Ambition (13 page)

It was during this conversation that Yang asked him about Julian. This was because von Schönkopf was Julian’s instructor in both shooting and hand-to-hand combat.

“If you mean as a warrior, he pulls his own weight splendidly—in that regard, he’ll be much more useful than you are, Your Excellency.”

Von Schönkopf knew no reserve.

“However, that’s not the kind of thing that Your Excellency is hoping for for Julian, is it?”

Yang’s reply was halfway directed at himself. “There are limits to what people can do, but even so, we can change fate within the ranges of our abilities. I want Julian to change fate within as large a range as possible—even if he doesn’t actually do it, I want him to have that potential.”

“What of your potential?”

“No can do. I’m involved just a little too deeply in the FPA for that kind of thing. Gotta fulfill my obligations to the ones who pay my salary.”

Von Schönkopf looked as though he had not taken that reply entirely as a joke. “I see. Is that why you won’t make Julian a regular soldier? So he won’t have to feel obliged to the Free Planets Alliance the way you do?”

“I hadn’t really thought it through that far …”

Yang shook his head two or three times. It wasn’t like he always acted based on careful thought and long-term planning. That wasn’t what others seem to think, though. Yang couldn’t say for sure whether that was advantageous or not.

The Alliance Military Joint Operational Headquarters on Heinessen had become a stronghold of the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic. Its top leaders were gathered in an underground meeting room.

When Admiral Greenhill informed them that “Yang Wen-li has refused to participate in the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic,” a soft stir arose from among the attendees.

“Well, all we can do is fight him, then.”

“Let’s get Miracle Yang to show us what he’s got. See for ourselves if he’s as skilled as they say.”

Perhaps these aggressive voices were raised in order to drive away the unease of the speakers.

Admiral Greenhill didn’t join in with their forced enthusiasm, however.

He did not think of seeking his daughter’s forgiveness. Nor was there any chance of her forgiving him. His actions were rooted in his beliefs. If renewal did not come through the military, his homeland would collapse into the depths of corruption. If Yang didn’t understand that, then nothing but war could remain between the two. The decision was not an easy one, but once it was made, his will would not be shaken.

“Admiral Legrange.”

In response to his call, a middle-aged man with a square jaw and close-cropped, platinum-blond hair rose to his feet.

“Take the Eleventh Fleet, and go to Iserlohn to do battle with Yang.”

“As you command, sir, but … what about your daughter?”

It was no secret that Frederica Greenhill was Yang’s aide-de-camp.

“That’s not an issue,” Greenhill said forcefully. Then, in a more moderated tone, he added: “I gave up on my daughter the moment I conceived this plan. It’s also likely that Yang will have relieved her of duty and placed her under house arrest. There’s no need to take her into account.”

“As you wish, sir. Yang will either be slaughtered or forced to surrender.”

The Eleventh Fleet was a rarity in the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada: a regiment unscathed by prior combat. It had supported the coup d’état, and now, to bar the path of Yang’s advance, it was mobilizing a vast, powerful, and complete force.

On April 20, Yang appointed Caselnes as temporary acting fortress commander and ordered the mobilization of his entire fleet. When asked the destination, he responded thus:

“Ultimately, Heinessen.”

Just prior to his boarding
the flagship
Brünhild
, Reinhard was paid a visit by an out-of-breath secretary who had come from the Ministry of Military Affairs.

“State your business.”

The secretary stared in admiration at the handsome young commander in his elegant black and silver uniform while awkwardly stating the business at hand—that the enemy’s official nomenclature was still undecided.

“Official nomenclature?”

“Y-yes, milord. I mean, they’re calling themselves the Army of the League of Just Lords, but, naturally, we can’t put something like that in official documents. That said, if we use ‘the rebel forces,’ it doesn’t distinguish them from the so-called Free Planets Alliance. Even so, we have to decide on some kind of official name.”

Reinhard nodded and, pinching his well-formed chin with long, supple fingertips, thought about it for a moment. Before five seconds had elapsed, his fingers came away.

“Here’s a fitting term for their ilk: brigands and usurpers. Refer to them as such in official documents—brigands and usurpers. Understood?”

“Yes, milord. As you wish.”

“Publish it throughout the empire that it is thus ordained, and let those so named know exactly where they stand: ‘You are an army of brigands and usurpers.’ ”

Reinhard raised his voice in laughter. It was a cruel laugh, yet even so it resounded, beautiful and clear, like the ring of precious jewels against one another.

“As you seem to have no other business, I’ll be on my way. Don’t forget what I just told you.”

As Reinhard turned to go, his steps were as light as a man in free fall. Admirals von Oberstein, Mittermeier, von Reuentahl, Kempf, and Wittenfeld all followed along in his wake, and at last the deep-blue sky was all but blotted out by a great fleet of warships departing for the battlefield.

Vice Admiral Mort, commanding officer of the forces left behind, saluted as he saw them off with his aides.

Reinhard had left only a minimal force behind on Odin: just thirty thousand officers and soldiers, charged with protecting the emperor’s castle residence of Neue Sans Souci Palace, the admiralität and Ministry of Military Affairs, and the estate where he and his sister resided. Vice Admiral Mort, to whom this home guard had been entrusted, was already in late middle age. He was hardly the type to be called a master tactician, but he was loyal and a man who could be counted on.

The secretary, upon returning to the Ministry of Military Affairs, put Reinhard’s order into action right away. FTL transmissions leapt across the void to every quarter of the empire, repeating the phrase “brigands and usurpers.”

“Brigands and usurpers! They dare call us an army of brigands and usurpers!”

Indeed, that name dealt a stinging blow to the pride of the highborn nobles, who clung fast to the idea of themselves as a chosen people. Faces gone white with hatred and humiliation, they shattered their wineglasses against the floor, feeling renewed hostility toward the golden brat.

Though to hear the likes of Merkatz’s aide von Schneider tell it, the highborn nobles were badmouthing Reinhard as well, so didn’t this just make it even?

The nobles were driven by emotion even in small matters, and thus it was no surprise that the strategy meetings of their allied military were also constantly being swayed in one direction or another by their emotions.

Duke von Braunschweig had what for him passed as a tactical plan: He would build nine military strongholds along the route from the imperial capital of Odin to the confederacy’s home base—a fortress called Gaiesburg, or “Bald Eagle Castle”—positioning large forces at each to intercept Reinhard’s advancing fleet. While fighting their way past one stronghold after another, Reinhard’s forces would suffer no small losses in terms of lives and ships, and those that remained would be degraded by the time they got through. That was when he would launch an attack from Gaiesburg and crush them all in one fell swoop.

Merkatz was skeptical of how effective that would be. While it would be nice if Reinhard were kind enough to attack all nine strongholds one by one per special invitation of his enemies, what were they supposed to do if he didn’t? If Reinhard were to render each stronghold impotent by destroying its supply lines and communications grid, and then head straight to Gaiesburg for an all-out assault, von Braunschweig’s strategy would be proven useless. Worse than useless, actually, since positioning large forces at each stronghold would naturally leave Gaiesburg shorthanded.

When Merkatz expressed to Duke von Braunschweig his opinion on the matter, the duke’s face changed color dramatically. The transformation was as vivid as if captured with time-lapse photography.

At times such as these, his attendants would throw themselves to the ground and apologize, foreheads pressed against the floor as they begged their master’s forgiveness.

Merkatz, of course, did no such thing.

When at last Duke von Braunschweig wrung from his throat a reply—“Well then, what
should
we do?”—Merkatz explained, feigning unawareness of von Braunschweig’s state of mind.

While there was no need to abandon the idea of the nine strongholds, there was also no need to station large forces at them. Instead, each stronghold’s function should remain limited to reconnaissance and electronic surveillance of the enemy, with combat potential concentrated at Gaiesburg.

“So we drag the golden brat all the way to Gaiesburg for a decisive battle? Hmm, that way we go out to meet an enemy that’s far from home on a distant campaign and fight them at the peak of their exhaustion.”

Duke von Braunschweig said this to demonstrate he was not entirely ignorant of military tactical theory.

“Exactly.”

But at Merkatz’s terse reply, another voice spoke up, saying, “Actually, there’s an even more effective tactic we can use.”

It was Admiral Staden, who fancied himself an expert on strategic theory.

Previously, he had served under Reinhard at Astarte, but unlike Merkatz, he did not recognize Reinhard’s talents.

“And what would that be, Admiral Staden?”

“A partial revision of Commander in Chief Merkatz’s idea,” Staden said, with a sidelong glance at Merkatz.

The seasoned admiral frowned. He could easily guess what Staden was about to say. It was going to be the same idea that Merkatz had for a certain reason already abandoned.

“In short, we organize a large-scale second force and, after luring the golden brat to Gaiesburg, send them in the opposite direction to Odin, where they will capture a weakly defended capital and pledge our support to His Majesty the Emperor.”

“Hmm …”

“Then, once we’ve had him issue an imperial edict to the effect that Marquis von Lohengramm is the real rebel traitor, his and our positions will be reversed. The golden brat will become an orphan in space, with no home to go back to.”

That was exactly what Merkatz had expected. He looked down at his coffee, which still hadn’t touched his lips. Staden was a theorist but somehow lacked insight when it came to realities on the ground. It was certainly true that Marquis von Lohengramm had emptied out the imperial capital of Odin. And why had he done that? Because there was a reason he felt he could empty it so carelessly. If Staden would only think about that, he would realize that his proposal could have no realistic effectiveness.

“Splendid!” cried a young noble, Count Alfred von Lansberg. His face was flushed with excitement. With one exclamation after another, he praised the grandness, the elegance, the aggressiveness of Staden’s proposed plan, easily encouraging it with an unselfish and childlike innocence.

“So,” he added, “who’s going to command the second force? It’ll be a great honor and responsibility.”

Then the room fell dead silent.

Count Alfred von Lansberg’s words had stirred the mire, releasing something akin to a miasma that had been lurking at the bottom.

Capture the imperial capital of Odin; steal away the young emperor. It was he who succeeded in doing that whose deeds would be the greatest and most highly distinguished in this civil war. The accomplishments of the one who lured Reinhard away to Gaiesburg would be lost in the glare of such an outstanding achievement, like asteroids passing in front of a star.

It went without saying that whoever marked the most distinguished accomplishments in the war would have the loudest voice in the postwar order. Most importantly, by becoming the emperor’s protector, one made an ally—even if only as a formality—of the highest authority in the empire, which would make it possible to monopolize position and power by invoking imperial decree.

Commander of the second force.

The shortest route to ultimate power.

Which must not be handed to anyone else.

In the eyes of Duke von Braunschweig and Marquis von Littenheim, there arose glares that shone like layers of oil on water.

Already, the discussion had moved away from strategy and tactics, and shifted to the dimension of political gamesmanship. They had barely looked at the forest, but already they were appraising the value of its black sables’ furs.

Merkatz had known this would happen. That was why he had abandoned this strategy in his mind, even though it might appear to be highly effective from a purely military point of view. It was a plan that could only be brought to fruition through highly unified will and organization. An unshakable, mutual trust between the commander of the main force and the commander of the secondary force must not be lacking.

And that did not exist in the military of the noble confederacy. That was exactly why Marquis von Lohengramm could feel so free to leave Odin lightly defended.

From the start, the noble confederation had been built on a foundation of hatred toward Reinhard for besting his betters. No consensus had been established on the question of who would inherit Reinhard’s position and authority should he be brought down. It was an easy thing to cause a crack in their solidarity.

And now Staden had caused exactly such a crack before the fighting had even started. In terms of results, it could be said he had just done the enemy an enormous favor. Now their phony solidarity had yielded its seat to raw avarice. Self-centered passions were rising like a volcano’s sulfurous fumes from Duke von Braunschweig, Marquis von Littenheim, and the other aristocrats, and Merkatz was taken with the feeling that he was suffocating.

Could he win against Reinhard like this?

And even if he could—for whose sake would he be winning?

For Merkatz, the word “operation” thereafter came to mean a futile choice between compromise and sticking to his guns while knowing full well he would be ignored.

At the time when he became commander in chief of the actual combat forces, the young aristocrats, eager for battle, had greeted him with a spirit of welcome, but the mood soon soured. Unused to being ordered around by others, they had found it extremely difficult—albeit not impossible—to hold their own egos in check. The older ones should have been guided by good sense equivalent to their years, but they were apt to stir up the radicalism of the youths in order to use it to their own advantage.

The first thing that Merkatz was forced to compromise on was sending out a vanguard under the command of Staden, who clearly viewed him as a competitor. Many young aristocrats, eager to quench their thirst for battle, were drawn in by his words:

“First, I’d like to test their mettle in combat.”

Do you also need to go out and get your nose bloodied?
Merkatz thought. It wasn’t that, though; they needed to do it in order to be convinced for themselves.

The young aristocrats didn’t even try to hide the fact that they were preparing for battle, so information regarding the launch of the “brigand force” had reached even Reinhard’s desk.

“Call Mittermeier up here.”

When Admiral Wolfgang Mittermeier, rather small of build though quite agile in appearance, appeared before him, Reinhard asked: “I understand you learned tactical theory under Staden when you were in officers’ school.”

“I did, milord. If there’s anything the matter—”

“There’s word that Staden is leading the first wave of the noble—
brigand
—forces. It seems they intend to try their luck and go a round with us.”

“Ah, so it’s started at last,” the bold young admiral said calmly.

“How about it? Can you beat him?”

The hint of a smile that rose up in Mittermeier’s eyes was keen and indomitable.

“Instructor Staden had a wealth of knowledge, but when fact and theory were at odds, his tendency was to give priority to theory. As students, we used to badmouth him, calling him ‘Theory-Weary Staden’.”

“Very well, then. Here are your orders: lead your fleet out toward the Artena Stellar Region, and meet your former instructor there. In five days, I’ll come as well. You may engage him in battle before then or strengthen our defenses and wait. I leave full operational control to you.”

“Yes, sir!”

Mittermeier bowed and left the bridge of the flagship
Brünhild
with a definite spring in his step. Whatever else might be said, it was a warrior’s honor to stand at the head of the attack.