III
April 17. Frederica Greenhill Yang and Julian Mintz, representing the Iserlohn Republic’s civilian and military administrations respectively, had exited Iserlohn Corridor and were entering a sector patrolled by the empire.
They were traveling in the warship Ulysses, fleet flagship of the Revolutionary Army. With them was a small force of three cruisers and eight destroyers. The main fleet, under Admiral Merkatz’s command, remained hidden in the corridor, in case of unexpected developments. This was a perfectly natural precaution to take, and had they expected to encounter imperial forces deployed in significant numbers outside the corridor. This prediction, however, proved incorrect. Spreading out in front of Ulysses was an undefended lake of stars.
This gap in the imperial military’s defense network had been opened due to the standoff between von Oberstein and Wittenfeld and the Ragpur Prison riot, but Julian and his companions had no way of knowing this. Attenborough and Poplin regretted not bringing the main fleet along with them, while von Schönkopf suspected some devious trap. Julian reserved immediate judgment, slowing the pace of their advance to gather more information. Soon he had learned of the bloodshed at Ragpur Prison, following which the planet Heinessen was all but under martial law.
After protracted debate, von Schönkopf made a proposal.
“Let’s return to Iserlohn for the time being. Under the circumstances, going to Heinessen would be like cheerfully jumping into a tiger’s den.”
There did not seem to be any other choice. Julian ordered the Iserlohn ships to come about, and this was in the process of being executed when one of the cruisers reported a malfunction in is engine which caused its speed to drop precipitously. Technicians were mobilized from other ships as well, and repairs were complete shortly after midnight.
Then it happened.
“Enemy at eight o’clock, angle of depression 24 degrees!”
An imperial warship appeared on a subscreen, closing in from the port rear. And it was not alone. Behind it they could see massed points of illumination. At perhaps a hundred ships, it was not a large fleet, but it outnumbered them by far.
Almost at once, warning signals that brimmed with hostility began to arrive.
“Halt where you are. Fail to comply and we will open fire.”
“Now that takes me back,” murmured Poplin.
Glancing sideways at him, Attenborough raised his voice. “Not to worry. This is Ulysses, the luckiest ship in the fleet. That’s why we made her flagship.”
“Aren’t you worried she might have already used up all her luck?”
“Since when are you an expert on the conservation of fortune, Admiral von Schönkopf?”
“It just seemed to me that Fortune might have a thing or two to say after listening to you two ruminate about her.”
“Better hurry it up,” said Captain Nilson, casting a stone into the pool of their ruminations, “because a rather unpleasant fortune is approaching us disguised as a warship.”
“So what?” said Attenborough, glaring at the screen as he spat out the most powerful expression known to man. Despite the image of carelessness he cultivated, he was a rare military talent, evident from the fact that he had risen to the rank of admiral while still in his twenties. As the alliance had been stabbed in the back while in the act of strangling itself, he had ended up a self-styled revolutionary, but had the alliance still existed, he might have made marshal in his thirties. This would have added a marshal rather unlike Yang Wen-li—one who balanced strength and tenderness more evenly—to the roll of alliance personnel. As is well-known, however, the last two marshals of the Free Planets Alliance were Alexandor Bucock and Yang Wen-li, and this combination of old man and young had monopolized more than 92 percent of the glory and popularity in the final days of the alliance military.
Attenborough was remarkably skilled at deflecting the brunt of an enemy charge and then falling back, as he had proven many times in combat with the Black Lancers. Today, with just twelve ships to face down a hundred, the scale was rather smaller than he preferred, but through exquisite fleet coordination he maintained a retreat for two hours before the advancing enemy. Just when the imperial fleet believed it had completed a semi-encirclement, Iserlohn’s ships sprung away like a snapped rubber band and disappeared into the corridor. If the ability on display did not quite reach the domain of the magician, it was certainly worth the title of prestidigitator.
With assistance from Merkatz, Julian’s little fleet established a secure position within Iserlohn Corridor. However, Julian made a point of not returning to the fortress, instead stationing Ulysses near the corridor’s entrance, keeping the full Iserlohn fleet ready for action, and spreading it out more broadly through the area.
It was difficult to predict how the situation would evolve. Once Frederica had returned to Iserlohn Fortress by cruiser, Julian felt a wave of relief and focused his attention on what lay ahead.
He was considering two potential responses—call them the hard one and the soft one. He would also have to call the Imperial Navy to account harshly on its responsibility for the tragedy at Ragpur Prison. They had chosen to take hostages, then failed to protect them from harm; criticism was only natural.
Above all, though, Julian was worried about Admiral Murai. And what fate had come to Marshal Sitolet, who he understood to have been imprisoned the previous year? Julian had Captain Bagdash make contact with Boris Konev, currently embedded on Heinessen, to see if the free merchant could help improve the quality and quantity of information available to him, but after days of waiting all he learned was that not even Konev was all-powerful.
“There were pieces missing from this jigsaw puzzle from the start,” said Poplin. Neither sarcastic nor sympathetic, the sheer abstractness of his imagery moved few. Even Julian only smiled politely before returning to the task of putting his own thoughts in order.
How could they use the information they had as a weapon to break out of their present circumstances? He finally decided to inform the Imperial Navy of the connection between Phezzan’s old leadership and the Church of Terra, and watch their reaction. For one thing, there was no point in the Revolutionary Army keeping this a closely guarded secret.
When he heard Julian’s intentions, Bagdash crossed his arms and frowned. “Do you think the kaiser will even believe it?” he said. “Even if he does, his minister of military affairs is sure to be suspicious.”
“If they don’t want to believe it, they don’t have to. We’ll just tell the truth, and they’ll be free to interpret it as they please.”
Acerbic as Julian’s opinion was, he was under no illusion that it was sharp enough to oppose von Oberstein. In any case, the entire plan would soon be set aside temporarily as he failed to find the right timing for it.
To remain prepared for both peace and war, Julian busily flew back and forth by shuttle between Ulysses at the corridor’s entrance and Iserlohn Fortress at its center. He used communications channels too, of course, but he preferred to attend discussions and events in person to ensure that he grasped the situation.
“You have to learn to delegate!” Karin snapped at him once. This was her characteristically undiplomatic way of urging him to get enough rest, driven by worry that he was working himself too hard.
Yang had never given those around him the impression of diligence, even as his responsibilities grew weighty and his achievements vast. Julian could still see him sipping tea with that vaguely out-of-it look on his face, as if peering through fog.
“I’m so sleepy these days, Julian,” Yang had once said. “Must be summer fatigue.”
“What you have is every-season fatigue,” he had said. “Don’t try to make it summer’s fault.”
As he lacked Yang’s reputation, Julian in a sense had no choice but to sell himself on diligence. What put him in a somewhat bitter mood was the feeling that he was laying the groundwork for excuses if things did not ultimately work out. Be that as it may, Julian had to deal with things in his own manner.