Dawn (9 page)

“Commander, look at that!” An operator was pointing at one of the screens. An imperial battleship was closing in on them. And behind it, and behind what was behind it, one overlapping with the next, could be seen the shadows of more vessels. The bridge was suffused by an oppressive air of menace.

Pergamum
was now surrounded by multiple rings of ships.

“They’re sending a flash signal,” the operator reported in a near whisper.

“See if you can decode it.” Vice Admiral Moore was silent; the prompting came from Lieutenant Commander Lappe. Even his voice was low and dry.

“Decoding … ‘You are completely surrounded and without any means of escape. Surrender, and I promise to treat you graciously.’ ”

The decoded message repeated once and then ended, and countless stares and countless silences stabbed into the massive frame of Vice Admiral Moore. Every one of them was urging a decision from the fleet commander.

“ ‘Surrender,’ he says …” The vice admiral’s face turned a dark red as he growled out his answer. “Forget it! I may be a washout, but I won’t be a coward.”

Twenty seconds later, a white flash enveloped him.

An invisible thunderhead seemed to hang over the bridge of
Patroklos
, flagship of the Alliance Navy’s Second Fleet. When would a blistering discharge come arcing down from it? As orders to assume a stage-one battle formation were issued, all crew were changing into space suits. Still, the unease was passing right through their suits, making them break out in gooseflesh.

“The Fourth and Sixth Fleets have apparently been destroyed.”

“We’re all alone out here. And by now the enemy’s force is larger than ours.”

“I want information. What’s going on? What’s the present situation?”

Speaking out of turn was prohibited, but if they didn’t say something, the unease would be unbearable. This wasn’t in the plan. Weren’t they going to catch an enemy half their size in a three-way pinch, wipe them out, and raise a song of victory … ?

Suddenly, an operator’s voice rang out across the bridge from his microphone. “Enemy fleet closing.”

“From either one or two o’clock …” Yang murmured. Though he spoke only to himself, the following report came as if in answer:

“Bearing 0110, elevation minus eleven degrees, closing at high speed.”

Yang did not respond to the tension that then gripped the bridge of the flagship
Patroklos
in its talons.

This was all as he’d anticipated. The imperial force had struck the alliance Sixth Fleet on its aft starboard flank and bored right on through to emerge from the fore on its port side, tracing a natural curve as it now turned its spearhead toward its last remaining enemy, the Second Fleet. With the Second Fleet advancing straight ahead, it only followed that the imperial fleet should appear from somewhere between one and two o’clock.

“Battle stations!” ordered Vice Admiral Paetta, and Yang thought,
You’re too slow.

To wait for the enemy to come to you and then fight back was the orthodox tactic, but in this case, it was impossible to ignore the fact that Paetta’s thoughts were locking up. Measures that needed to be taken also needed proper timing to work. With rapid maneuvers, it wouldn’t have been impossible to hit the enemy force from behind and then coordinate with the Sixth Fleet to catch them in a pincer movement.

In battle, it was impossible to sacrifice no one. Yet at the same time, the effect of victory was lessened in inverse proportion to mounting losses. It was in finding the point that made both propositions compatible that tactics as a discipline found its raison d’être. In other words, it meant getting the maximum effect for the minimum losses, or to put it more coldly, finding the most efficient way to murder your comrades. Yang wondered doubtfully whether his commander understood that.

It was too late to do anything for those sacrificed already. And from the start, this wasn’t something that could be swept under the rug by saying, “It couldn’t be helped.” The military leadership should be hanging their heads in shame for their poor tactical leadership. But that would come later, after all was said and done—what they had to think about now was how to prevent an expansive reproduction of their mistake and how to come up with some way of turning a disaster into a blessing.

If regrets could bring back slain officers and soldiers, the brass should be shedding tears by the kiloliter. But ultimately, they would be doing nothing more than playing at sorrow, wouldn’t they?

“All ships, open fire!”

Whether that order came before or after, no one could tell. A flash of light strong enough to make people think their retinas had been fried stole the vision of all who were on the bridge.

With a lag of half an instant,
Patroklos
’
body was jostled by an explosive burst of energy, then tossed and turned in every direction.

Noises of things falling over and objects colliding overlapped with screams and shouts of anger. Not even Yang was able to avoid falling down. He took a hard blow to the back and had the wind knocked out of him. As his helmet communicator picked up a chaotic jumble of noises and voices and a fierce flow of air from the surrounding area, Yang straightened out his breathing and covered his sightless eyes with the palms of his hands—protecting them, albeit after the fact.

And who needed a dressing-down over that one? Failing to adjust the screens’ photoflux capacity was not an easy blunder to forgive. If this kind of thing kept happening, it would be a wonder if they didn’t lose.

“… this is aft turret! Bridge, please respond. Awaiting orders!”

“—engine room. This is the engine room. Bridge, respond please …”

At last Yang opened his eyes. An emerald fog hung over his whole field of vision.

He sat up and noticed the person lying next to him. A thick and sticky, deeply hued fluid covered everything from his mouth down to his chest.

“Commander,” Yang said in a low voice, staring closely at the vice admiral’s face. He planted both his legs firmly and got to his feet.

A fissure now ran through one section of bulkhead, and the air pressure was dropping rapidly. It looked like a few who hadn’t had their magnetic boots switched on had been sucked out. The opening, however, was being rapidly sealed by a vaporized bonding agent blown against it from the self-repair system’s operations gun.

Yang looked around the bridge. This was a mess; hardly anyone was still standing. After confirming that his helmet communicator still worked, Yang started giving out instructions.

“Commander Paetta is injured. Would a navy surgeon and paramedics come to the bridge, please. Operations officers, find out how badly we’re damaged and begin repairs—you can report in later. Please hurry. Aft turrets, all ships are already in combat, so you shouldn’t need any particular instructions—perform your assigned duties. Engine room: did you say something?”

“I was worried about things on the bridge, sir. No damage here.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.” There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. “The bridge is operational, as you can hear. Now I want you to calm down and focus on your duties.”

He took another look around the bridge.

“Is there an officer here who isn’t injured?”

One man stepped forward with a slightly perilous gait. “I’m all right, Commodore.”

“You are, um …”

“Lieutenant Commander Lao, of the staff officer team.” The small-eyed, small-nosed face peeking out of the space suit’s helmet looked about the same age as Yang. In addition, two astrogators and one operator raised their hands and stood, but that was all.

“Nobody else?”

Yang slapped his helmet over where his cheek was. The Second Fleet’s leadership had been essentially wiped out.

A naval surgeon came running in with a team of paramedics. Quickly and efficiently, they checked out Vice Admiral Paetta and told Yang that a broken rib had punctured his lung when his chest slammed into the corner of a control panel.

“He’s had some pretty bad luck,” the doctor opined unnecessarily. On the other hand, one couldn’t deny that Yang’s luck had been good.

“Commodore Yang …” Vice Admiral Paetta called his young staff officer, assailed by torments both physical and mental. “You take command of the fleet …”

“Me, sir?”

“You’re the highest-ranked officer who’s still in one piece. Show me … what you’ve got as a tactician …” The vice admiral stopped speaking suddenly—he had lost consciousness. The navy doctor called a robot car that served as an ambulance.

“He thinks highly of you, doesn’t he?” said Lieutenant Commander Lao, impressed.

“Does he? I wonder.”

Lieutenant Commander Lao, unaware of the clashes of opinion between the vice admiral and Yang, gave a doubtful glance at that answer. Yang walked over to the comm board and flipped on the switch for external communication. It seemed the machines were built more sturdily than the people.

“Attention, all ships. This is Fleet Commander Paetta’s next-in-command, staff officer Commodore Yang.”

Yang’s voice raced through the empty spaces, piercing the void.

“The flagship
Patroklos
has taken a hit, and Commander Paetta is seriously injured. On his order, I’m taking over command of the fleet.”

Here he paused for the space of a single breath, giving his comrades the time they needed to recover from the shock.

“Don’t worry. If you follow my orders, you’ll be all right. If you want to get back home alive, I need you to remain calm and do as I say. At the present moment, our side is losing, but the only thing that matters is to be winning in the last moment.”

Hoo-boy, even I’m talking awfully big.
Yang was smiling wryly, but only on the inside; he didn’t let it come to the surface. In the position of commander, you had to puff out your chest even when you felt like hanging your head.

“We’re not going to lose. All ships: concentrate on destroying your targets one by one until I send further instructions. Over.”

That transmission was being monitored by the imperial forces as well. On the bridge of the flagship
Brünhild
, Reinhard raised his finely shaped eyebrows slightly. “You’re not going to lose? If they follow your orders, they’ll be all right? It seems the rebel forces have people who can spout a lot of bluster, too.” A cold glint like that of a shard of ice sheltered in his eyes. “At this point, how do you intend to make up for your weaker force? … Hmm, never mind. Let’s just go with ‘Show me what you’ve got.’ Kircheis!”

“Sir.”

“Regroup our ranks. Tell all ships to assume spindle formation. You understand why?”

“You intend a frontal breakthrough?”

“Correct, as I’ve come to expect from you.”

Through Kircheis, Reinhard’s order was transmitted to every vessel in the imperial force.

But for his helmet, Yang would have taken off his beret to scratch through his black hair at that moment. When there was little difference in force strength, the most effective tactic for the attacking side was either the frontal breakthrough or the partial encirclement. He’d been guessing they would choose the more aggressive of the two, and it looked like he’d managed to hit the nail on the head.

“Lieutenant Commander Lao.”

“Yes, Acting Commander, sir.”

“The enemy’s assuming a spindle formation. They’re going to go for a frontal breakthrough.”

“A frontal breakthrough!”

“They’re in high spirits after wiping out the Fourth and Sixth Fleets. The imperial force probably won’t even think of anything else.”

Lieutenant Commander Lao glanced forlornly toward Yang as he provided his commentary. The faintheartedness in the alliance force—of which Lao’s expression was representative—was the real fruit of the empire’s aggressive tactics, Yang reflected.

“How do you plan to counter it?”

“I’ve got something in mind.”

“But how do we communicate with the other ships? There’s a danger that the enemy’s listening to our transmissions. Flash signals have the same problem, and shuttles would take too long.”

“Don’t worry—use multiple channels and tell all vessels to open the C4 circuits of their tactical computers. That’ll be enough. If that’s all we say, the enemy shouldn’t understand even if they pick it up.”

“Acting Commander, sir, does that mean … Your Excellency had already worked out a plan and input the data … long before this battle even started?”

“Though I’d rather have seen it go to waste,” said Yang. Perhaps in his tone of voice there was a slight note of self-justification. Icy glares had been standard recompense for prophets of defeat, even when Cassandra was queen in Troy. “Never mind that—hurry up and relay my instructions.”

“Yessir, right away.”

Lieutenant Commander Lao hurried off at a jog toward the reoccupied communications officer’s seat. With only five officers left unharmed, running the bridge was impossible, so about ten men were summoned from other departments. Warships didn’t carry excess personnel, so that meant
Patroklos
would be shorthanded elsewhere. It couldn’t be avoided, though.

Taking its time, the imperial force prepared its spindle formation and then began its charge. The alliance ships met them with guns blazing, but the imperial ships paid them no mind. As the distance between the two narrowed, erupting beams began to weave countless patterns of crisscrossing bars.

Commanded by Fahrenheit, the empire’s vanguard squadron didn’t slow as it came plunging into the ranks of the alliance.

“All enemy ships are charging us!”

The operator’s voice was shrill and sharp.

Yang looked up at the panel on the ceiling. A 270-degree wide-angle monitor was inset there. As the enemy vessels accelerated and closed the distance, they seemed to be leaping ferociously toward the throat of the alliance. Their movements were dynamic and precise. In the face of that, the alliance forces intercepting them couldn’t help appearing sluggish and lackluster.