Dawn (30 page)

Up to this point, he had been speaking in a hard, formal tone, but here he smiled unexpectedly. It was a smile filled with energy and spirit, although it was not the purehearted, transparent smile that he showed only to Annerose and Kircheis.

“In other words, this means all the other corps are ornamental dolls decorating the imperial palace, and not to be counted upon. This is an excellent chance for promotions and medals.”

The admirals smiled as well. Like Reinhard, they shared a common enmity toward highborn nobles who did nothing but gorge themselves on position and privilege; it had not been for their talents alone that Reinhard had selected these men.

“And now I’d like to talk with you about where we should intercept the enemy …”

Mittermeier and Wittenfeld expressed a shared opinion: The rebel attack would come by way of the Iserlohn Corridor, so why not hit them the moment they emerged from it into imperial territory? “We can ascertain the point where the enemy will appear, so it will be possible to strike their vanguard and create a half-envelopment formation, which will give us the advantage and make fighting them easy—”

“No …” Reinhard said, shaking his head. He then proceeded to explain that the enemy would be expecting an attack at the point where they exited the corridor and poured into the empire’s core. Their elite forces would be positioned in the vanguard, and if the remaining force didn’t emerge from the corridor when they were attacked, his force would be left with no means of attacking them further.

“We should lure the enemy in deeper,” Reinhard argued, and after a brief discussion, the other admirals agreed. “We lure the enemy deep into imperial territory, and then when their ranks and supply lines are stretched to the breaking point, we hit them with everything we have. I’d say that with such a strategy, victory for the defending side is assured.”

“But that will take a lot of time,” said Mittermeier. He had a firm, if smallish, build and certainly looked like a sharp young officer. He had unruly, honey-colored hair and gray eyes. “As this is, in rebels of the alliance’s own words, the most daring feat since their founding, it’s sure they’ll cut no corners when it comes to the preparation of their ranks, equipment, and supply lines. It will take a considerable amount of time for their matériel to be exhausted and for their fighting spirit to wane.” Mittermeier’s rather concerned opinion was only natural, but Reinhard swept his gaze across his admirals, and then with a gleam of utmost confidence in his eyes, said, “No, it won’t take very long at all. I’d give it less than fifty days. Von Oberstein, explain the basics of the operation.”

When called upon, the staff officer with the half-silvered hair stepped forward and began to explain. As he was doing so, an air of shocked disbelief spread out among the admirals without a sound.

On August 22, SE 796, General Headquarters for the Free Planets Alliance’s Expeditionary Force to Imperial Territory was established within Iserlohn Fortress. Around that same time, thirty million troops from the capital of Heinessen and its surrounding star systems were assembling columns of warships and setting out toward a distant battlespace.

For the first month, a dazzling excitement was the constant companion of all the alliance’s space fleets. Then the warmth of that friendship cooled, and what remained was disappointment and, even worse, anxiety and impatience. There was a question the men began asking one another—the officers in places where no enlisted men would hear and the enlisted men in places where there were no officers.

Why doesn’t the enemy show themselves?

With Admiral Urannf’s Tenth Fleet in the lead, the alliance force had penetrated roughly five hundred light-years into imperial territory. Two hundred star systems had fallen into their hands, and of those, over thirty were inhabited, albeit with populations whose levels of technological development were low. A total of about fifty million civilians were living on these worlds. The colonial governors, frontier counts, tax officials, and soldiers who were supposed to be governing these people had all fled, and the alliance had been met with virtually no resistance to speak of.

“We are a liberation force.”

That was what the alliance’s pacification officers announced to the throngs of abandoned farmers and miners.

“We promise you liberty and equality. You won’t suffer anymore under the oppression of despotism. You’ll be given full political rights and begin your lives anew as free citizens.”

But to their disappointment, what they found waiting for them were not the fervent cheers they had envisioned. The crowds didn’t show the slightest interest, in fact, and the pacification officers’ impassioned eloquence rolled right off their backs. When the farmers’ representatives spoke, they would say:

“Before you give us any kind of political rights, we’d appreciate it if you’d give us the right to live first. We’ve got no food here. There’s no milk for our babies. The military took it all when they left. Before you promise freedom and equality, can you promise bread and milk?”

“O-of course,” the pacification officers would reply, though inside they were disheartened by these prosaic requests. Nevertheless, they were a liberation force. Guaranteeing the necessities of life to multitudes groaning under the heavy yoke of imperial governance was a duty eclipsing even combat in importance. Foodstuffs were disbursed from each fleet’s supply department, and at the same time, requisitions were sent to Supreme Command Headquarters on Iserlohn: 180 days’ worth of food for fifty million people, seeds for upwards of two hundred varieties of crops, forty production plants for artificial protein, sixty hydroponics plants, and all the ships needed to carry them.

“This is the minimum needed to rescue the liberation zone from a state of perpetual famine. These figures will grow steadily larger as the liberation zone expands.”

Rear Admiral Caselnes, the expeditionary force’s rear service chief of staff, let out an involuntary growl at the sight of that annotation, which came attached to the requisition form. One hundred eighty days’ worth of food for fifty million people? The grain alone would hit ten million tons. To move it would require fifty transport vessels in the two hundred thousand-ton class. Most importantly, that much food greatly exceeded the production and storage capacity of Iserlohn.

“Even if we empty every warehouse on Iserlohn, that only comes to seven million tons. And even with the artificial protein and hydroponics plants running at full capacity—”

Caselnes cut off his subordinate’s report: “It won’t be enough—I know.”

The resupply plan, designed for the thirty million soldiers of the alliance, had been drawn up by Caselnes himself, and he had been confident regarding its implementation.

It would be a different story now, though, because on top of that they had to handle a noncombatant population nearly double the size of the entire expeditionary force. He would need to make corrections to the plan that would triple its scale, and he would need to do it fast. Caselnes could easily imagine the cries from the fleets’ supply departments as they strained under the excessive burden.

“Still, are these pacification officers all imbeciles?”

What was sticking in his craw was that line in the note attached to the requisition form:
These figures will grow steadily larger as the liberation zone expands
. Didn’t that mean the burden on the resupply effort was only going to get heavier? This was no time for childlike rejoicing over the expansion of seized territory. And furthermore, there was a faint suggestion of something else in all of this—of something that was terrifying.

Caselnes requested a meeting with the supreme commander, Marshal Lobos. In his office, he found Rear Admiral Fork of the operations staff present as well. This he had been expecting; Fork enjoyed a greater share of the supreme commander’s confidence than even his chief of staff, Senior Admiral Greenhill. He could usually be found keeping a watchful eye by his boss’s side, and lately there were whispers that “the Supreme Commander’s nothing but a microphone for the ops staff. When he opens his mouth, it’s really Rear Admiral Fork who’s speaking.”

“This must be about the requisitions from the pacification teams,” Marshal Lobos said, rubbing his meaty jowl. “Whatever it is, I’m busy enough even without it, so make this quick.”

One didn’t get to the rank of marshal by being incompetent. Lobos was a man who knew how to get results on the front lines, methodically process paperwork in the rear, lead large forces, and manage staff. Or at least he
had
known, until some point during his forties. Now, however, his decline was plain to see. He was lethargic in all things, and his lack of energy was especially noticeable when judgment, insight, and decision making were called for. Which was probably why Rear Admiral Fork was being allowed to do as he pleased, making all the decisions.

There were a number of theories as to what had caused this once-gifted commander to end up like this. Some said that the strain he had put on his mind and body as a young man had resulted in the onset of encephalomalacia, or softening of the brain; others said that it was chronic heart disease, or that he had never gotten over losing out to Sitolet in the race for the director’s seat at Joint Operational Headquarters—the uniformed men unfolded wings of imagination as they gossiped with one another.

When those wings spread too far, theories emerged such as the one where Lobos—who had never met a pretty girl he didn’t like—had caught some horrible disease from a woman with whom he’d shared a night. That particular thesis came with a special extra: the claim that the woman who had given the marshal his ignominious illness had been an imperial spy. Dirty smiles would appear for a moment on the faces of those who heard this rumor, after which their shoulders would draw up as though they’d felt a chill.

“I’ll be brief, Excellency. Our forces are facing a crisis. A very serious crisis.”

Caselnes chanced opening with his sword brandished high and waited to see how Lobos would react. Marshal Lobos stopped the hand that was massaging his chin and shot a doubtful look back at the rear service chief of staff. Rear Admiral Fork twisted his pale lips slightly, though this was merely force of habit.

“What’s this all of a sudden?”

There was no echo of shock or surprise in the marshal’s voice, but Caselnes wondered if he were not so much calm and collected as emotionally stunted.

“You’re aware of the requisitions coming in from the pacification teams?” Caselnes asked, which might have been a rude thing to say. Fork clearly seemed to think so; though he said nothing out loud, the crook of his mouth grew larger. Perhaps he intended to make something of it later.

“I know about them,” said Lobos. “I get the feeling they’re asking for too much myself, but given our occupation policy, what choice do we have?”

“Iserlohn doesn’t have supplies in the quantities they’re demanding.”

“Then pass the requisitions on to the homeland. The bean counters might go into hysterics, but they can’t refuse to send you what you need.”

“Yes, sir, they’ll certainly send it. But once those supplies have reached Iserlohn, what do you think happens next?”

The marshal started stroking his chin again.
No matter how hard you rub it, it’s not gonna scrape off all that fat,
Caselnes thought.

“What do you mean, Admiral?”

“What I mean is that the enemy’s plan is to overload our capacity to resupply the force.” He spoke in a harsh tone of voice, though what he’d wanted to do was scream,
Can’t you even see that!
at him.

“In other words, the enemy is going to attack the transport fleet and try to cut off our supply line—that’s your opinion as rear service chief of staff?” said Rear Admiral Fork.

It was disagreeable to be interrupted, but Caselnes nodded.

“But everything from here to the front lines five hundred light-years away is under occupation by our forces. I don’t think there’s any need to be so worried. Though, ah, of course we’ll attach an escort, just in case.”

“I see. Just in case, huh?”

Caselnes said that with all the sarcasm he could muster. What did he care what Fork might think?

Yang, please make it back home alive
, Caselnes silently called to his friend. He couldn’t help thinking,
This is way too stupid a fight to get killed in.

Those in favor said, “The expedition’s original goal was to liberate a people groaning under the oppression of imperial rule. Rescuing fifty million people from famine is obviously the moral thing to do as well. Furthermore, when people learn that our forces have saved them, that—coupled with their opposition to imperial rule—will cause public sentiment to tilt inevitably in the direction of our alliance. For reasons both military and political, the expeditionary force’s requests should be honored and foodstuffs and other necessities be given to the residents of the occupied zone …”

There was also a counterargument: “This expedition has been poorly planned from the start. The initial plan alone required expenditures totaling two hundred billion dinars—that comes to 5.6 percent of the national budget for this year and more than 10 percent of the military’s budget. Even with those expenses alone, it’s certain we’ll be way over budget when financial accounts are settled. Add in securing the occupied zone and provision of foodstuffs for its residents, and fiscal bankruptcy becomes certain. They should end this campaign, abandon the occupied territories, and return to Iserlohn. Just holding Iserlohn is enough to block incursions from the empire …”

Ideological appeals, cold calculations, and emotions all ran together, and it seemed as if this fierce debate might go on forever.

A report—or rather, a cry—from Iserlohn, however, was what settled the matter: “At least give our soldiers the chance to die in battle. If you spend every day doing nothing, nothing awaits them but inglorious deaths by starvation.”

Supplies were assembled in accordance with the military’s demands, and they began shipping them out, but not long after, additional requisitions came in for almost the same amounts as the previous ones. The occupied zone expanded, and the number of people residing within it swelled to one hundred million. Naturally, there was no way to avoid an increase in the amount of supplies needed …

Those who had supported the earlier requisitions felt humiliated, as one might expect. The opposing side said, “Didn’t we try to tell you? There’s no end to it, is there? Fifty million has turned into a hundred million. Before long, a hundred million will turn into two hundred million. The empire intends to destroy the finances of our alliance. The government and the military blindly walked right into this and are not going to be able to avoid responsibility. We have no other options left. Withdraw!”

“The empire is using the innocent civilians themselves as a weapon to resist our force’s invasion. It’s a despicable tactic, but considering that we’re doing this in the name of liberation and rescue, one can’t help admitting it’s an effective one. We should go ahead and withdraw. Otherwise, our force is going to stagger along under the weight of all the starving civilians it’s carrying and ultimately be pummeled by a full-on counterattack when its strength gives out.”

So spake João Lebello, chairman of the Finance Committee, in the High Council.

Those who had supported the mobilization said not a word. Instead, they merely sat in their seats looking glum—or rather, shell-shocked.

Madam Cornelia Windsor, chairwoman of the Intelligence Traffic Committee, was staring at the ashen screen of a computer terminal displaying nothing, her comely face gone rigid.

By this point, even Madam Windsor knew all too well that there was nothing else to do but withdraw. Nothing could be done about the expenditures thus far, but the nation’s finances could not endure further expenses.

However, if they pulled out now without having achieved any kind of military successes at all, she would lose face for having supported it. Not only those who had opposed this deployment from the start, but also those of the prowar faction presently supporting her, would no doubt seek to hold her politically accountable. The seat of council chair that she had longed for since she first decided to go into politics would recede from her as well.