Free Dawn by Yoshiki Tanaka

Low-energy particles collided at terrific speeds, annihilating one another in a cannibalistic phenomenon.
    Arms waving wildly, the vice admiral shouted, “Vanguard formation, return fire! All ships, get ready for all-out war!”
    Vice Admiral Pastolle’s order had not been intercepted, but on the bridge of the imperial fleet’s flagship Brünhild, ripples of cold contempt danced in Reinhard’s ice-blue eyes as he said to no one, “Your responses are slow, you incompetent fool!”
    “Launch fighters! We’re switching to close-quarters combat!” ordered Rear Admiral Fahrenheit. A keen vitality shone in his face and resonated in his voice, born of the exultation of battle, coupled with a confidence that came of seizing the initiative. Even if the “golden brat” ends up taking the credit, the important thing is still to win!
    The single-seater, cross-winged fighter ships known as walküren launched from their giant carriers one after another. In the instant when they cut loose from their carriers, they had—due to momentum—already reached speeds exceeding those of the carriers; neither catapult nor runway was needed. The walküren were small craft, and so their firepower was not as great, but they excelled in maneuverability and were extremely effective in a dogfight.
    The alliance also had single-seat fighters corresponding to walküren; these were known as spartanians.
    Flashes of exploding fusion furnaces ripped across every quarter, and maelstroms of unleashed energies shook the ships of both sides in chaotic swells. New clusters of energy beams lashed across the battlespace, and dodging between them the walküren soared, four-winged angels of death clad in glistening silver. The alliance’s spartanians did not trail the walküren in fighting ability, but a terrible disadvantage dominated all beyond their nose cones, and they found beams awaiting them the moment they separated from their carriers, aiming to destroy both fighter and pilot together.
    One hour after the start of the battle, the Fourth Fleet’s vanguard had been almost entirely destroyed by the withering onslaught of the Imperial Navy squadron under Fahrenheit’s command.
    Of the 2,600 vessels composing the vanguard, not even 20 percent were still participating in combat. Some ships had been vaporized by fusion-furnace explosions, others had avoided exploding but had been too severely damaged to continue fighting, and others still had light structural damage but now drifted uselessly through space, having lost most of their crew. In this dreadful condition, the front line’s collapse seemed not a half step away.
    In the case of the battleship Nestor, the damage was limited to a single spot on the vessel’s underbelly, but the neutron warhead that had penetrated there had exploded inside, unleashing a great swell of raging, killing particles that had swept through the entire ship, in an instant turning Nestor into a coffin for 660 officers and soldiers.
    For this reason, crewless Nestor continued to follow the final course input by its astrogator, and as it hurtled along on invisible rails of inertia, it grazed the nose of its confederate, Lemnos, just as Lemnos ’s main front cannons were unleashing a volley of fire at an enemy ship. Nestor intercepted the photon-cannon volley at point-blank range and exploded soundlessly an instant later, the energy of the exploding fusion furnace ripping through its neutralization field and hitting Lemnos head-on.
    There were two flashes of white light, one following the other like twins being born, and by the time they had faded, not even a fragment of inorganic matter remained. The crew of Lemnos had destroyed an allied vessel and received death as their recompense.
    “What are you people doing?!”
    That cry was Vice Admiral Pastolle’s.
    But the one who disdainfully murmured, “What are you people doing?” was Rear Admiral Fahrenheit.
    Both had been looking on at that scene through the screens of