The Battle of the Corridor, Part Three: Spent Gladiator 1

February 489 I.C., Inside the Iserlohn Corridor

Ansbach advised Braunschweig not to bring the flagship directly towards Iserlohn, to instead wait outside, perhaps even take a contingent of the fleet further away, to wait until all the fighting stopped. Braunschweig had no patience for arguments about safety, however, and the Berlin sailed directly towards the gaping hole in the fortress’s side.

Braunschweig considered the battle won, despite the fact that the fortress had in no way surrendered. Perhaps he was right, but that didn’t mean that making their way to the control room would be easy. Landing the ship within the fortress’s walls would make it vulnerable to boarding, and lingering near the outside would leave them open to attacks by the remaining fortress fleet, or any floating gun turrets that the fortress managed to reactivate. They would have to fight their way through the corridors to take real control, in any case.

Yang stood by the radio, several times trying to hail Iserlohn and ask for a surrender, but there was no response. Braunschweig had only given him permission to do this because he knew that there wouldn’t be an answer to any of Yang’s radio calls. Still, Yang felt an obligation to try. If he could prevent any further loss of life, he would call as many times as it took.

The fortress was still jamming communications between their fleet and Mittermeyer’s, but now that they approached closer, they could see flashes of light from the other side— the signs of a fierce battle raging between the remaining ships of the fortress fleet and Mittermeyer.

Muckenburger knew that the bulk of the landing forces were in Mittermeyer’s camp— he was well aware of the composition of the troops that Braunschweig had sent to Cahokia. His only viable path to victory was to prevent Mittermeyer’s forces from landing in the fortress. If Braunschweig’s fleet failed to take direct control of the fortress’s interior, and Mittermeyer’s fleet was prevented from landing, then the fortress wouldn’t have fallen completely.

Yang kept up his useless attempts at radioing the fortress for long after it became clear that his effort was being wasted. With each call, though he kept his voice calm, he felt something calcify further in his heart. As the hole in the fortress’s side loomed larger and larger on the screen at the front of the bridge, Yang finally made a decision.

In the chaos of the bridge, no one noticed him slip out. No one except Hans von Vering, anyway. Yang didn’t realize he was being followed until he was in the middle of keying in his access code to one of the equipment storerooms: he heard Vering’s characteristically heavy footsteps behind him.

Yang turned his head to look at Vering, and finished punching in his PIN blindly. The lock clicked, and he held the door open as he spoke. “Did Ansbach tell you to follow me?”

Vering scowled. “No.”

“Then is there a reason you’re following me?” Yang stepped into the storeroom, and Vering followed on his heels. The shelves of equipment and hangers for the exosuits were nearly empty, but there were a few things left.

“What are you doing?” Vering demanded.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Yang ran his hand across the few remaining exosuits and picked out one in his size. He struggled to shake it off its hanger.

“Something stupid.”

“That’s not illegal,” Yang said. “Even the illustrious Goldenbaum Dynasty hasn’t figured out how to forbid that completely.”

Vering wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Yang sat down on one of the scuffed plastic benches and began pulling the suit on.

“I’m going to tell Commodore Ansbach.”

“Go ahead.” He cocked his head at Vering. “It’s not like this is a secret. I’m going to march back up to the bridge in a moment.”

“You look ridiculous.”

This, Yang couldn’t argue with. He nodded and continued wrestling with the legs of the suit. When was the last time he had worn one of these? Cahokia— when he had very briefly been Annerose von Müsel’s prisoner. The memory was almost funny.

Vering watched Yang. “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Muckenburger won’t surrender to Braunschweig as things stand,” Yang said. “And I don’t think the duke or the baron will be particularly convincing on that front.”

“And you think you—”

Yang focused on securing the breastplate of the exosuit. “Someone has to try, make a real effort, and not just blindly demand an unconditional surrender,” he said. “I know the fleet admiral, anyway. And I don’t want this to lead to any more death than it has to. I’d like to at least be in the room, if there’s anything I can do. Maybe there isn’t, but—” Yang realized he was rambling.

Vering was silent, and this caused Yang to look up and watch the strange tumble of emotions passing across his face. They ended in a sneer when Vering realized that Yang was looking at him.

“Someone’s going to kill you,” Vering said.

“I hope not.” Yang stood, and tucked the helmet of the exosuit under his arm: the grim death’s head. He took a few steps towards the door of the supply room, unfamiliar with the weight of his steps in the suit’s shoes.

“Here,” Vering said. He took a rifle out of one of the wall cabinets and held it out to Yang.

“And what would I do with that? I couldn’t hit the broadside of a destroyer.”

Finally, the faux detachment in Vering’s voice cracked— at least enough that Yang could hear what was beneath it. “I thought you didn’t want to die.”

Yang took the rifle, though he gently nudged Vering aside and hung it back up on the wall. “You’re right. But I don’t want this to end with the entire Iserlohn fleet being wiped out. The faster we can get a surrender from Muckenburger, the fewer people need to die in general.”

“And what about me?” Vering asked. He blurted it out without thinking— the words came out with an involuntary whine, and his cheeks reddened. “Sir,” he tacked on, as if that made any difference.

Yang held open the door to the stockroom to let Vering out. They walked together towards the bridge, without Yang saying anything for a little while.

“You’ll make sure that the duke doesn’t do anything that would make all of this worse than worthless,” Yang said. “I’d really appreciate if you at least stopped him from stepping a foot outside this ship until the coast is clear.”

“Yes, sir,” Vering said. His voice was tight, like he was speaking past a lump in his throat.

“Is something the matter?” Yang asked.

“No, sir.”

They were approaching the bridge again. The men who rushed past ignored them entirely. Yang stopped before they reached the doors to the bridge, lingering with Vering for a moment in the hallway.

“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone that I was a coward?” Vering asked.

There were far too many things Yang could have said in answer to that question, and Vering would hate most of them.

It hadn’t even been pragmatism— trying to curry favor with the man who was the would-be king consort. It might have been easier if it was.

Yang looked around the busy hallway, and rubbed the back of his head with his free hand. He didn’t meet Vering’s eyes. “I don’t value heroism all that much,” Yang said. “It’s good to want to live.”

This was clearly an unsatisfactory answer for Vering, who didn’t say anything.

Yang sighed and offered a reluctant smile. “I sometimes think that if everyone had the strength to be a coward, to refuse to be pushed into the desire to be great, we’d live in a much better universe— or at least one with far less death and war.”

“I don’t think I understand you, sir.”

“That’s alright. It doesn’t matter.” He smiled again and shoved open the door to the bridge. Vering didn’t follow Yang in.

It was even more chaotic in there than it was in the hallway. While Yang had been gone, Baron Flegel, who had appointed himself in charge of the landing team to take the fortress from the inside, had also gotten dressed in an exosuit, and was talking with Braunschweig and gesturing to the image of Iserlohn on the screen overhead. Ansbach, who was also over by Braunschweig, looked up when Yang came in. He broke off from that group and came over to Yang, not even trying to hide the foul expression on his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. The answer was obvious, and Ansbach didn’t even wait for Yang to answer. “You don’t have your little red dog to protect you.”

“I’d like to be the one to speak with Muckenburger,” Yang said. “That’s worth the risk to me.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Ansbach said. “And do me the favor of not saying that to Flegel, since he’s very excited to be the one to make Muckenburger surrender.”

“Then what should I say? I think I’ll have an easier time talking to Muckenburger than Flegel.”

“Nothing,” Ansbach said. “Let me do the talking, if there has to be any.”

Yang looked over Ansbach’s shoulder at Flegel, who was looking up at the image of Iserlohn on the big screen with a slick smile. “Will there even be a chance for talking?”

Ansbach frowned. “I’ll do my best to convince him to take the Fleet Admiral prisoner,” Ansbach said.

“Rather than killing him outright.”

“I don’t want a repeat of Geiersburg either,” Ansbach snapped. “I’ll do what I can.”

“And what can I do?”

“Nothing. If Muckenburger becomes a prisoner, you can talk to him yourself after— maybe prevent him from going to a firing squad. But that’s later— I’d prefer if you didn’t come now. You’re dead weight.”

There wasn’t much Yang could say to contradict that, so he shrugged. “I’d like to at least be there.”

“Why?”

“It’s—” There wasn’t any way to put it that didn’t sound stupid, even to him. “Muckenburger is only doing this because of me,” Yang said.

“I’ve never thought one of your flaws was self-absorption, My Lord,” Ansbach said with a sneer.

“Are you going to insist I stay behind?”

Ansbach looked back at Braunschweig, and Braunschweig beckoned him back over. “If someone asks you why you need to tag along, say you have some suspicion about a plan, or it will be easier for you to coordinate with the Cahokia forces if you’re in the fortress and can use their radios to communicate,” Ansbach said over his shoulder as he walked away. It was a fine excuse, so Yang nodded.

Yang leaned on the wall— there would be plenty of time before they made it into Iserlohn. Even Flegel wasn’t stupid enough to go in at the head of the attack, so they would have to wait for the first wave of boarders from other ships to clear the way to the fortress’s nerve center, and then Flegel’s team would enter to take real control of the situation. Flegel was pacing the bridge smugly. Yang remembered Flegel had never really liked Muckenburger— it seemed that this was a personal moment for him.

There still hadn’t been any communications from Mittermeyer, despite the radio operator’s repeated attempts to hail them through Iserlohn’s jamming.

Ansbach finished speaking with Braunschweig, then left the bridge. He returned just a few minutes later dressed in his own exosuit.

When they had gotten word that their vanguard forces had cleared a significant path through Iserlohn, Flegel’s group all gathered up and headed for the rear of the ship. No one commented on Yang’s presence, perhaps because as soon as he slipped on the heavy helmet, he looked indistinguishable from all the rest of the soldiers in the group. He stayed close to Ansbach, who kept his visor flipped up to more easily speak to Flegel.

As the Berlin descended through the liquid metal shell that surrounded Iserlohn, the walls of the ship rumbled and groaned disconcertingly, causing the members of their boarding party, standing in the back loading bay, to look around with concern. From the outside, the waves in Iserlohn’s shell had looked like they were diminished, but that had been an illusion. Parts of the metal were still superheated, and all of it was still moving. The ships of Braunschweig’s fleet descending through the outer layer created even more ripples, like sticks held in the path of a flowing stream.

From the back of the ship, they couldn’t see much— nothing other than the string of numbers that the bridge reported to them, their position relative to Iserlohn’s beacons updating on the tablet clutched in an NCO’s hand.

They knew that to stave off further damage from the liquid metal shell collapsing into the fortress, Iserlohn had modulated the force coming out of its great gravity engine. If it was still turned on at all, it was only minimally, to stop the liquid metal from escaping off into space. But that meant that there would be no walking normally inside Iserlohn— they would be weightless. Every member of the landing party was given a fuel pack to help them move, at least until they got into the tight corridors of Iserlohn and could kick off the walls.

Yang strapped it onto his back unhappily, and when he struggled to tighten the chest straps, Ansbach reached over and fastened them without speaking. Through the hard shell of the exosuit, Yang couldn’t feel the touch at all, except in the way that Ansbach pulled him forward and then shoved him away, testing the strength of the straps up near his shoulders with a sharp jerk.

Most of the men were armed with rifles and axes. The rifles would likely be useless, but that didn’t stop men from carrying them. Iserlohn had procedures for flooding every corridor with Zephyr particles, to make life harder for invaders trying to cut their way through sealed doorways.

The Berlin didn’t so much land in Iserlohn’s bays as knock into them. Even the engine’s inertial dampeners couldn’t stop everyone from feeling the jolt, accompanied by a scream of metal, as they came to a stop. The normal docking clamps, rather than welcoming the ship in, had barred their way, and the Berlin ’s pilot had brought them as close as he could. They were aiming for the doors closest to the bridge— fighting their way through Iserlohn’s entire sixty kilometer diameter would be an impossible task.

When the bay doors opened, and their team began to rush out, the scale of chaos was revealed. The docking area was full of ships, most not even latched onto anything. Those that were still unloading men simply floated in the docking space and opened their back bay doors, letting out a stream of soldiers into the air— some distinguishable as men, others mere fly-like specks off in the great distance. They moved in swarms, heading for the holes where doors had already been cut in Iserlohn’s interior walls.

Their group left the shelter of the Berlin , jumping off the edge of its open bay door and feeling the lack of gravity catch them. On normal occasions, it was difficult to notice how large ships were, but emerging from beneath it was like coming out of the shadow of a mountain.

Although he was clumsy with the controls of his propulsion pack, being weightless was a strangely nostalgic feeling for Yang— reminiscent of his very early childhood on his father’s ship. The sudden sense of memory, and its associated melancholy, washed over him, crowding out most of the fear. Looking at the ruins of Iserlohn that surrounded him, he felt more sadness than anything else.

All told, he had never spent much time in the fortress, but he had always liked it, despite what it was. Even if some of his fondest memories had not taken place inside its walls, he still would have felt the same. Iserlohn was a machine of war, but she was beautiful, in her own way. And Yang had dealt her a fatal blow.

The way had already been cleared for them, and their group stuck to the open passageways. Although he had spent so much time mapping out the ideal routes through the labyrinthine corridors, it was nevertheless very disorienting to see Iserlohn invaded. When Yang had written his plans, he had pictured the hallways empty and serene, with ghostly hands opening doors in front of him. When he compared the hard reality to the memory of his plan, to see how well things were progressing, he felt like he was seeing double: the whole and unharmed Iserlohn seen through one eye, while the other bore witness to doors torn off hinges, walls pulled apart, and mangled bodies drifting through the corridors without the influence of gravity to hold them down.

Some of the bodies left trails of blood in the air when people knocked them out of the way, bunting them down the hallway so that the passage was clear for everyone to get through. The blood collected in droplets, some the size of a fingernail, and hovered red-black in the air. When Braunschweig’s soldiers charged through the hall, the drops spattered against their pure white exosuit armor, sometimes streaking in lines, other times exploding into a fine mist. Because Iserlohn’s usual air filtration system had been disabled— probably to keep the Zephyr particles in the air as long as possible— the drops remained where they were, until the passing of a person stirred up the air and sent them moving like motes of dust.

The process of getting through each closed door was painstaking. The Zephyr gas prevented the use of plasma cutters, as they would explode violently upon contact with the heat. The walls were drilled through with hand tools, cooled with a stream of water to avoid sparking, and then a small explosive charge was set in the resulting hole. The nearby areas were cleared, and then the charge was released, exploding the gas and causing massive damage to the sealed room. The door could then be opened either normally or with plasma cutters, as the Zephyr particles had been depleted.

It was during this process that their boarding teams tended to be cornered and attacked, the Iserlohn garrison rushing in from other directions when the boarding team couldn’t move forward. This, repeated over and over, had left a trail of bodies in the hallways— breadcrumbs of suffering marking a trail through towards the bridge.

It was impossible to tell at a glance which of the bodies that scattered the hallways were Imperial forces and which were Braunschweig’s men— the uniforms were the same, except for the small engraved Braunschweig crest on the breastplates. Yang ran his hand over the matching engraving on his own chest. The hard fingers of his exosuit gloves caught on the indentation, but he couldn’t feel it as anything other than the slipping of slick ceramics against each other. When he looked at his gloved hand, he noticed it was smeared with someone else’s blood.

With his helmet on, Yang couldn’t hear the sounds of any fighting off in the distance, but he kept track of its position relative to their party by listening to the radio updates of those ahead. They weren’t very near to the danger right now, but they were moving rapidly through the already-cleared corridors.

Beneath the suits, it was hard to tell what everyone else in the group was feeling: the nuance of body language was stifled by the heavy clothing, and confused by the way that everyone was forced to move without gravity. He glanced over at Ansbach several times, though Ansbach didn’t look at him. He was holding his axe tightly in his hands, his rifle slung across his back, forgotten.

Along the way, at most hallway intersections, they passed contingents of Braunschweig’s men, holding the path clear for them. The Iserlohn garrison forces could approach from almost any direction, but there were reinforcements everywhere along the route.

Flegel had muscled his way to the front of their group, despite the protests from the squad that was there for his protection. He had eschewed an axe— Yang doubted he was much good with one— but he kept an elaborate blade in his hand, the same shape and size as the standard kit knife, but the flat of the blade was engraved, and gold wire crisscrossed the hilt.

They reached an elevator shaft, one where the doors had been pried open to reveal the long channel that stretched impossibly far up and down, crossing kilometers of Iserlohn’s interior. Yang couldn’t help but wonder what the fall would feel like if someone turned Iserlohn’s gravity engines back on. Even though he had been floating through just as much of a shaft in the hallway, it was still much more disconcerting to pull himself into that chasm, and try to mentally reorient himself so that he was again swimming forward through the air above the ground, rather than ascending endlessly. When Yang hesitated, Ansbach pulled him forward by his elbow, and Yang got out of the way of the rest of the soldiers trying to swarm into the shaft.

When he looked down, he could see another group of their allies waiting a few floors down— another guard checkpoint, ready to provide support against any ambush. When he looked up, he couldn’t see much. They had several hundred floors to go, and the elevator shaft was unlit.

This elevator would take them all the way towards Iserlohn’s bridge. Yang had no doubt that was where Muckenburger was. It might have been prudent for him to escape, for his own safety, but he wouldn’t do that.

The group of soldiers moved together, Yang and Ansbach nearer to the rear of the pack. There was a sea of white-booted feet and legs kicking in front of him. People saved their fuel by dragging themselves along the walls with their hands, leaving their lower bodies to dangle in the air behind them. Even in those trained in zero gravity, there was a natural inclination to twitch and readjust, like they were in water rather than air.

Their helmets all had night vision mode, and they switched that on as soon as the light spilling in from the hallway became too dim to see by. Everything took on a red cast, and motions lagged dizzyingly in the helmet’s vision.

They climbed endlessly, moving more slowly than they had in the hallways. This wasn’t on any order of Flegel’s— the unshakeable subconscious feeling of climbing slowed them down. They were about halfway up the shaft, and the lookouts below had long vanished out of sight. But even if the lookouts had been in range, they wouldn’t have been able to stop a door in the middle of the shaft from opening, and the small explosive charge from being thrown “up” towards their group. No one in Flegel’s contingent saw it until it was far too late. Those at the rear of the group who had been watching their backs shot at it with their rifles— the shaft had been cleared of Zephyr particles already— but missed.

There was enough warning for everyone to scramble. Along with the rest of the soldiers, Yang pushed the throttle of his propulsion pack as hard as it would go, shooting “upwards” so quickly that his vision blacked out for a moment. He felt something heavy crash into him and force him sideways into the wall.

Ansbach shoved Yang into a recess in the shaft— the slight indentation where the doors would open into the hallway. Yang didn’t have time to process what was going on, and his thumb stayed pressed to the acceleration button for his propulsion pack— the gas sprayed out uselessly behind him as his body remained jammed in the tiny indentation in the wall. Yang curled in on himself, knees tucked to his chest, and Ansbach was forced against him as the blast hit.

Even through his suit, Yang could feel the heat of the explosion, and the pressure was so great that it cracked the glass on the goggles of his helmet. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he could still see the bright flash of fire through his eyelids— the night vision on his helmet went pure, blinding white, then fried out, useless. The sound was so loud that it was immediately incomprehensible: his ears simply rang with a high buzzing tone.

After the wave of fire passed over them, the walls and his suit stayed hot, and Yang’s first instinct was to try to claw his way out, shoving away Ansbach, who was in a similar useless state of momentary stupor. He pulled up his helmet so that he could at least see, which gave him back enough wherewithal to stop flailing uselessly, though the air burned his throat and dried his skin.

The elevator shaft was hopelessly dark, but Yang knew Iserlohn’s defenders were emerging from the doors below and beginning to ascend towards them. It was Yang’s turn to grab Ansbach’s arm and pull him into the center of the shaft. He was more dazed than Yang was, and didn’t resist. Yang engaged the propulsion pack on his back and dragged him upwards, through the crowd of soldiers— some living, some dead. The bomb had exploded “above” Yang, right in the center of the crowd. He pulled Ansbach through a cloud of gore.

Flegel, who had been at the very top of the column of soldiers, leading the charge, was also relatively unscathed. He had taken off his helmet, which revealed his wild expression, not helped by his stringy brown hair floating in every direction. His mouth moved, asking something, but Yang’s ears were still ringing, and the words were jumbled into nothing. Yang pointed with his free hand, up. That was the only direction they could go. He checked the number on the wall of the elevator shaft indicating their floor. Forty floors to go until they reached the level of Iserlohn’s command center. Without gravity, that was practically nothing at all. Less than two hundred meters.

Flegel yelled to the rest of the living contingent of soldiers, about half their original number, and those who could move did, pulling themselves upwards to escape the pursuers below. They had allies on the upper floors, those who had previously cleared the elevator shaft and were holding open the way to the bridge. They would have heard the explosion and would come to their aid.

Ansbach came to his senses, and he pulled his arm out of Yang’s grip. From below, they were fired on with rifles, but the cloud of dead men in the corridor blocked most of the shots. The garrison force was still many floors below where Yang was, though they were ascending rapidly.

The door at the top of the shaft had been cut open, and light poured in. Yang could now hear the sounds of a fierce battle— his ears were recovering, though the rifle shots sounded farther away than they really were, echoey and distorted.

Yang scrambled out of the elevator shaft with relief, though there was little of it to be had. Their allies were further down the hallway, a whole mass of them, shooting at what looked to be the last defenders of the bridge. Yang had never once been to this part of Iserlohn before: even to enter this floor had required authorization he had never had. Now, all of the doors were blown open, except for the ornate but solid ones that guarded the control room. The Zephyr particles had already been dispersed here, evidenced by the scorch marks all over the walls, as well as the use of rifles.

There wasn’t much cover in the hallway, aside from that which was provided by the soldiers ahead of Yang. The fortress garrison was shooting at them from around a corner, but the door to the bridge was just before the hallway intersection, which meant that if they could withstand the fire long enough to open it, they would win.

Since the shooting here was already in such close quarters, deploying a Zephyr particle canister in the hallway would be deadly for both sides. Yang didn’t doubt that someone would try it if they got too close to the door— soldiers could easily talk themselves into that kind of suicide. He hoped they wouldn’t: a second explosion would be deadly for him, as he had lost his helmet somewhere in the elevator shaft without thinking about it.

Yang pulled himself to the floor, trying to present as small a profile as he could. Rifle shots flashed above his head and hit the back wall of the elevator shaft, sparks pinging out where they landed.

Ansbach took command of their rear line, and ordered several men to help him deal with the forces coming up the elevator shaft. He grabbed one of the dead soldiers who littered the hallway, one with a belt with canisters of Zephyr gas on it. Ansbach removed the belt, set the timed-release knob on one of the canisters, wedged it in the dead soldier’s rifle sling, and then pushed the body down the elevator shaft. The other soldiers pushed several more after it, orienting them so that it would look like they were a squad charging down. Everyone got out of the way of the brief pillar of fire that filled the elevator shaft a moment later as the soldiers below shot at the false charge.

With the elevator shaft clear, Yang and his allies had a place to retreat to, so that they weren’t quite as exposed in the hallway. Once they took cover in the elevator shaft, it allowed them to throw a Zephyr particle canister down the hallway, towards the bridge.

Because the men near the bridge saw it coming, they stopped shooting, which meant that it became a battle of axes. The Iserlohn garrison forces rushed towards the elevator shaft.

Ansbach shoved Yang out of the way again, forcing him to the rear of the line, and he could only watch and stay out of the way of the ensuing slaughter. It was impossible to tell who was winning at first, though at least it was possible to tell which side was which: Braunschweig’s forces who had been in the elevator shaft were blackened with scorch marks from previous explosions.

People tumbled over each other, an axe fight difficult on solid footing made even more confused without gravity. Each man seemed to find a counterpart to fight, occupying their own space in the elevator shaft and then hallway as they pushed the fight back towards the doors. It would have been like a ballet, if the air was not punctuated with the screech of metal-on-metal, and wounded men crying out in pain.

Braunschweig’s forces slowly gained the upper hand, aided by reinforcements coming up the elevator shaft from below. They pressed towards the doors to the bridge. When Yang’s group had arrived, their allies had already been in the process of opening the door, but had been ambushed while doing so— that was the firefight that Yang had stumbled into.

Unlike all the others, this door needed to be opened with the computer control, since they had no desire to kill the men behind it who might surrender. They had cut open the wall and stuck an electronic lockpick into the mess of wires and circuits that controlled the heavy door. It fired commands into the lock, and sooner or later it would allow them to open the door.

More and more of their invasion force rushed in to reinforce their position, and it gave Ansbach a chance to take stock of their situation, getting on the radio with the ships in the docking bays. The fight outside Iserlohn was still going on, and everywhere their soldiers were in the fortress, they were being resisted by the fortress garrison. It seemed that a majority of the garrison were now protecting the engines and computers in the fortress’s center, and that was where the fiercest battles were taking place.

The electronic lockpick beeped success, and the heavy doors of Iserlohn’s bridge began to open. Yang was worried that there would be an immediate torrent of flame— someone in the bridge deciding they would rather be dead of Zephyr gas than captured— but nothing like that came. Instead, the invaders just charged in, axes in hand.

Yang couldn’t see what was going on from outside, but he did see Flegel enter into the melee, rushing through the door with the rest. Yang had no choice but to follow after him, wedging himself through the door.

By the time that Yang entered the control center of Iserlohn, the battle was almost over. Although the people in the control room had armed themselves with axes, these were not ground troops used to fighting— they were specialists manning Iserlohn’s many operational systems. Only a few of them had put on armor from the emergency caches under the floors, and most of them were holding their hands up in surrender, pushed against the walls.

When Yang saw this, he was hopeful that Muckenburger had already surrendered, but as Yang scanned the room, his eyes finally moving up towards the ceiling, it was clear that this was not the case.

Flegel had claimed Muckenburger as his own prize.

Muckenburger was being held in place in the air by two of Braunschweig’s soldiers. They had been careful not to injure him, as he wasn’t bleeding. Despite the fact that his arms were wrenched behind his back, Muckenburger still held himself with a stoic grace, watching Flegel as he jetted back and forth in front of him, flitting around with his propulsion pack. Muckenburger wasn’t wearing armor, and so his cape, where it wasn’t pinned by the soldiers holding him, drifted in the air behind him.

Everyone scattered throughout the room watched the scene.

“It’s good to see you again, Fleet Admiral,” Flegel said.

“I don’t believe so,” Muckenburger replied. His voice was calm, and even lacked any tone of resignation. It carried clearly through the bridge— the habit of projection from a lifetime in command.

“The circumstances could be better.” Flegel’s voice was needling, and Yang could barely hear him. “But that doesn’t mean this can’t be a happy moment.”

Muckenburger said nothing. Yang started to push off the floor, to go up to join Flegel and try to negotiate, but Ansbach grabbed him by the scruff of his armor and held him down. Muckenburger saw the motion out of the corner of his eye and looked down at Yang. Their eyes met. Muckenburger’s expression didn’t change, and then he looked away, back up at Flegel.

“Will you tell your men to unhand me?” Muckenburger asked.

“Of course,” Flegel said. “We can have this conversation like civilized men.”

The two soldiers holding Muckenburger let him go, and moved back. Yang shivered— already, a feeling of doom was settling on his shoulders, creeping down his back. Ansbach let Yang go, then silently pushed off the floor to go join Flegel, drifting near him in the air. Flegel didn’t acknowledge him at all, aside from a glance. Yang had gotten the hint and didn’t approach, but did move a little closer, better able to see Muckenburger’s face.

“We have a different understanding of that word,” Muckenburger said.

“Do we?” Flegel’s smile was wide. “I serve the Kaiserin, and I believe you served her grandfather for your entire career. Don’t we have that in common?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“Please don’t tell me that you won’t swear loyalty to the Empire’s rightful ruler,” Flegel said. “It would be for all our benefits if—”

“I have no interest in bowing to the queen of a damned country,” Muckenburger said, cutting Flegel off. “And I have no interest in benefiting the ones who have done the damning.”

Muckenburger was no longer looking at Flegel; he was looking at Yang.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Flegel said. The faux humor had fallen out of his voice.

“I congratulate you on your talent. I do not believe there is any other who could have taken this fortress by force.”

“Thank you, on behalf of my uncle.”

Muckenburger continued as though Flegel had said nothing. “No other man could have destroyed this nation so easily.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Flegel said. “We’re restoring it to its correct state.”

This, Muckenburger responded to directly, with a sweep of his arm that made Ansbach twitch. “And your Kaiserin will rule over the rebel invasion, since Iserlohn can no longer be the Empire’s bulwark against it.”

“You believe the Imperial Fleet isn’t capable of resisting that on its own? Without this toy?” Flegel asked. “I always thought you were proud of the ship you ran.”

Muckenburger scanned the room again. His eyes settled on Yang once more. “I’ve always been a conservative man, Baron Flegel,” Muckenburger said. “If you do not understand the true value of Iserlohn— the reason why it was an effective tool— you do not understand what this war looked like before it was built.”

“Enlighten me, then. I’m not a student of history, particularly.”

“Before the Thor Hammer, every encounter with the rebel fleet cost ten times the number of lives, and those encounters were constant. Iserlohn not only discouraged the rebels from attacking, but every shot of the Thor Hammer spared days of combat. Iserlohn represents— represented— thirty million fathers who lived to have sons. I don’t know how many men’s lives its destruction will represent, but that clock starts counting now, and it will go on until this Empire no longer exists. The rebels will never allow another Iserlohn to be built.”

He paused, but when Flegel said nothing, Muckenburger continued. “I have no doubt that the Imperial Fleet can stave off invasions when they come. At least for some time.” A strange, grim smile crossed his face. “You’re correct that I am proud of the fleet. I think they’re capable of that much. But is your leadership capable of withstanding the cost of sacrificing millions to the pyre?”

“I don’t think it will come to—”

“You and I both believe we’re serving the people of the Empire,” Muckenburger said, “but you have done them the greatest disservice in the history of this nation.”

“It can be fixed,” Flegel said dismissively. “You say that you’re proud of the fleet, but you act like without you it’s incapable of holding the corridor for long enough to do repair work.”

Muckenburger was silent for a moment. “The idea that Iserlohn was impenetrable was just as valuable of a deterrent as the Thor Hammer itself,” he said. “That can never be regained.”

“You’re talking like a religious man,” Flegel said. “The force that our fleet represents is plenty, since it actually will turn the rebels away— if they come.”

“They will.”

“Then join us,” Flegel said. “I’m quite happy to accept your surrender, on behalf of my uncle and my cousin the Kaiserin. If you believe the Empire is in so much danger, you should work with us to protect it.”

“No,” Muckenburger said.

“My uncle respects your years of service— I’m sure a position fitting to your talents could be found for you.”

Muckenburger didn’t take his eyes off Yang, who was struck by a sudden memory—completely incongruous—of Reuenthal. The setting could not have been more different: the ruins of Iserlohn and the empty dorm rooms of the Imperial Officers Academy. But the light in Muckenburger’s eyes was the same.

“I am not interested in surrendering,” Muckenburger said. He briefly closed his eyes in thought, then opened them again. “Elizabeth will take the crown. I have no doubt about that. So this will be treason, and you’ll kill me for it.”

“Oh come now, Fleet Admiral—”

Yang’s heartbeat sounded in his ears, drowning out Flegel’s voice as he needled Muckenburger. Flegel knew as well as anybody else that Muckenburger wouldn’t bow, but he was enjoying the momentary sense of power, drawing out the moment.

Now that the battle was lost, refusing to bow could no longer truly be a matter of conscience—if Muckenburger wanted to protect the Empire from the Alliance, and from Yang, he should stay alive to do so. Flegel was right about that, at least. But it was not a matter of conscience anymore: it was a matter of pride.

He might have bowed to Yang. This was what Muckenburger’s eyes, fixed on him, seemed to say. If this was a different world, if Yang was a different man. But in this world, all Yang could do was plead silently, his mouth half open, locking eyes with him. Stay alive , Yang thought. Stay alive, stay alive—it’s better to stay alive— bow, do what he says, it doesn’t matter—just stay alive—

His throat was too tight. Even if he had wanted to yell out to Muckenburger, he doubted he could get out the words. And it wouldn’t matter, even if he did. He knew that the last argument Muckenburger would listen to was that Yang wanted him to live simply for the sake of living. That was an idea incompatible with his pride— his existence as a soldier, his idea of himself. Yang understood that all too well— he had loved that quality in better days, in a different man. The ache he felt now was an echo of that: the pain of thwarted compassion.

Yang hated proud men.

Ansbach leaned over to Flegel and said something to him, too quiet for Yang to hear. Flegel held up his hand in dismissal.

“My uncle will be quite displeased to hear that you won’t accept our generous offer,” Flegel said. He wrinkled his nose. “Despite us having control of the fortress, you won’t tell the fleet to stand down?”

Muckenburger was silent. Yang doubted he would say anything else.

Flegel waited for just a moment too long. Stretching out the silence.

“You’ll be tried,” he said. “For treason. We’ll make a court for you. Set an example.”

Still silence.

“Well, if that’s your choice. But you’ll have plenty of time to think about it— my uncle and my cousin will be very happy if you change your mind before then. The Empire can always use experienced people such as yourself.”

Flegel gestured to the soldiers who had been waiting off in the distance to take hold of Muckenburger again. As they approached, Muckenburger reached behind himself, faster than anyone had expected, and drew out his sidearm, pointing it at Yang.

Ansbach dived into the path of the gun, then a fraction of a second later realized the mistake he had made and corrected course to reach for the gun itself. Muckenburger’s finger twitched on the trigger, but he didn’t fire, and a strange smile crossed his face.

Flegel was slower to react, but did so without thinking at all. By the time Ansbach had ripped the gun from Muckenburger’s hand, the ornate knife that had been in Flegel’s hand all day was lodged in Muckenburger’s throat.

The blood sprayed out violently, unconstrained by gravity, and even a proud man like Muckenburger died thrashing and gurgling. Ansbach was gripping his right arm with enough strength to break a bone, but Muckenburger’s left hand clawed at the knife in his throat, trying vainly to remove it. No one else on the bridge moved a muscle, watching him struggle until his movements— erratic from the first moment— became weaker and slower, until his eyes went dim and his body limp.

When Muckenburger was dead, Flegel pulled the knife from his throat. He wiped it on Muckenburger’s shirt, then put it back in its sheath at his side.

Ansbach let go of the body and held out Muckenburger’s sidearm to Flegel.

“Why didn’t he fire?” Flegel asked, clearly not having yet processed everything that had happened. His hand, reaching for the gun, was bloody. “Isn’t this whole room filled with Zephyr gas?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Ansbach lied.

Flegel took the gun and hefted it, then looked around for the first time. He held out the gun like he was going to shoot it. Ansbach stiffened, but didn’t move. Flegel spun around in the air, pointing the gun in a wild circle, until he froze at the same angle that Muckenburger had been facing, the gun pointed directly at Yang.

Flegel’s expression changed as he played over the previous few moments again in his memory— he was a man who wore his thoughts on his face. He looked at Ansbach, who looked straight ahead of himself with a blank expression, and narrowed his eyes.