Dawn (10 page)

Well, let’s see what happens.

In the command chair, Yang crossed his arms. He wasn’t really as composed as he appeared to be. At present, the enemy’s actions were within the bounds of Yang’s predictions. The problem was what his allies would do. All would be fine if they went along with his plan, but one misstep and things would likely spin out of control, and the whole force would be put to flight. And what would he do then?

Scratch my head and pretend to look embarrassed,
Yang told himself, answering his own question. He couldn’t predict everything, nor was there an infallibly correct move he could make. He wasn’t responsible for things beyond his power.

Patroklos
itself had opened fire as well, sending out exhalations of death and destruction that slammed against its enemies. An immense waste of human energy—or material energy—was being justified as the path toward victory and survival.

“Enemy battleship closing! Judging by its model, it’s probably
Wallenstein
.”

Wallenstein
had already taken considerable structural damage, having apparently charged straight through the fire. Its half-ruined main battery took aim at
Patroklos
from straight ahead, but
Patroklos
’s response, this time, came swiftly.

“Fire all main cannons! Target is right in front of us!”

The order came from Lieutenant Commander Lao, who was temporarily doubling as gunnery chief.

Patroklos
’s front cannons spat out synchronized beams of neutrons, scoring a direct hit on
Wallenstein,
dead in its midsection.

After an instant’s agonized buckling, the Imperial Navy’s gargantuan battleship blew apart. Cheers rang out in the comm circuit of Yang’s helmet, but their end notes transformed into cries of renewed horror. Crashing haughtily though the shining white whirlpool of the fusion explosion, the next enemy vessel,
Kärnten,
revealed its stately form. Yang acknowledged anew the dignity and grandeur of the Imperial Navy’s formation, as well as its strong fighting spirit.

It was clear that their powerful will to fight was one born of their overwhelming victories. For a moment, Yang was captivated by the thought that he might be witnessing the moment in which a great general was born.

“Some generals are called ‘wise’ and others ‘fierce,’ but a commander who transcends those categories—who inspires in his men a faith unbreakable—is one whom I call ‘great.’ ” Yang had read those words in a history book.
Reinhard von Lohengramm must still be quite young, but at the very least, he’s on his way to being ‘great.’ He’s a threat to alliance forces, and to the old power structures in the Imperial Navy, he’s most likely a threat as well.

Yang crossed his arms the other way and savored what small satisfaction he could in the thought that he was probably sitting right in the midst of history’s current.

Even during that interval, the state of the battlefield was changing moment by moment.

Kärnten
and
Patroklos
had exchanged fire, but amid the confusion of battle, they had moved apart, with neither having delivered a killing blow.

Yang shifted his gaze to the simulated-battlefield model that the tactical computer displayed on his monitor. Simplified shapes showed the distribution and condition of both forces.

Backward rippling motions were occasionally running through the alliance fleet, but overall the display showed the imperial force’s advance and the alliance force’s retreat.

Those movements were gradually increasing in velocity. The empire advanced, the alliance fell back. The tiny, reverse-propagating ripples vanished, and the more the simulated image was simplified, the more the effect was amplified. To most anyone’s eyes, the empire appeared ready to take victory by the hand, and the alliance defeat by the tail.

“Looks like we’ve won,” murmured Reinhard.

Meanwhile, Yang was also nodding toward Lieutenant Commander Lao.

“Looks like it’s going to work,” he said, not vocalizing his relieved
Thank heavens!

What had been worrying Yang was whether or not the ships on his own side would follow their instructions. He had confidence in the planned operation itself. At this point there was no longer any way to win. It was, however, still possible to finish this without losing. But that could only happen if the other ships followed the plan.

There were no doubt obstinate squadron commanders who scorned the idea of obeying a young and inexperienced commander like Yang, but in the absence of any other effective battle plan, there was little choice but to accept Yang’s orders. If the desire for survival motivated them more than any sense of loyalty, though, Yang had not the slightest objection.

A hint of puzzlement began to appear on Reinhard’s face.

He stood up from his seat, put both hands on the command console, and glared up at the overhead screen. Irritation was beginning to boil up all through his body.

His allies were advancing, and his enemies retreating. Hit by the frontal breakthrough attack, the alliance’s fleet was being split to the left and right. The scenes on the screen, the simulation that the tactical computer was reconstructing on his monitor, the status reports coming in from the vanguard—all were describing exactly the same situation.

Yet even so, a sound of distant thunder was beginning to rumble faintly in the back of his mind. He became aware of a sick feeling eating away at his nerves—the kind you get right before you realize that some dirty trick has just been played on you.

He put the fist he’d made with his left hand up against his mouth, resting his teeth lightly on his index finger’s second joint. And in that instant, for no reason whatsoever, he intuited what his enemy had in mind.

“No!”

That low cry, drowned out by the shouts of operators, reached the ears of no one.

“Their force has split apart to port and starboard! They’re—they’re going to rush past us along both flanks!”

Amid a shocked stir, Reinhard cried out for his red-haired adjutant. “Kircheis! We’ve been had. The enemy wants to separate on both flanks and come around on our back side. They’re using our frontal breakthrough against us.
Damn them!
”

The golden-haired youth slammed his fist down against the command console.

“What shall we do? Reverse course and intercept?”

Kircheis’s voice had lost none of its cool self-possession. That had a calming effect on the nerves of his momentarily enraged commanding officer.

“Don’t be absurd. You want me to be a greater imbecile than that Fourth Fleet’s commander was?”

“In that case, all we can do is advance.”

“Exactly.” Reinhard nodded and gave orders to his communications officer. “All ships, full speed ahead! Clamp on to the back side of the enemy rushing past us. Bear to the right. And hurry!”

Viewed from far away in the depths of space, it might have looked like two glittering, gargantuan serpents trying to swallow one another, each from the other’s tail upward.

Staring at the simulated model on the screen, Lieutenant Commander Lao said admiringly in Yang’s direction, “I’ve never seen a battle formation like this.”

“I’d imagine not … It’s a first for me, too.”

But Yang’s words were only halfway true. Back when humanity had lived only on the surface of a backwater planet called Earth, this kind of formation had appeared on battlefields any number of times. Even the brilliant tactics employed by Count von Lohengramm had precedent in ground wars. Since ancient times—for better or worse—military geniuses inevitably took the stage during eras of war, turning on its head what had been orthodox tactical thought until their arrival.

“Look at this miserable excuse for a battle formation!”

The enraged cry rang out on the bridge of
Brünhild
. Reinhard suppressed his voice and snarled. “Won’t this mean a battle of attrition … ?”

A report was delivered to him of the death of a high-ranking officer. Rear Admiral Erlach had been blown away with the ship he had been aboard. Ignoring Reinhard’s order to go full speed ahead, he had been trying to turn around and intercept the alliance force when in midturn his ship had taken a direct hit from a neutron-beam cannon.

What sort of imbecile tries to turn a ship around right in front of enemies that are snapping at his heels! He has only himself to blame. Yet even so, there’s no denying this casts a slight pall over the empire’s victory.

Yang had understood from the moment he launched this operation that it would turn into a battle of attrition. The imperial fleet’s commander, Count von Lohengramm, was no fool. He wasn’t likely to continue a fruitless battle that did nothing but increase the bloodshed and destruction. That had been the plan: to force the enemy into making that decision …

“The enemy should start pulling out soon,” Yang said to Lieutenant Commander Lao.

“Are we going to pursue?”

“… Let’s not.” The young commander shook his head. “Let’s follow their lead—when they withdraw, so do we. We’ve done all we can up till now—there’s no way we can continue fighting.”

A conversation was being held on the bridge of
Brünhild
as well.

“Kircheis, your thoughts?”

“It might be about time for a tactical withdrawal …” It was a reserved but unambiguous answer.

“You think so, too?”

“If we do continue to fight, the damage on both sides will only increase. That would serve no military purpose.”

Reinhard nodded agreement, though a shade of dissatisfaction drifted across his youthful cheeks. Even if he accepted the reasoning, he wasn’t satisfied emotionally.

“Is that frustration?”

“Nothing of the sort, though I did want a more unambiguous victory. It’s just a pity is all, like leaving off the finishing touches of a painting.”

That’s just like you
, thought Kircheis, an unconscious half smile forming around his mouth.

“You annihilated two of their fleets by attacking their forces separately, even while being hemmed in on three sides by a force twice the size of our own. And although the remaining fleet did swing around and get our back, you still fought them to a standstill. Isn’t that enough? To hope for any more would be what we call ‘just a little greedy.’ ”

“I know. And there’s also the idea of leaving something to look forward to on another day.”

Though the two fleets continued to fire away at one another, the formation was at last spreading gradually outward horizontally as the two forces began putting distance between one other. The rate of fire slowed as well, and the density of the energies being unleashed thinned out precipitously.

“He’s quite good. Better than I had expected.” In Reinhard’s voice there was blended both irritation and praise. The young commander with the golden hair was deep in thought, and after a few minutes he called out for his adjutant.

“What was the name of the Second Fleet’s commander—the man who took charge midway through?”

“Commodore Yang Wen-li.”

“That’s right—Yang. Send him an e-gram in my name.”

Kircheis, smiling, asked, “What sort of message shall I send?”

“ ‘My compliments to you, Commander, on a battle bravely fought … Be well till the day of our next encounter …’ Something along those lines should be fine.”

“As you wish.”

Kircheis relayed Reinhard’s order to the communications officer, who responded with a slight, quizzical tilt of the head. Kircheis returned a pleasant smile. “Like you, Officer … I’m in no hurry to fight such a tough opponent again. Better to have easy wins than run into enemies we have to praise.”

“Absolutely, sir,” the comm officer replied with a nod.

New orders from Reinhard rang out: “We’re returning to Odin. All ships, get into formation.”

After appending a few additional commands—“We’ll put in at Iserlohn Fortress along the way … Calculate the damage to friends and foes ASAP”—Reinhard lowered the back of his command chair until he was facing the hemispherical ceiling almost directly and closed his eyes.

He felt exhaustion come bubbling up from beneath the surface of his consciousness.
It should be all right to sleep for just a little while. Just a short rest. Kircheis would wake me if anything were to happen. Just leave the settings for the trip home to the inertial astrogation system …

For the leader of a defeated force, delegating squad operations to lower-ranking commanders and taking a nap were luxuries not permitted. Yang’s greatest obligation was the recovery of those who remained, so he had to rush from battlespace to battlespace seeking survivors of the Fourth and Sixth Fleets.
Like with most things, the hardest part is picking up the pieces when it’s over,
thought Yang as he pulled off the helmet of his space suit and drank protein-enriched milk from a paper cup.