IV
February, SE 801. The Iserlohn Revolutionary Army entered its first battle since receiving that name. The operation was indisputably a daring one. Perhaps it was an act of foolishness that would succeed only in destroying the cordial relationship just recently established between the Republic and the Galactic Empire. Julian was particularly apprehensive of the latter possibility. During the Reuentahl Revolt, they had allowed the Mecklinger Fleet safe passage through Iserlohn Corridor, creating an impression of what might be called amicable neutrality by showing that they would not offer indiscriminate support for any armed anti-imperial uprising. Now, however, they were about to strike the first blow in a new conflict.
Julian’s flagship was the veteran battle craft Ulysses. It was helmed by Captain Nilson, who had risen to his rank by the time of the alliance’s dissolution. Both ship and captain had proven their experience and luck, and expectations were high that they would continue to do so. Now, if only Vice Admiral Fischer were still alive to direct the fleet, Julian found himself thinking wistfully.
As he was leaving a conference with Yang prior to what would be his final battle, Edwin Fischer had actually made a rare joke. With a mild expression but an awkward tone, he had said, “I think I’m finally getting the knack of ordering all these ships around. When peace returns, I might even go ahead and write a book. Can’t let Admiral Attenborough earn all the royalties.”
But now Fischer was gone. The masterful commander, taciturn and loyal, who had understood his responsibilities and the significance of his presence perfectly, was no longer among the living. Yang, too, who had made full use of Fischer’s genius, also survived only in records and memories. Having lost both, Iserlohn nevertheless had to fight on—and with fewer than ten thousand ships at best.
They must be mad, thought Waagenseil, the imperial admiral guarding the end of Iserlohn Corridor closest to the empire’s home territory. When the first reports of the enemy’s movements had arrived, Waagenseil had been unable to resist making some indiscreet remarks to his subordinates.
“Those mangy stray dogs on Iserlohn have been howling so long they’ve convinced themselves they’re wolves. The only thing a stray dog understands is the whip. Be strict when you train them, so they will never forget the limits of their power again.”
The use of such bluster was an unfortunate habit among the commanders of the imperial army, who had never tasted defeat at the hands of anyone but Yang Wen-li. Reinhard made a point, underscored by Mittermeier, of reprimanding those who spoke in this way, but as it sprung from an excess of victor’s exuberance, it was not an easy flaw to amend.
There was also a certain psychological proclivity that seemed to crave disorder, as exemplified by Admiral Grillparzer, whose lust for glory had led him to betray von Reuentahl the previous year. This was also caused in part by intelligence on the Iserlohn fleet’s relative paucity of ships.
Waagenseil began to move his fleet of 8,500 vessels. This information reached Iserlohn along with his “mangy stray dogs” remark, which caused Attenborough to make a noise of disgust on the bridge of Ulysses.
“Mangy stray dogs, are we? Quite a way with words. Who does he think he’s dealing with?”
“The disgrace of the galaxy. Enemies of peace and unity. Fanatical traitors. Bloodstained clowns dancing on the razor’s edge with nooses around our necks. Products of a culture of pure irrational optimism with no thought for our deaths tomorrow…”
Poplin reeled the possibilities off cheerfully.
“You’re certainly no slouch when it comes to insulting yourself.”
“What do you mean by that? I have no taste for masochism.”
“Weren’t you just insulting us?”
“Well, I was certainly insulting you.”
Almost as if he had been waiting for that moment, Lieutenant Commander Soon “Soul” Soulzzcuaritter handed a document to Attenborough for approval. Attenborough quickly scanned it, signed it, and handed it back. Soul saluted and turned to leave. Watching him go, Attenborough muttered, “Well, in any case, to die tomorrow, we must first survive today.”
“Exactly right. Let’s make sure we retain the right to die tomorrow, if not later.”
0420, February 12. At a point near the imperial-side entrance to Iserlohn Corridor, the two fleets faced off. Against 8,500 imperial ships, Iserlohn had 6,600. The clustered points of artificial light drew nearer to each other, then stopped once they were a mere 2.9 light-seconds—870,000 kilometers—apart. The tension soared on both sides, finally reaching its breaking point at 0435.
“Feuer!”
“Fire!”
The orders raced through the communications circuits on both sides. For Julian, it was the first time he had ever given orders to open fire, but he had no time to ponder the sensation. In an instant, explosions bloomed across the main screen on Ulysses’ bridge, forming a flowerbed of death and destruction. Violent waves of light and heat raced toward the ship, which was positioned in the central part of the formation, ten ranks from the front.
The Imperial Navy was all too familiar with the power of Thor’s Hammer, which meant it would be a challenge to lure them within firing range. At the tactical level, this was the matter that preoccupied the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army. When a weapon is too powerful, it often becomes the object of excessive faith, warping tactical judgment and leading to defeat before it can even be used. Five years ago, that had been demonstrated in bold, crimson letters by Yang Wen-li himself. Now Julian would have to verify the proposition for himself.
Ulysses’ bridge was dyed every color of the rainbow by the beams of light streaming out from its main screen. With each pulsing flare of brightness, several ships were lost and thousands of souls interred in heat and flame. Allied vessels deployed to Ulysses’ fore opened their gun ports as a wave of incoming energy caused Ulysses itself to roll gently.
Julian was no Kaiser Reinhard, of course, but he was used to the battlefield, and believed in the efficacy of military force, even if that belief was conditional. That was why he had voiced his intention of joining the military to Yang, and why he had followed through on it. Last year, however, Julian had been forced to confront the fact that he had always intended to serve under Yang. The ambition that now sprouted in his breast was unlike any he had felt before.
The two fleets appeared to more or less hold their own against each other until 0540, when there was an almost imperceptible shift in the rhythm of the battle. The Imperial Navy advanced in a wave to secure more ground, and the Iserlohn fleet fell back to maintain the same distance, replying only with cannon fire. At last, they began to fall back even farther of their own accord.
Cracks began to show in the imperial formations. As if being sucked into a vacuum, their ships advanced in a disorderly fashion, drawn further and further into the corridor’s depth. It was 0630, just over two hours since combat had begun.
The fighter squadrons that had emerged from Iserlohn’s fleet returned to their motherships.
Poplin’s team of single-seater spartanians had achieved results that would go down in the history of fighter combat. Of the 240 spartanians, sixteen had failed to return. However, as records would one day reveal, the Imperial Navy had lost no fewer than 104 of its own single-seater walküren.
Corporal Katerose “Karin” von Kreutzer had downed two of those walküren herself, and contributed to the destruction of two more. The keenness of her reflexes, judgment, and visual perception seemed inborn. Which parent could she have inherited them from?
As leader of the squadron, Poplin had shot down five of the enemy, bringing his total score since graduating from flight school to over 250. This was a worthy showing for any ace, already putting him among the ten deadliest pilots in the 150-year history of the war between the Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance. One of the five he had downed had been gunning for Corporal von Kreutzer from her left rear flank, but he did not mention this to her.
Waagenseil saw his forces stream into the corridor in a somewhat disorderly pursuit of the enemy, but sensed little danger in it.
His aim was parallel pursuit. If their ships were mingled with the enemy’s, Iserlohn Fortress would not be able to fire Thor’s Hammer. Back when the fortress had been one of the empire’s prized possessions, the alliance Marshal Sidney Sitolet had used this technique to “tear off some of that thick makeup Iserlohn wears,” as he put it. His assault had failed in the final stages, but the lessons to be learned from it were hardly insignificant, and Waagenseil had not failed to take note of them.
All this, however, was within the bounds of what Julian had foreseen. He had a trick planned that was more than worthy of Yang Wen-li’s star pupil. It began by calculating the precise time that Wahlen’s fleet would arrive in the space around Iserlohn Fortress, starting from its entering the Corridor from the side that had once led to alliance territory. Julian continued gradually pulling the Iserlohn fleet back in response to the hourly updates he received on Wahlen’s position. The attention to detail and psychic stamina he showed while executing this two-day strategy, all the while dangling in front of Waagenseil the possibility of parallel pursuit, reminded those around him of his guardian and teacher.
Soon, without even realizing it, the Imperial Navy had been drawn completely within range of Thor’s Hammer.