The first step was defeating Reinhard, Yang thought—then wondered if it might not be better to lose against him. If Yang were defeated, the troops who had followed him would surely be treated with magnanimity. The kaiser would send them on their way with the highest honors, and to the greatest extent possible leave them to determine their own fate.
Perhaps that really would be better. There were limits to what Yang could achieve. Could he guarantee a richer future for those who followed him by withdrawing altogether?
Yang’s feet were still up on his office desk when Julian arrived with his tea.
“Looks like Kaiser Reinhard’s itching for a fight with me,” Yang said. “I doubt he’ll ever forgive me if I cheat him out of one.”
He spoke lightly and humorously, but the observation was quite accurate—all the more reason why the coming clash was inevitable.
Julian’s tea was perfect as always. Yang let out a sigh of satisfaction. “To be honest, I wish the idea was just my own delusions of grandeur. But the kaiser really does rate me higher than my record deserves. It should be an honor, but…”
Reinhard had reached out to Yang once, after the Vermillion War. In exchange for Yang’s allegiance, he had offered to make heavy use of him. Yang had been the one to refuse. Like the late Alexandor Bucock, he could not take the hand of an autocrat, no matter how fair, how warm that hand might be. As Reinhard had his own nature, so Yang had his, and it had proved inescapable.
“So this is your fate, then?” said Julian casually.
Yang frowned, and Julian reddened. He realized that his choice of words had not reflected his own life or thoughts. Yang always responded with sincerity and warmth when Julian spoke in his own words, however naive the thoughts behind them might be.
“ ‘Fortune’ I could live with, but ‘fate’—now there’s an awful word. It disrespects humanity in two ways: by shutting down any analytical consideration of our situation, and by selling short our free will. There’s no such thing as a ‘fateful showdown,’ Julian. Whatever our circumstances might be, our choices are ultimately our own.”
Yang was largely arguing with himself.
He had no interest in justifying his own choices with a convenient word like “fate.” He had never once thought of himself as absolutely correct, but was always searching for a better way, a more correct path. This had been true in his days at the Officer’s Academy, and had remained true after he had taken command of a great military force. There were many who trusted Yang, and many others who criticized him, but there were none who did his thinking for him. He simply had to agonize over his decisions as best as his limitations allowed.
It would certainly be easier if everything could be ascribed to the workings of fate, Yang mused. But even if he should err, he wanted to err on the side of his own sense of responsibility.
Julian looked closely at his beloved commander. Since their first meeting six years before, Julian had grown thirty-five centimeters. If he grew out his hair five millimeters longer, he would be 180 centimeters tall. He was already taller than Yang. Of course, Julian did not consider this a source of pride. He might have grown taller, but he did not feel that his psyche and intellect had kept pace.
The historians of the future were largely united in their view of Julian Mintz. “If not a great man, certainly a capable and loyal leader who made no small mark on history. Accepting the role he was to play, avoiding the two pitfalls of overconfidence and self-righteousness, he made the best of his talents in building on the achievements of those who came before.”
There were harsher assessments, too, of course. “Julian Mintz was like a well-polished mirror reflecting only Yang. His ideas on democratic republican governance were all inherited from the older man. Yang was a philosopher of both military matters and politics, however dogmatic, but Mintz amounted to no more than a technician in either.”
This assessment, however, ignored one fact: Julian had adopted the role of technician intentionally, knowingly, to better and more faithfully implement Yang’s ideas. Some might dismiss this as a foolish way to live, but if Julian had aimed to surpass Yang and had fallen short of the mark, what would they have said about him then? He would surely have been mocked as a man who did not know his own limitations. But Julian knew his limitations well. No doubt there were some who found this displeasing. But as Yang himself had once told him, “If half the people are on your side, that’s quite an achievement.”
III
In the high-ranking officers’ club, the two “problem adults” of the Yang Fleet were deep in conversation.
“I wasn’t trying to keep her existence a secret,” said Walter von Schönkopf, whiskey glass in hand. “I didn’t know she existed at all! I’ve done nothing dishonorable, and I resent anyone who points the finger at me.”
“Karin would point more than a finger at you if she heard that,” said von Schönkopf’s drinking partner, Olivier Poplin, acid wit in his green eyes. The two were enjoying drinks over cheese and crackers as they discussed von Schönkopf’s daughter, Katerose “Karin” von Kreutzer. Both suffered from the same affliction: no matter how serious they were inside, they would rather die than show it.
A few tables away, Dusty Attenborough was tipping back his own glass. He had declined an invitation to sit with the other two, professing concern that their impurity might be contagious.
Julian suspected that Attenborough was still sulking over the “No over-thirties” incident the other day. He had worn his isolation ostentatiously at first, but it must have been boring him now, because he had dragged Julian to the club to keep him company after they’d run into each other in the halls. Attenborough had put away three drinks by the time Julian had finished his first. Not even slightly flushed, Attenborough began expounding a theory of the relationship between Yang’s own nature and the complete absence of any visible fear among the leadership of the Yang Fleet even as the decisive battle approached.
“The character of an army’s commander is influential—contagious, really—to a degree that’s frankly terrifying. I mean, look at our leadership. Before the birth of the Yang Fleet, they were probably hardworking, upright military men. Merkatzes to a one.”
“Surely there are some exceptions, sir.”
“You mean Admiral von Schönkopf?”
“Well, not only him…”
“Poplin, then? Yes, that unfortunate personality of his does seem to be inborn.”
Attenborough’s invidious grin drew a rueful smile from Julian too. Attenborough had known Yang since officer school almost fifteen years ago. If Yang’s personality was infectious, Attenborough’s exposure was off the charts compared to von Schönkopf and the others.
“Listen up, Julian. I’m going to tell you something useful.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“The most powerful expression known to man. No logic or rhetoric can withstand it.”
“ ‘So long as it’s free?”
“That’s not a bad one either. But this is even better: ‘So what?’ ”
Julian was at a loss for words, although he would have blamed the alcohol in his system for that.
After a private chuckle, Attenborough made another announcement: he was going to reply, in his own name, to Wittenfeld’s communiqué.
“If you make too much fun of him, sir, you might regret it,” said Julian.
“Julian, if we fought the Imperial Navy head-on, what would our chances of victory be?”
“Zero.”
“Admirably succinct. But do you know what that means? Nothing we do can make the odds any worse. And that means we can do whatever we like.”
“I don’t think that syllogism is quite valid, sir.”
“So what?”
Grinning more like a mischievous child than a fearless warrior, the self-proclaimed boy revolutionary poured himself another drink.
Julian nodded, rotating his empty glass with his finger. He had actually had a reason of his own for accepting Attenborough’s invitation: not long before, he had had something like a fight with Katerose.
He hadn’t brought it up, because he suspected he would be teased about it—“So you’re close enough to fight! Sounds like things are going well!”—but it was no joke to him.
Julian had seen Karin reading a pilot training manual for the spartanian fighter as she strolled along, repair tools in hand. He was just admiring her ability to multitask when she walked right into the wall and dropped everything she was holding. As he helped her retrieve her possessions, they had exchanged a few words, and this had somehow escalated into something rather beyond the bounds of everyday conversation.
Karin had fired the first shot. “Of course, the sublieutenant would never make a mistake like this,” she said. “I understand you can do anything you turn your hand to, unlike clumsy little me.”
Even for someone far less perceptive and sensitive than Julian, misunderstanding her true meaning would have been difficult. Deciding how to respond to her barbed compliment was even more of a challenge. Holding his tongue was not an option, and so Julian flipped through the language files in the back of his mind. “I’ve just picked up a few things from being surrounded by people who really can do anything,” he said.
“Yes, I hear you’ve been blessed with excellent teachers.”
Julian wondered uneasily if Karin was jealous of him. Perhaps she viewed his upbringing surrounded by men like Poplin and her own father, von Schönkopf, as an outrageous monopolization of privilege. After all, in the sixteen years of her life, Karin had spoken to her father only once herself—and the atmosphere of that conversation had hardly been suffused with parental love. Julian wished he could help repair the rift between the two, but if even Poplin couldn’t smooth things over, there was no way that Julian could. After a brief hesitation, Julian carefully selected what seemed like the least exciting page from his mental files.
“Admiral von Schönkopf is a good man,” he said.
Tentacles of regret were curling around the words before the last were even spoken. The glance Karin favored him with was a mixture of scorn and contempt painted over with indignation.
“Is that so?” she said. “I suppose his position must seem rather enviable to other men. Does as he pleases, shares his bed with any woman willing.”
Julian grew angry. The tentacles snapped, and this time it was irritation that wrapped itself around the words he spoke. “That’s a one-sided way to put it. Was your mother just ‘any woman’?”
The girl’s indigo eyes flashed with a rage that was almost pure.
“I am under no obligation to listen to such things—sublieutenant.” The last word was added not out of politeness but rather its opposite.
“You started it,” Julian said, bitterly aware even as he did that the rejoinder was neither generous nor wise. These were the times he envied von Schönkopf and Poplin their confidence and maturity. Any wit or adroitness he displayed himself was always thanks to an interlocutor who possessed those qualities in sufficient abundance to keep things at a level where even Julian could keep up. Yang, Caselnes, von Schönkopf, Poplin, Attenborough—how immature and narrow-minded he was by comparison, squabbling with a girl several years his junior.
In the end, with a final glare that stung more than a double forehand-backhand slap would have, Karin spun around and departed, hair the color of lightly brewed tea streaming behind her as she moved at a pace between a walk and a run. Julian watched her go for as long as it would take an angel to pass by, trip, and then get back on its feet, and had still not managed to put his emotional or rational mind in order again when Attenborough dragooned him into a visit to the officers’ club.
Later, Julian, being absent, became the topic of conversation over afternoon tea at the Caselnes household. Alex Caselnes, having slipped home for some rest during a break in his punishing work schedule, was speaking to his wife, as his daughters clambered over him, about a rather heated-looking exchange between Julian and Karin he had happened to witness. He did not, of course, mention that this would improve the position of their own daughter, Charlotte Phyllis.
“Looks like Julian’s more awkward than I realized. A more thoughtful lad would know how to deal with girls by his age.”
“Oh my, but Julian’s always been awkward,” his wife said, cutting him a slice of homemade cheesecake. “An excellent student and a quick study, but no interest whatsoever in making things easier for himself with a little compromise on principles. That’s a recipe for awkwardness if ever I heard one. I suppose Yang’s influence has rubbed off on him.”
“So his guardian’s to blame,” said Caselnes.
“Not the man who introduced them?”
“You had no objection at the time!”
“Of course not. I thought it was for the best. I still do. You don’t regret doing that good deed, do you, dear?—even if it was out of character.”
The storied admiral finished his cheesecake in two bites, then quickly returned to the mountain of paperwork that awaited him.
IV
The tension seemed to be rising among even the undisciplined officers of the Yang Fleet, and a faint tinge of excitement could be heard in their whispered conversations.
“If charging the Black Lancers head-on is the plan, best to delete your personal records first. Wish I’d known earlier—I’d’ve gotten married and divorced. Once each.”
“All on your own? Now that’s talent.”
“You looking to breathe through a hole in your back?!”
“Whoa, whoa…Anyway, seems to me we’re waving a hatchet made of wax here. But maybe we can knock the elephant off his stride if we hit the right spot. Can’t hurt to try.”
Those serving under Yang didn’t feel the same need to defend their position as their commander, and Dusty Attenborough, was, as always, the perfect example. He had sat down to write a reply to Wittenfeld, but discarded his first draft as too crass and his second as too radical. His third, entirely rewritten draft he presented to Yang at a staff meeting aboard Ulysses, requesting approval to send it.
“In other words, this is the classy, moderate version?”
Yang shook his head, looking somehow like a teacher marking an essay, then read the work aloud.
“ ‘My dearest Admiral Wittenfeld. My congratulations on your miraculous rise through the ranks, notwithstanding your uninterrupted record of failure. The imbalance between your bravery and your intellect is your weak point. Should you wish to remedy this flaw, by all means, attack our forces. It will give you one last opportunity to learn from your mistakes…’ ”
With a shrug, Yang handed the document to the committee member sitting beside him. He pulled off his black beret and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Admiral Wittenfeld’s not going to like this,” he said.
“That’s exactly the point,” said Attenborough. “With luck, that hot blood of his will boil over into his brain and make him do something foolish.”
Wittenfeld did have a bad reputation for losing his battles, but this could hardly be called a fair assessment. His inflexible tactics had brought him to defeat only once, at the Battle of Amritsar. In countless other engagements against the Free Planets Alliance and the League of Just Lords, he had been victorious. Even colleagues like von Reuentahl and Mittermeier acknowledged his iron will and destructive power. However, Attenborough explained, exaggeration would be more useful here than impartial analysis.
“I understand the intention, but this writing can hardly be called refined,” s
aid Admiral von Schönkopf. “Maybe you shouldn’t have used yourself as the yardstick for class.”
Attenborough frowned at this criticism. “A more refined missive runs the risk of being misinterpreted. All we’re doing is buying what Wittenfeld’s selling, then sending it right back with added value. I think it’ll be effective.”
“You expect Wittenfeld to just charge us like an angry boar? The kaiser’s surely ordered him to control himself. I doubt even he would be that rash.”
Or perhaps, von Schönkopf went on, the provocation would have the opposite effect, inciting the Imperial Navy to attack from all sides and start the real fighting before the Yang Fleet was fully prepared. Fahrenheit and Wittenfeld had led fleets into battle a hundred times; a crafty scheme or two would not be enough to hold them off.
Von Schönkopf’s views were sensible, but as a ground war commander he had no role in fleet battle, which some felt predisposed him to harsh assessments of other leaders’ strategic proposals. Of course, as Poplin had once pointed out, this implied that there were times when he was not harsh, an assertion unsupported by evidence.
Just then, a raised hand seeking permission to speak in favor of Attenborough’s proposal came from unexpected quarters: Admiral Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, who had been a senior admiral in the Imperial Navy until not long ago. When Yang had told Merkatz that Wittenfeld’s Black Lancers and the Fahrenheit Fleet were acting as the spearhead of the Imperial Navy, Merkatz had shown little emotion. “Fahrenheit, you say? We share an odd bond, him and I. Today we square off from opposite sides of the galaxy, but just three or four years ago we held our formations together side by side as we went into battle against the same enemy…”
Bernhard von Schneider, Merkatz’s aide, cast a slightly anxious glance at the superior officer he loved and respected. Merkatz had not so much defected to the alliance as been washed into it by circumstance. He had made the choice himself, just before the conclusion of the Lippstadt War, but von Schneider had been the one to show him that he had that choice in the first place, and the younger man still appeared to worry about whether he had done the right thing or not.
Desolation Page 4
