheeks—it’s Captain von Oberstein again!