Dawn (36 page)

Nobody said, “Let’s go after them.”

They all knew that the last chance for that had been lost and had sense enough to avoid chasing after them too far. A thirst for battle alone could not keep them alive, nor could it keep alive their subordinates.

“The rebel forces have been driven from the empire’s territory, and they will probably flee to Iserlohn. That’s enough of a victory for the time being. They’re not going to feel like launching another invasion for quite a while and have probably even lost the strength to do so.”

This time it was Mittermeier who nodded at von Reuentahl’s words.

Kircheis was following the disappearing lights with his eyes.
What will Reinhard think?
he wondered.
Just as in the Battle of Astarte, his perfect victory was flung to the ground in the very last stage. He’s not going to be in as magnanimous of a mood as last time, is he?

“E-gram from Supreme Command!” said the communications officer. “ ‘Make your way back while mopping up the stragglers.’ ”

On the bridge of the flagship
Brünhild
, Reinhard expressed his appreciation to his returning admirals.

One by one, he gripped the hands of von Reuentahl, Mittermeier, Kempf, Mecklinger, Wahlen, and Lutz, and praising their heroic deeds, promised them promotions. In Kircheis’s case, he simply clapped him on the left shoulder and said nothing, but between the two of them, that was enough.

It was when von Oberstein informed him of Wittenfeld’s return to the flagship that the shadow of displeasure crept into the graceful countenance of the young imperial marshal.

Fritz Josef Wittenfeld’s regiment—if it could even still be called such at this point—had just returned with heads hung low. No one in the imperial military had lost more subordinates and ships in this battle than he had. His colleagues von Reuentahl and Mittermeier had both been in the thick of fierce combat, so for his part, it was impossible to lay the blame on others for his heavy losses.

The joy of victory yielded its seat to an awkward silence. Pale faced, Wittenfeld walked up to his senior officer, and, as if bracing himself for the worst, hung his head low.

“This is where I want to say that the battle is won, and you, too, fought heroically, but I can’t even do that.”

Reinhard’s voice rang out like the crack of a whip. Brave admirals who would not budge an eyebrow in the face of a huge enemy fleet unconsciously drew in their necks, cringing.

“Understand this: impatient for glory, you charged ahead at a moment when you shouldn’t have advanced. That one misstep could have thrown off the balance of our entire line of battle, and our fleet could have been defeated before the other force arrived. Moreover, you’ve done needless harm to His Imperial Majesty’s military. Have you any objection to what I’ve just said?”

“None, milord.”

His reply was pitched low and devoid of spirit. Reinhard took one breath and then continued.

“A warrior clan is upheld by rewarding the good and punishing the evildoers. Upon our return to Odin, I will hold you accountable. I’m putting your regiment under Admiral Kircheis’s command. You yourself are confined to quarters.”

Everyone must have been thinking,
That was harsh.
A wordless stir rose up like a cloud, until Reinhard cut it off with the word “Dismissed!” and stalked off toward his quarters, taking long strides.

The colleagues of the unfortunate Wittenfeld gathered around him and began speaking words of encouragement. Kircheis glanced at them and then followed after Reinhard. As he did so, he was being carefully observed by von Oberstein.

He’s a capable man,
the chief of staff said silently to himself,
but it will be problematic should his relationship with Count von Lohengramm come to be seen as one of excessive privilege. A conqueror should not be bound by personal feelings.

In an empty hallway that led only to the private quarters of the supreme commander, Kircheis caught up with Reinhard and called out to him.

“Excellency, please reconsider.”

Reinhard whirled around with fierce energy. A fire burned in his ice-blue eyes. The anger he had been holding back in front of others he now let explode.

“Why do you want to stop me? Wittenfeld failed to carry out his own responsibilities. There’s no point pleading his case. It’s only natural he be punished!”

“Excellency, are you angry right now?”

“What of it if I am!”

“What I’m asking you is this: what is it that has you so angry?”

Unable to grasp his meaning, Reinhard looked back at the face of his red-haired friend. Kircheis calmly accepted his stare.

“Excellency …”

“Enough with the ‘Excellency,’ already—what do you want to say? Tell it to me clearly, Kircheis.”

“In that case, Lord Reinhard, is it really Wittenfeld’s failure that you’re angry about?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I don’t believe it is, Lord Reinhard. Your anger is really directed at yourself. At you, who have secured Admiral Yang’s reputation. Wittenfeld is merely caught in the cross fire.”

Reinhard started to say something but then swallowed it. A nervous shuddering ran through his clenched fists. Kircheis let out a light sigh and stared unthinkingly at the golden-haired youth, eyes filled with kindness and consideration.

“Is it really so maddening to have made a hero of Admiral Yang?”

“Of course it is!” Reinhard shouted, clapping both his hands together. “I managed to endure it at Astarte. But twice in a row and I’ve had enough! Why does he always appear right when I’m on the verge of complete and total victory, to stand in my way?”

“He probably has his complaints as well. Like, ‘Why can’t I face Count von Lohengramm at the start of the battle?’ ”

To this, Reinhard said nothing.

“Lord Reinhard, please understand that the road isn’t level and smooth. Doesn’t it go without saying that there will be difficulties along the way when climbing toward the highest of seats? Admiral Yang is not the only obstacle on your path to conquest. Do you really think that you by yourself can eliminate all of them?”

For that Reinhard had no answer.

“You can’t win the hearts of others by ignoring their many achievements for the sake of one mistake. With Admiral Yang in front of you and the highborn nobles at your back, you already have two powerful enemies. On top of that, you’re making enemies even within your own ranks now.”

For a time, Reinhard made not the slightest of movements, but at last with a deep sigh, the strength drained out of his body.

“All right,” he said. “I was wrong. I won’t seek redress against Wittenfeld.”

Kircheis bowed his head. It was not just for Wittenfeld himself that he was so relieved. He was also happy to know for sure that Reinhard had the broadness of mind to accept frank words of reproof.

“Could you relay that to him for me?”

“No, that won’t do.”

At Kircheis’s prompt refusal, Reinhard acknowledged what he was getting at and nodded.

“That’s true. It will be meaningless unless I tell him myself.”

If Kircheis were to pass along word of Reinhard’s intent to forgive, Wittenfeld—having been reprimanded by Reinhard—would likely continue to hold a grudge against him, while feeling gratitude toward Kircheis. Human psychology was like that. For that reason, Reinhard’s indulgence would ultimately have had no meaning, which was why Kircheis had refused.

Reinhard started to turn on his heel but then stopped and spoke once more to his trusted friend and aide.

“Kircheis?”

“Yes, Lord Reinhard?”

“… Do you believe I can seize this universe and make it my own?”

Siegfried Kircheis looked straight back into his dear friend’s ice-blue eyes.

“To whom but Lord Reinhard could such a wish be granted?”

The forces of the Free Planets Alliance had formed up into ranks of browbeaten remnants and set out on the path to Iserlohn.

The dead and the missing numbered an estimated twenty million. The numbers their computers output chilled the hearts of the survivors.

In the midst of the life-and-death struggle, the Thirteenth Fleet alone had preserved a majority of its crew alive.

Yang the magician had worked a miracle even here—already a light akin to religious faith shone in his subordinates’ eyes as they looked at the young black-haired admiral.

The object of that absolute trust was on the bridge of the flagship
Hyperion
. Both his legs were ill-manneredly propped up on top of his command console, the interlaced fingers of both hands rested on his stomach, and his eyes were closed. Beneath his youthful skin, there stagnated a heavy shadow of exhaustion.

“Excellency …”

He cracked his eyes open and saw his aide, Sublieutenant Frederica Greenhill, standing there a bit hesitantly.

Yang laid one hand on his black uniform beret.

“Pardon me, acting like this in front of a lady.”

“It’s all right. I thought I might bring you some coffee or something. What would you like?”

“Tea would be lovely.”

“Yes, sir.”

“With plenty of brandy, if possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Frederica was about to start walking away when Yang unexpectedly called her to a halt.

“Sublieutenant … I’ve studied a little history. That’s how I learned this: In human society, there are two main schools of thought. One says there are things that are more valuable than life, and the other says that nothing is more important. When people go to war, they use the former as an excuse, and when they stop fighting, they give the latter as the reason. That’s been going on for untold centuries … for untold millennia …”

Frederica, not knowing how to respond, gave no reply.

“You think we’ve got untold millennia of that ahead of us too?”

“Excellency …”

“No, never mind the human race as a whole. Is there anything
I
could do that would make all the blood I’ve spilled worthwhile?”

Frederica just stood there, unable to answer. Suddenly Yang looked slightly at a loss, as if he had noticed her discomfort.

“I’m sorry, that was a weird thing to say. Don’t give it a second thought.”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll go make tea—with a little bit of brandy, was it?”

“With plenty.”

“Yes, sir, with plenty.”

Yang wondered if Frederica was letting him have brandy as a reward, though he wasn’t watching her as she left. He closed his eyes again and murmured to himself:

“Could Count von Lohengramm be aiming to become a second Rudolf … ?”

Of course, no one answered.

When Frederica came back carrying a tray with the tea, Yang Wen-li was fast asleep in that same position, his beret resting on the top of his face.

The series of battles that had come to be called the Battle of Amritsar—based upon the name of the stellar region in which the final encounter took place—had concluded with utter defeat for the military of the Free Planets Alliance. The alliance’s expeditionary force completely abandoned the more than two hundred frontier star systems that, thanks to the Galactic Empire’s strategic pullback, they had temporarily occupied, and just barely managed to secure their first prize of the conflict: Iserlohn Fortress.

The alliance had mobilized a force over thirty million strong, but the survivors returning home by way of Iserlohn numbered less than ten million, and the percentage of those not returning at all was just shy of a disastrous 70 percent.

This defeat naturally cast an immense shadow over every facet of the alliance’s politics, economy, society, and military. The financial authorities turned a ghastly pale as they calculated the expenses so far and the expenses yet to come—including lump-sum payments to bereaved families, as well as pensions. The losses incurred at Astarte had been nothing compared to this.

Blistering criticism and censure rained down on the government and military from bereaved families and the antiwar faction for having launched such a reckless campaign. The rage of citizens who had lost fathers and sons because of a trivial election strategy and a hysterical staff officer’s lust for advancement hammered the government and the military down to the ground.

Among the prowar faction, even now there were apologists who defended the invasion, saying, “You speak of the great cost in lives and treasure, but there are things worthy of even greater regard than these. We mustn’t fall into war-weary ideologies based on emotion.”

However, they could do nothing but fall silent as the responses drove them into their corners:

“Never mind the money! What exactly are you talking about that’s worth more than human lives? Protecting those in power? Military ambition? So you’re saying that while twenty million soldiers were shedding their blood for nothing—while many times that number were shedding tears for them back home—human life wasn’t something that deserved your respect?”

The prowar faction could not answer, because aside from a very small number of people not furnished with consciences, everyone felt somehow ashamed of the simple fact that they were living in safety.

The members of the alliance’s High Council submitted their resignations en masse.

The popularity of the prowar faction plummeted, which meant that the antiwar faction entered the limelight to a similar degree. The three councilmen who had cast their votes against the invasion were lauded for their insight, and Defense Committee chairman Trünicht was named interim head of the ruling administration and would occupy that seat until the following year’s elections.

In the study at his home, Trünicht raised a glass in celebration of his own foresight. He wouldn’t have much longer to wait before the word “interim” vanished from his title.

In the military, Marshal Sitolet, director of Joint Operational Headquarters, and Marshal Lobos, commander in chief of the space armada, resigned together. Scuttlebutt had it that Lobos had, through his own failures, ruined his rival Sitolet.

Vice Admiral Urannf and Vice Admiral Borodin, the two fleet commanders who had died courageously on the battlefield, received special double promotions and were posthumously granted ranks of marshal. In the alliance military, there was no rank of senior admiral, and marshal was next in the hierarchy above full admiral.

Admiral Greenhill was shuffled off to the Defense Committee secretariat-general, where as director of field investigations he was removed from the front lines of the effort to counter the empire’s military activities.

Rear Admiral Caselnes was transferred as well and departed the capital of Heinessen to become commander of Supply Base 14, located inside the alliance’s territory. Somebody had to take responsibility for the failure of the supply effort in the Battle of Amritsar. Leaving his family behind in the capital, he departed for a frontier land five hundred light-years distant. His wife took their two young daughters and moved back in with her parents.

After recuperating, Rear Admiral Fork was ordered to join the reserve, and there it seemed his ambition had met its end.

All of this caused an alarming shortage of human resources in the leadership of the Alliance Armed Forces. Who was there who could fill those seats?

Assuming the seat of director at Joint Operational Headquarters—and in the process being promoted from vice admiral to full admiral—was Cubresly, who had served until that time as the First Fleet’s commander.

As he had not participated in the battles at Astarte or Amritsar, he accordingly bore no responsibility for the defeats there. He had built a sound record of solid results in providing security for the capital and defending public order domestically, as well as in his traditional role of suppressing the space pirate cartels and maintaining the safety of the shipping lanes. He had graduated with excellent marks from Officers’ Academy, where it had been viewed as a given that he would one day rise to the highest pinnacle of the military. That prediction had now come true with a speed that the man himself had never dreamed of.

Replacing Cubresly as commander of the First Fleet was Vice Admiral Paetta, who had been recuperating from his wounds in the Battle of Astarte.

Bucock was installed as commander in chief of the space armada and, naturally, promoted to full admiral in the process. This seasoned admiral had at last taken up a post worthy of his experience, and his appointment was highly praised both inside and outside the military. No matter how famous Bucock might have been, he had worked his way up from an ordinary soldier, and without circumstances being what they were, he likely never would have made commander in chief of the space armada. In that sense, something ironically positive had come out of the misfortune of their miserable defeat.

How Yang Wen-li was to be rewarded was not decided upon right away.

He had brought over 70 percent of those in the Thirteenth Fleet back home alive—a survival rate vastly higher than that of any other regiment in the expeditionary force. No one had been able to accuse him of having hidden elsewhere in safety. The Thirteenth Fleet had been right in the midst of intense combat all along and had stayed on the battlefield to the very last, giving its all so that allies could escape.

Cubresly was hoping to make Yang his staff commissioner at Joint Operational Headquarters. Bucock had told Yang directly and with certainty that he would ready the seat of general chief of staff of the space armada for him.

On the other hand, the crew of the ships in the Thirteenth Fleet could no longer imagine having any commander but Yang over them. As von Schönkopf aptly put it, “Soldiers want a commander who comes with both ability and luck. To them, that’s the best way to survive.”

While things were still up in the air about his next assignment, Yang took a long vacation and went to the planet Mithra. Things were now such that if he stayed at his official residence in Heinessen, he wouldn’t be able to set foot outside his door without being thronged by civilians and journalists wanting to meet the undefeated hero, and with his visiphone constantly ringing as well, it was impossible to get any rest.

His text transmitter began spitting out letters that came only seconds apart. One of these was a brief note from the headquarters of the Patriotic Knight Corps—“We extend our praises to a great admiral of our beloved homeland”—at which Yang burst out laughing, while one from the mother of a Thirteenth Fleet soldier who had been killed in action—”You’re just a friend and ally of murderers, too”—left him deeply discouraged. It really was just six of one and half a dozen of the other. Honor and glory were things built only atop the piled corpses of unknown soldiers …

Julian had proposed the vacation getaway because he felt like he had to do something. In addition to feeling depressed, Yang had increased his drinking dramatically. Yang wasn’t the type to get drunk and do bad things, like disturbing the peace or getting in fights, but he wasn’t drinking for enjoyment either, and there was no way his level of consumption could be good for his health.

Yang, perhaps with some degree of self-awareness about this, meekly accepted Julian’s suggestion. Yang spent three weeks surrounded by lush, green natural beauty, lost his interest in alcohol, and returned to the capital to find his letter of appointment waiting.

Iserlohn Fortress Commander / Iserlohn Patrol Fleet Commander / Alliance Armed Forces Supreme Staff Council Councilman.

That was the new status that Yang Wen-li had been given. He was also promoted to full admiral. There were a number of past examples of people who had made full admiral in their twenties, but this was the first time anyone had been promoted through three ranks of the admiralty in the space of one year.

Because the Iserlohn Patrol Fleet had been created by combining the old Tenth and Thirteenth fleets, the commonplace term for it, “the Yang Fleet,” came to be recognized officially.

It was fair to say that the Alliance Armed Forces had displayed its utmost affection for the young national hero. However, every last bit of it was the opposite of what Yang really wanted. He had been hoping for retirement rather than promotions, and a peaceful life as a civilian rather than honor as a warrior.

And yet Yang departed for Iserlohn, where he took full command of his homeland’s front line of defense.

Naturally, this put an end to his life on Heinessen, and the question of what to do with young Julian gave Yang a lot to think about. He even thought about getting Mrs. Caselnes’s family to take him in, but Julian had absolutely no intention of leaving Yang’s side.

From the very start, Julian had made up his mind to accompany his guardian. Yang saw him getting ready, and despite some hesitation, ultimately decided to take him along. Eventually, an orderly would be assigned to Yang to look after his personal needs, and if that was the case, then leaving that job to Julian felt somehow more comfortable. Although he didn’t want to make the boy walk the same path that he did, Yang didn’t want to part with Julian either. Julian was made a civilian worker for the military and treated as the equivalent of a lance corporal. He was paid a salary as well.

Naturally, however, it wasn’t just Julian who followed Yang to Iserlohn.

His personal aide was Frederica Greenhill. Vice commander of the Iserlohn Patrol Fleet was Fischer. And von Schönkopf was there as well, as commander of fortress defenses. Murai and Patrichev came with him as staff officers, as did Lao, who had assisted Yang at the battle of Astarte. The captain of the First Fortress Spaceborne Division was Poplin. In addition, staff officers from the old Tenth Fleet came with him. The lineup of the Yang Fleet was steadily taking shape.

Now if I can just get Caselnes to take over the clerical duties,
Yang thought, deciding to call him on over as soon as he was able.

What bothered him, though, were the movements of the Imperial Navy. Count Reinhard von Lohengramm aside, there were other admirals—scions of great noble houses—who had been inspired by his military exploits; might they not be plotting incursions even now, aiming to strike at a time when the Alliance Armed Forces’ ability to fight back was weakened?

Fortunately, however, that unease never manifested in reality, for a pressing situation had arisen within the Galactic Empire which left them with no leeway for launching distant campaigns.

Emperor Friedrich IV had died suddenly.

The passing of the emperor!

The cause of death was said to be acute heart disease. Not only had the emperor’s body been weakened by debauchery and neglect for his health, the bloodline of the von Goldenbaum imperial family itself had grown dark and muddy, and he had died all too suddenly, as if to demonstrate what weak and inferior life-forms the family had become.

Friedrich is dead?
Reinhard murmured in his heart, with as stunned an expression as might be expected as he stared at the assembled admirals under his command.
Heart disease … a natural death? Wasted on that man. If he could have lived another five—no—two years longer, then I would have showed him a death befitting his many sins.

He turned his gaze toward Kircheis and met eyes filled with similar emotions—not as intense as Reinhard’s, but running possibly even deeper. The man who ten years ago had robbed them of their kind and beautiful Annerose was dead. Viewed through the light of recollection, all those years that had gone by shone dazzlingly bright and seemed to be dancing wildly all around them …

“Excellency,” said an exceedingly cold voice that yanked Reinhard up onto reality’s shore. There was no need to confirm it was von Oberstein. “
Friedrich is dead
and there is no successor named.”