Desolation

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Listen, Julian,” said Caselnes, leaning forward over the table. “In politics, the second generation is when institutions and legal systems gain their power to bind. The first generation simply doesn’t get a say.”

  If Yang Wen-li had been the political representative of the republican democratic faction in life, for his wife to take on that role now would be a kind of familial succession, essentially taking private control of the position. However, in reality Yang had constantly refused that position, meaning that his wife Frederica could accept it with full political legitimacy. He had left his wife a political bequest of sorts, but not of the kind that mattered to institutions or legal systems.

  “With all due respect, sir, that‘s a stretch,” Julian said, somewhat stiffly. He saw the reason in what Caselnes said, but his emotions failed to follow suit. Frederica had just lost her husband. He did not think it right to weigh her down with another heavy burden just to make things easier for themselves.

  After Julian left the room, the rest of the leadership exchanged glances.

  A visibly tired Caselnes sighed. “I get the feeling Julian won’t be eager to accept his own new role either—as the leader of our military,” he said. Von Schönkopf stroked his chin in silence. Both of them had hoped to hand to Julian the chair that Yang’s death had left empty.

  Granting that position to a teenager would garner some objections, but Reinhard von Lohengramm had been nothing but a “golden brat” himself before conquering the galaxy. Even Yang Wen-li had been just another bookish officer right up until he’d became the hero of El Facil. A hero was something you became, not something you were born into being. Julian might be a callow and inexperienced youth now, but—

  “The fact is, he was Yang Wen-li’s ward and his apprentice in military tactics. We can’t ignore that. It might even be more important than his actual ability.”

  “His charisma, you mean?”

  “I don’t care about terminology. What matters is who can best reflect the lingering light of the star that Yang Wen-li was.”

  Both agreed that Julian was the only reasonable candidate for this. Of course, lieutenants would be both necessary and important. Making Julian bear the weight alone was not the goal. But ultimately, among the responsibilities to be divided, someone had to play the role of “face.”

  Yang had recognized potential in Julian too, and expected great things of him. With another ten years, that potential might have moved from the domain of hypothesis to reality. At this stage, all they could do was value his possibilities as highly as possible.

  “The question is whether the rest of the troops will agree with us. If we put Julian forward as commander, they might respond by feigning allegiance without actually obeying his orders.”

  “I suppose we need to start with a change in our own thinking.”

  First, the leadership of Iserlohn itself would have to respect Julian’s authority, obey his instructions and orders, and accept that his position and decisions took precedence. They could hardly expect the enlisted men and women to do this if they were not prepared to do it themselves. Eventually a test would come for Julian’s abilities and caliber as a military leader. If he could clear that hurdle, he would become a star giving off its own light, however faint.

  “There’ll be deserters anyway, of course,” said Caselnes. “That’s unavoidable. More than half of those with us today are here because they wanted to fight under Yang himself.”

  “The luminaries of the Revolutionary Government of El Facil will no doubt be the first to go,” said von Schönkopf. “Opportunists, the lot of them, hoping to use Yang Wen-li’s military abilities and fame to achieve their own goals.”

  Caselnes frowned. “Who cares? Let those who want to leave, leave. Numbers aren’t our strength in the first place. What matters is firming up our core.”

  In fact, that would be better. There would be no pursuing those who left. Forcing them to remain dissatisfied in the ranks would only leave a chain of volcanoes running through the forces. Leaders would have to worry when these would erupt, and if a bloody purge one day proved necessary to eliminate the problem, their wounds would only grow deeper and wider. For now, some contraction was unavoidable.

  What could not be dismissed as unavoidable was Julian’s own standpoint. When they had asked him earlier to take Yang’s place at the head of the Revolutionary Reserves, he had looked at the older men more in exasperation than surprise. It took twenty heartbeats to organize his counteroffensive.

  “What about Vice Admiral Attenborough? He made admiral at twenty-seven, even younger than Marshal Yang. He has the record, and he has the support.”

  “Can’t be Attenborough.”

  “Why not?”

  “He said he prefers to stay behind the scenes.”

  “But…”

  “We do, too,” said Caselnes. “Julian, enough. It’s time to stand up. We’ll be there to support your legs, for all the good that’ll do.”

  “And if you fall, we’ll all come down together,” added von Schönkopf unhelpfully, drawing a frown from Caselnes.

  Julian was able to get away with that least creative of replies: “Let me think about it.” Commander of the Yang Fleet! The position was sacred to him, inviolable. He had dreamed of being Yang’s chief of staff, but the commander’s chair was light-years away from any such imagining. After a short period of deep confusion, Julian went to talk with Frederica about it. Mrs. Caselnes had suggested this, hoping to give Frederica an opportunity for distraction.

  “Why not?”

  Frederica’s quiet response took Julian by surprise. ”I didn’t expect you to agree with them, Frederica,” he said. “I mean, come on! Just imagine it! There’s no way I could do what Marshal Yang did!”

  “Of course not.” Frederica’s voice remained quiet as she surprised Julian again, this time by agreeing with his objection. “Of course not, Julian. No one could do what Yang Wen-li did.”

  “Exactly. The gap between our abilities is just too wide.”

  “No, Julian. It’s a difference in personality. You simply have to do what only you can. There’s no need to imitate him. In all of history, there’s only ever been one Yang Wen-li—but there’s also only ever been one Julian Mintz.”

  Before long, Frederica would be offered an unwanted position of her own. Alex Caselnes visited her, offered some condolences he doubted met muster, and asked her directly to become their political representative.

  “If there’s no other way, I’ll do what I can,” she said. “But I’ll need support and cooperation from a lot of people. If I’m to be your representative, I need to be able to give instructions, if not orders, and know that they’ll be followed. Can I ask for that in advance?”

  Caselnes nodded with his whole body.

  Julian found it hardest to hide how strange he found it that Frederica had accepted. She explained to him the next time they were alone.

  “I spent twelve years with Wen-li. For the first eight, I was just a fan. For the next three, I was his aide, and for the last year, I was his wife. Starting now, my years—decades—as a widow begin. If I have to spend the days and months alone, I want to help something more than dust accumulate on the foundation he laid. Even if I can raise it only a millimeter. And…”

  Frederica closed her mouth. She looked to Julian less like someone lost in thought than someone listening to a voice that was counseling and scolding her.

  “And if we—the ones Wen-li left behind—fail now, we’ll be making a mockery of what he always said about terror not moving history. So, even though I know I’m not right for the job, I intend to fulfill my responsibilities. People called Wen-li lazy, but I can swear to one thing: when something needed doing, and he was the only one who could do it, he always did it.”

  “Thank you, Frederica. That’s inspiring. I won’t run from my responsibility either. I
f they need me as military commander, even just as a figurehead, I’ll take the job on.”

  Frederica shook her head, sending her blond-brown hair moving violently.

  “Inspiring? Hardly. To tell you the truth, I don’t care if democracy vanishes. The whole galaxy could return to individual atoms, and I wouldn’t mind a bit. If only I had him by my side, half-asleep with a book in his lap…”

  Julian couldn’t decide how to respond. He realized then that decisions were the product not of intellect but of capacity. Cursing his own immaturity from the bottom of his heart, he called Mrs. Caselnes in and prepared to leave.

  VI

  Schönkopf’s observation-cum-prophecy was all too accurate. The news of Yang’s death had every corner of the gigantic fortress restless and uneasy. Soldiers and civilians whispered in small, huddled groups. Optimism went into hibernation, and a great flock of pessimism took wing across the cold winter fields of the base’s psyche.

  “Without Yang, the Yang Fleet is just a band of fugitive mercenaries. Fault lines will open up eventually, and then it’ll fall apart. The only questions are, will that happen sooner or later, and will there be bloodshed or not?”

  After Yang’s death was made public, such talk inevitably arose. The news that Julian would be Yang’s successor as military leader only seemed to fuel the unease, although Caselnes had anticipated this before making the announcement. Doubts, objections, even jeering were heard. The turbulence had found the direction it should go.

  “Julian Mintz may have been Yang Wen-li’s ward, but why should we salute him as commander? Headquarters has plenty of men who can outrank and outfight him. I mean, why him of all people?”

  “Why give military command to some flaxen-haired brat, you mean?” This was Dusty Attenborough, tone withering enough to pierce even the wall of public opinion. “Because what we need isn’t a diary of the past but a calendar of the future.”

  “But he’s just too young and inexperienced. You can’t compare him to Kaiser Reinhard.”

  “So what?”

  Despite Attenborough’s resistance, the Four Horsemen of Dissatisfaction, Uncertainty, Anxiety, and Powerlessness seemed to gallop unseen through the base, poisoning people’s reason.

  On the morning of June 5, Vice Admiral Murai visited Julian’s quarters to make an announcement.

  “Julian, starting now, I intend to fulfill my final responsibility to the Yang Fleet. With your permission, of course.”

  “What responsibility is that, Admiral?” Julian asked, ruing the limits of his powers of observation and deduction.

  “Leading the dissatisfied and restless elements out of Iserlohn,” said Murai simply.

  A single drop of cold rain fell on Julian’s heart. Had Murai given up on him? Decided that Julian was not worth cooperating with?

  “Can’t I change your mind, Admiral? You’re the linchpin of the entire Yang Fleet.”

  For four years, in the shadow of Yang’s magic and miracles, Murai had steadfastly fulfilled his duties as chief as staff. Now he solemnly shook his head.

  “If anything, you’ll be better off without me. I can’t be of any more use to you here. Do I have your permission to retire?”

  The years had left their mark on Murai’s face. Julian noticed the streaks of white in his hair and was struck temporarily speechless.

  “It’s also the loss of Fischer and Patrichev,” Murai said. “It’s getting lonely around here, and I’m exhausted. Serving under Marshal Yang let me achieve a position far beyond my talents or achievements. I’m grateful for that.”

  Behind his plain, unembellished words, Julian caught a glimpse of his mental state.

  “If I announce my departure now, the restless fringe elements will rally around me. They’ll have the justification they want to leave: Even Murai from headquarters is seceding! I hope you understand what I’m aiming to achieve.”

  Julian felt that he understood Murai’s feelings, to an extent. It was also clear that he did not have the capacity to keep the admiral at Iserlohn. The right thing to do was to thank him for his loyalty to Yang and send him off with his blessing.

  “I trust you to do what you think best, Admiral. Thank you for everything. I mean that.”

  Julian bowed his head to Murai’s departing form. The admiral was a coolheaded, meticulous man; a stickler for protocol and regulations who valued common sense and order. Had he always seemed so frail, though? When had that ramrod-straight back begun to develop a stoop? As Julian realized many things he had not noticed before, his head bowed again of its own accord.

  In the corridor outside, Murai ran into Attenborough, and told the young man of his departure from Iserlohn.

  “You’ll be better off without me here. Finally give you a chance to spread your wings.”

  “No argument here. Of course, half the fun of drinking is breaking the rules against it.”

  Attenborough’s voice had more feeling in it than the joke alone justified. He offered Murai his right hand.

  “People are going to say terrible things about you. You’re choosing to be the man everyone loves to hate.”

  “I can handle that. Compared to spending more time with you and your gang, it’ll be a minor inconvenience.”

  With that, the two shook hands and parted ways.

  Later that day, Julian was summoned by half a dozen members of the Revolutionary Government of El Facil, all wearing the same expression as he came in, and was presented with a painstakingly businesslike declaration.

  “We have learned that Vice Admiral Murai is leaving Iserlohn. For unrelated reasons, we have decided to dissolve the revolutionary government. We thought it best to let you know. Of course, we had no obligation to tell you, but…”

  “I see,” said Julian, with a lack of warmth that made the officials fidget uncomfortably.

  “Don’t think badly of us. The independence of El Facil was largely a pet project of Dr. Romsky’s. He set the mood, and we were dragged along with his hopeless revolutionary activities.”

  Their obvious attempt to evade blame by placing it on the shoulders of one already dead rubbed Julian’s sensibilities very strongly the wrong way.

  “Was Dr. Romsky a dictator? Did you have no freedom to oppose him?”

  The government officials had managed to lull their shame to sleep, but Julian’s words shook it awake, and their struggle to keep it under control was evident in their voices.

  “The point is that both Dr. Romsky and Marshal Yang are, tragically, dead. Our anti-imperial revolutionary activities have lost both their political and military leadership. What is the point in further confrontation and resistance?”

  Julian had no reply.

  “We must move past our attachment to a particular political system and take a broader view, working for the peace and unification of all humanity. Hate and hostility bear no fruit. You and your faction, too, would do well to drop the pose of martyrdom for the sake of a dead man’s ideals.”

  Julian called on his full capacity for patience. “I will not stop you from leaving,” he said. “But I hope you will allow us to part on good terms. There is no need to denounce what you yourselves were until only yesterday. I offer my thanks for all you have done for us. Now, if I may be excused?”

  Haughtily, the officials granted permission for Julian to take his leave. He understood Murai’s true intentions now—to take care of people like this. All those who lacked the bravery to succeed, fearing for their reputation or safety, Murai would gather together and lead away—knowing full well that he would bear the mark of deserter himself. Julian thanked the admiral silently, and marveled once more at Yang’s insight in choosing a man like Murai for his staff.

  Among the residents of Iserlohn who wavered were others who stood stone-still. One of these was Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, former senior admiral with the Galactic Imperial Navy
, now diligently following his strategic and tactical research plan even as he mourned Yang.

  “I’ve thought about it often,” he mused to his aide, Bernhard von Schneider. “Would it have been better to die at Lippstadt when Reinhard defeated me? But I don’t feel that way anymore. I spent almost sixty years living in fear of failure, but then I finally came to understand that there was another way to live. I owe the ones who taught me that a debt of gratitude, and I intend to pay it.”

  Von Schneider nodded. It was he who had saved Merkatz’s life three years before at Lippstadt. He, too, had agonized more than once over whether he had been right to do so, but now it seemed that the answer was clear. The way forward might be uphill, but it was the road he had chosen himself. He had no intention of straying from it.

  On June 6, Iserlohn Fortress issued an announcement in the name of Julian Mintz, commander of the Revolutionary Reserves, announcing the death of Yang Wen-li and the formal funeral service to be held for him that day. At the same time, the Revolutionary Government of El Facil declared its dissolution, bringing its short history to an end.

  I

  ONE MAN’S DEATH brought despair to his allies and dejection to his enemies.

  At 1910 on June 6, year 2 of the New Imperial Calendar, the Imperial Navy caught the transmission directed by Iserlohn Fortress at the entire galaxy. At 1925, the news of Yang Wen-li’s death was brought to Reinhard on the bridge of the fleet flagship Brünhild by his new chief advisor Hildegard von Mariendorf.

  Hilda’s beautiful face, framed by her boyishly short hair, was dominated by uncertainty. Both her wisdom and the will that kept it under orderly control were drifting like thin ice on the waters of spring.

  “Your Majesty, I must report something to you. Iserlohn Fortress just made a public announcement.”

  She spoke in a voice that did not suit her: hard, but with no edge. The kaiser’s guarded gaze met her own across the room.

  “Yang Wen-li is dead.”

  When Reinhard understood the meaning of his beautiful secretary’s words, disappointment came down on him like lightning. He gripped the posts of his bed with both of his fair hands. This seemed partly to support his graceful form and partly to convey the violent emotions he felt even to inanimate objects. His ice-blue eyes were filled with something close to rage as he fixed them on the countess.