Ambition (24 page)

Sure enough, when the aristocratic forces held off on their pursuit, Mittermeier came at them with a sudden counterattack. The aristocrats responded in kind, continuing to fight as Mittermeier retreated—thus urging the aristocrats forward. They repeated this dance numerous times. Mittermeier’s timing was nothing short of exquisite.

In this manner, the confederated forces were lured deeper and deeper into the heart of the formation that Reinhard and von Oberstein had carefully laid out for them. The front lines were stretched to their limits, and once the enemy’s communications were likewise adversely affected, Mittermeier again laid into them.

This again?
When the overconfident aristocrats, watching idly, attempted a counterstrike, Mittermeier’s forces closed in on them with unbelievable speed and power, pulverizing their lead group with the first blow.

Many noblemen were reduced to plumes of fire along with their warships without ever knowing what had happened to them. By the time operators of those ships that had survived the first attack cried out that the situation had changed, their surroundings had already become a panorama of destruction and slaughter. Fragments of warships blown up by direct beam attacks glittered like shards of stained glass as their fleets were buffeted by waves of nuclear blasts.

“Do you see now, you foolish children? This is how we fight. Remember that for as long as you can in those primitive brains of yours.”

Mittermeier was going to savor his revenge to the fullest. Compared to the finger painting of the young nobles, his command of battle was a work of art.

The aristocrats’ confederated forces fell in column after column of ships, their chain of command having fallen apart well before that. In the face of Mittermeier’s ingenious tactics, they were doomed to be picked off one by one.

Resistance was, of course, not a viable option as one ship, and then another, was added to the festival of carnage.

“Retreat, retreat! Forget about the others—get out while you can!”

Fahrenheit, seeing the unfavorable turn of events, ordered a swift retreat, and the noblemen were eager to follow suit.

Waves of brilliant gunfire, however, assailed the remaining forces from either side, fired simultaneously by Admiral Kempf from the left and Admiral Mecklinger from the right.

The confederate forces disintegrated further with every passing second, their glorious columns of ships gradually losing density.

The nobles took flight. When at last they thought they were safe from Kempf’s onslaught, Wittenfeld and Müller’s fleets closed in on either side. In an instant, the panicking aristocrats were transformed, ships and all, into masses of wreckage drifting in space.

On the bridge of the flagship
Brünhild
, Reinhard wore a smile of satisfaction. Foreseeing the enemy’s escape route, he had laid an ambush. In this case, because said route was the same taken during the initial advance, the prediction had been an easy one to make. They would forgo intercepting their path of escape so as to stave off any last-ditch counterattack. Letting the enemy vanguard go past, they had attacked from the front and the rear. This not only gave them a positional advantage but also allowed them to psychologically overwhelm their enemies more effectively with them on the run compared to a pitched battle.

“Dead or alive,” said Reinhard, “I want Duke von Braunschweig brought before me. Whoever succeeds in doing this, even if a mere cadet, will be made an admiral and rewarded handsomely. Seize your chance!”

Their fighting spirit was now enhanced by greed. The noble confederates, who had lost their will to fight and run away, were now nothing more than game for hunters. With nowhere left to go, they were captured and destroyed at the end of each short, desperate counterattack.

When Duke von Braunschweig came to himself, there was not a single allied vessel in the vicinity of his flagship, and the innumerable points of light that were Mittermeier’s and von Reuentahl’s fleets were approaching from behind. A violent impact rocked his ship as a single rail-cannon shell blew off his rear gun turret completely. The lance of an energy beam grazed the body of his ship, shaving off an outer wall and sending up billows of metal dust. The gargantuan, invisible hand of death had taken hold of his vessel.

Just then, an enormous wall of light appeared ahead of him. Merkatz, concealed in the rear guard, showered the pursuing enemy with close-range volleys. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl hurriedly gave orders to pull back, but the intensity of their charge and the mentality of their officers, whose will to fight far outweighed their calm, meant that the command went partially unheeded.

Seeing his enemy’s sudden confusion, Merkatz gave orders to his fleet, which was in perfect formation to attack. With no bigger warships at his disposal, his force of destroyers, torpedo boats, and single-seat walküren was most suited for close combat.

These tore into Reinhard’s confused forces, destroying with utmost precision ships that had been forced into a tight formation. Now it was Reinhard’s vanguard forces that had ships bursting apart in balls of flame. It was all they could do to defend themselves, and pursuit was now out of the question.

Von Reuentahl and Mittermeier ground their teeth both in frustration at having lost Duke von Braunschweig after cornering him so well and in anger at the pitiful state of their own formations. Even so, they knew the foolishness of surrendering to emotion in the heat of battle. Shouting blistering words of reprimand all the while, they shored up their vulnerable rows of ships, calling for simultaneous retreat and regrouping. For mediocre commanders, it would have been an impossible task.

Had Merkatz possessed sufficient force strength, he might well have driven both of these great admirals to utter defeat. His soldiers were few, however, and he himself harbored no such illusions. He would obey Duke von Braunschweig and withdraw as instructed.

“Merkatz certainly has the skill of his years. He’s as strong as ever.”

So did the young marshal praise the enemy admiral. In any case, the enemy had been driven back into Gaiesburg. There wasn’t the slightest need for panic.

“Why didn’t you come to our aid sooner?” bellowed Duke von Braunschweig when he met with Merkatz again. These were the first words out of his mouth.

The face of the distinguished admiral did not change color. Rather, with an expression that said he’d expected this, he bowed his head in silence, even as the eyes of Lieutenant Commander von Schneider next to him flared with indignation and he took a step forward. Von Schneider’s arm, however, was grabbed by the hand of the senior officer whom he served.

When they retired to a separate room, Merkatz remonstrated his aide, who was still trembling with anger.

“Don’t be so upset. Duke von Braunschweig is unwell.”

“Unwell?”

“Mentally speaking.”

As Merkatz saw it, Duke von Braunschweig’s pathology was that of one whose pride was easily wounded. He probably wasn’t even aware of it himself, but he believed that he was a great and infallible presence, which made it impossible for him to feel gratitude toward others. He likewise could not acknowledge the ideas of those who thought differently from him. To him, such people were traitors, and any advice from them he interpreted as nothing less than slander. Consequently, although von Streit and Ferner had made plans on his behalf, not only were their ideas rejected, they had ultimately been forced to leave von Braunschweig’s camp.

A man of his disposition would never recognize that society thrived on disparate ideas and values.

“It’s an illness kept alive by a five hundred–year tradition of privilege for the nobility. You might say the duke is a victim. If he’d lived a hundred years ago, that way might have worked. He’s an unfortunate man.”

Von Schneider, who was still young, was not as tolerant or as resigned as his commander. He took his leave from Merkatz and rode an elevator up to the fortress observation room. The inorganic sparkle of overlapping star clusters shone far beyond the transparent dome.

“Duke von Braunschweig may well be an unfortunate man. But are not those whose futures lie in his hands all the more so … ?”

To the young officer’s discouraging question, the stars responded only with silence.

Within Gaiesburg Fortress, there was a man who had fled inside from the opposite direction as Duke von Braunschweig and the men. Baron von Scheidt, Duke von Braunschweig’s nephew, had been assigned to protect and govern the planet of Westerland on his uncle’s behalf.

Westerland was an arid world lacking in flora and water, but its population of two million was fairly large for such a remote territory. Intensive farming and harvesting of rare earth minerals was carried out at what few oases there were. Had it been a peaceful age, they might have transported a trillion tons of water to places that needed it, and development would have flourished.

Though Baron von Scheidt was not an entirely incompetent ruler, his youth made him rather obstinate when it came to policy. And because he had every intention of following his uncle’s lead, his exploitation of the populace only intensified.

Until now, things had held steady in this way. With Reinhard’s sudden rise to power, however, even the populace knew that the nobility’s governing leash had slackened, giving rise to civil war. Shocked and outraged that popular opposition was gaining traction, von Scheidt tried to suppress the resistance, but internal pressures only mounted.

Following one back-and-forth too many, at last the populace launched a large-scale revolt to repay von Scheidt for his tyrannical rule. What few guards he had were engulfed by the flood of angry citizens. Von Scheidt escaped by himself in a shuttle, but he had been seriously wounded, and he died from his injuries soon after his arrival at Gaiesburg.

“That insolent rabble … How dare they kill my nephew with their filthy hands.”

How easily those with privilege denied the existence and individuality of those without it. Not only did Duke von Braunschweig not recognize the people’s right to resist oppressive rule, he didn’t even acknowledge their right to live without the permission of the boyar nobles. He was certain in his mind that those who were sick and elderly, or otherwise unable to serve nobility, were no better than diseased livestock and therefore had no value in living.

And to think that such lowly ingrates had opposed the highborn—and to the point of killing his own nephew! Duke von Braunschweig was beyond aggrieved and believed his anger to be perfectly justified.

He was determined to bring his self-described “blade of justice” down on those who had wronged him.

“Launch a nuclear attack on Westerland at once, and don’t let a single one of those ingrates survive.”

Not everyone approved. This was partly because a nuclear strike meant using thermonuclear weapons, a method leading to widespread fallout that had been taboo ever since the Thirteen-Day War had in antiquity nearly wiped out the entire human race on Earth. Commodore Ansbach, who knew this by virtue of his prudence, tried to dissuade his incensed leader.

“It’s only natural that you should feel angry, but Westerland is Your Excellency’s own territory. What use would there be in launching a nuclear strike?”

Duke von Braunschweig made no response.

“Besides, now that we face Marquis von Lohengramm, we don’t have enough military strength as it is. Killing all the inhabitants is going too far. Why not just punish their ringleaders instead?”

“Silence!” the duke roared. “Westerland is my territory. As such, it’s my right to blow away those mongrels as I see fit. Did not Rudolf the Great slaughter millions of insurgents so that he might lay the foundations of the empire?”

Realizing it was useless to try to persuade him, Ansbach took his leave with a sigh.

“The Goldenbaum Dynasty ends here. How can it continue to stand when it cuts off its own limbs?”

The moment these words reached von Braunschweig’s ears by way of an informant, the duke flew into a rage and had Ansbach arrested, but after considering his achievements and popularity, he decided to keep him in confinement instead of executing him.

Merkatz requested an audience with the duke, hoping to appeal for Ansbach’s release and an end to the plans for a nuclear attack on Westerland, but the duke wouldn’t hear of it.

Duke von Braunschweig advanced to the execution phase of his plan for revenge.

A soldier of Westerlandian origin escaped Gaiesburg and defected to the Reinhard camp the day before the nuclear strike was to be carried out.

Upon hearing him out, Reinhard was about to dispatch a fleet to Westerland in an attempt to prevent the attack when his Chief of Staff von Oberstein convinced him otherwise.

“I say we let Duke von Braunschweig, mad as he is, carry out his atrocity,” he said coolly. “By recording him in the act, we prove the barbarism of the boyar nobles. No doubt, this will make the citizens and the common soldiers under their control defect. That would be far more efficient than getting in their way and stopping this.”