Ambition

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Attacking all four of those places one by one is going to take too long and be a major headache, isn’t it?”

  “You said it,” Yang agreed with a strong nod. “Above all, it goes against my personal philosophy of winning with as little effort as possible. How would you settle this if it were up to you?”

  Julian leaned forward. Lately, Julian’s interest in military tactics had been growing stronger.

  “How about this: concentrate the enemies from all four sites in one location, and hit them there.”

  Yang took off his black military beret and looked up at the ceiling.

  “That’s a good idea, but there are two problems with it. One is the method: how do you get enemies from four different sites to move to the same place? The enemy’s caused multiple simultaneous uprisings for the express purpose of stretching the government’s forces thin, so I don’t see them throwing that advantage away voluntarily. After all, if they concentrate their forces, it only follows that we’ll concentrate ours as well.”

  Lightly, he set the beret back on his head.

  “And the other thing is that concentrating one’s enemies in one location goes against the fundamentals of strategy, which say you should knock out your opponent’s regiments one by one, without letting them link up.”

  “So it’s a bad idea?”

  Julian looked disappointed. The boy had thought his brain cells had been running at full speed.

  Yang gave him a little smile.

  “The idea’s fine. You just have to think about how to apply it. Okay, so for the time being, let’s leave aside the question of how to lure them out.”

  He thought about it for a little while, then continued.

  “We lure them away from their strongholds—that part’s fine. But nowhere is it written that we have to wait around for them to rendezvous. So instead, we predict the route by which the enemy will try to link up, then take them out individually along the way. If the enemy and allied forces are roughly the same size numerically, our side can split into two groups: the first can hit enemies A and B at staggered intervals, and the other can hit C and D. The likelihood of victory would be very high, since we’d be hitting each enemy formation with double its own force strength.”

  Julian nodded with passionate intensity.

  “There’s another way to do it, too, where the whole fleet moves together. First we strike enemy formations A and B separately, then head for the enemy’s rendezvous point to face formations C and D. At that point, it would give us a force multiplier if we could trick the enemy into mistaking friend and foe or if we could split the fleet in two to catch them in a pincer movement. With this method, you fight the enemy four-to-one at the outset, then two-to-one later on, so the odds of winning really are quite good.”

  The boy sighed with admiration, while at the same time feeling hopelessly pathetic himself. Admiral Yang gushed out cunning plans like a fountain. Julian, on the other hand, would have been no match even for Yang’s prior self at age fifteen. This, in spite of the fact that he wanted to improve—no matter how small the increment—so as to become able to help him.

  Julian had no intention of just living complacently as Yang’s ward. While he never dreamed of anything so grandiose as becoming a partner on equal footing with him, he wanted, in some form or fashion, to make himself indispensible to Yang.

  “But anyway, I don’t want to use either of those strategies this time out. After all, they’re soldiers of the alliance, same as us. Even if we fought and won, it’d leave nothing but scars.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “So, let’s think about how to get them to surrender without a fight. That way, most importantly, is easy.”

  “Easy on soldiers, but hard on commanders.”

  “Ah, you get it now.” Yang smiled, but his smile didn’t last long. “Still, I figure over half the people alive right now have it as hard as the commanders, who get so many soldiers killed.”

  Voices saying that Yang Wen-li had landed his position too easily had reached even the ears of Yang himself. Those voices came from multiple sources, it seemed, and perhaps Dawson had lent a hand in spreading them. In any case, though, had Yang longer borne in mind those irresponsible words, he might have recognized instantly what lurked beneath Dawson’s order …

  III

  Yang summoned his staff to the meeting room and relayed the orders from Admiral Dawson.

  “So he’s telling us to suppress all four of those uprisings?

  Yang’s staff officers—Fischer, Caselnes, von Schönkopf, Murai, and Patrichev—were also stunned by how out of left field it seemed. Von Schönkopf was the first to regain his composure.

  “So he’s going to hold the capital’s force strength in reserve while working us to the bone.”

  He had made the same guess as Yang but had also latched on to the reason with laser-like precision. “It seems someone’s jealous, Admiral,” he said, looking at Yang with a smirk. There was nothing Yang could say to that. Perhaps Julian and von Schönkopf were not so much perceptive as Yang was merely clueless.

  “At any rate, it’s an order from Joint Operational HQ, so all we can do is follow it. The nearest one to Iserlohn is Shanpool, so shall we start there?”

  Murai was reaching for the 3-D display’s switch when a buzzer sounded, and the image of a comm officer appeared on a screen on the wall.

  Yang noticed that the uniform scarf worn around the comm officer’s neck had a huge stain on it. He had probably been surprised while drinking coffee and had accidentally tilted his cup too far.

  “Admiral, there’s a disturbance in the capital. We’ve just received some shocking intelligence—”

  “What kind of disturbance?” Murai demanded scoldingly.

  The comm officer swallowed audibly and managed to squeeze out these words: “It … it’s a coup d’état, sir!”

  Everyone excluding Yang drew in their breath. Patrichev was so shocked that his huge body trembled, and he rose to his feet.

  The view on the screen changed, and the Capital FTL Center appeared. However, instead of the face of a smiling—or pretending-to-be-smiling—announcer, a soldier in his prime was sitting haughtily in the broadcast seat.

  “Repeat: We hereby declare that as of April 13 of the year SE 797, the capital of Heinessen has effectively been placed under the control of the Free Planets Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic. The Charter of the Alliance is hereby suspended, and all laws will be superseded by the decisions and instructions of the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic.”

  Iserlohn’s high-ranking officers searched each other’s faces. Then in unison, they all turned and stared at their young, dark-haired commander.

  Yang stared into the screen silently. He looked remarkably calm to his staff officers.

  So ultimately, it looked like Admiral Dawson’s schemes had lacked the strength necessary to make the coup faction change its plans. Or was it better to say the conspirators had taken swift action? Or that Dawson’s responses had been even more sluggish than they had expected? Most likely, it was a combination of these last two.

  “The ‘Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic,’ eh …”

  Yang’s murmured tone sounded most unsupportive of it. He felt no beauty or sincerity in exaggerated words like “saving the country” and “patriotism” and “concern for the nation’s future.” Why was it that those who threw around those lines most loudly, most brazenly, were the ones leading warm, comfortable lives far away from danger?

  At last, the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic announced a series of amendments to the Charter of the Alliance. The changes were as follows:

  1.Establishment of a political system to unite the will of the people around the noble objective of bringing down the Galactic Empire.

  2.Orderly co
ntrol of political activities and speech opposed to the nation’s interests.

  3.Granting of police judiciary powers to members of the military.

  4.Declaration of nationwide martial law for an undetermined period. Accordingly, all demonstrations and labor strikes were forbidden as well.

  5.Complete nationalization of all interstellar transportation and transmission facilities. Accordingly, all spaceports would be placed under the military’s management as well.

  6.Expulsion from the public sector of all who held antiwar and/or antimilitary beliefs.

  7.Suspension of the National Assembly.

  8.Criminalization of conscientious objection to military service.

  9.Severe punishment for corruption among politicians and public employees.

  10.Elimination of harmful entertainments, pursuant to the recovery of unaffected simplicity and virtuous strength in the nation’s manners and customs.

  11.Abolition of excessive government aid to the weak, in order to prevent the weakening of society …

  “Oh dear, what have we here, now?”

  Staring at the screen, Yang was frankly astonished. What this Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic wanted was the very essence of a reactionary militaristic system of government. Furthermore, there was hardly any difference at all between their system and the one Rudolf von Goldenbaum had advocated five centuries ago.

  What had these last five hundred years been to the human race? With Rudolf’s example right there in front of them to study, what had humanity learned? This Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic was about to breathe new life into Rudolf’s corpse, and all in the name of overthrowing the empire he had given birth to.

  Yang laughed. There was no way he couldn’t. This was a farce beyond compare—a hideous farce unparalleled.

  But even though this first act had developed as a farce, that was not how it was to be ended.

  “Citizens and soldiers of the alliance, I will now introduce the chairman of the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic—”

  And when that name was spoken, it felt as if the air in the room had condensed into a heavy liquid.

  The middle-aged man shown on the screen was someone Yang knew well. Brown hair flecked with gray, a thin but handsome face. Yang had spoken with that individual countless times, had even dined with him. He had a daughter, and that daughter was …

  The sound of a low cry made Yang turn around.

  His aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill, was standing behind him, her face gone deathly pale.

  Her hazel eyes were staring at the screen, opened so wide that they could open no further.

  She was gazing at the face of her father, Admiral Dwight Greenhill, displayed on the screen.

  IV

  The Phezzan Land Dominion.

  A commerce and trading state situated within the so-called Phezzan Corridor that lay between the Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance. Its homeworld and its artificial colonies harbored a population of two billion, and its wealth was such that it rivaled that of the empire and the alliance.

  At present, Phezzan’s intelligence-gathering apparatus was running at full power. The information gathered passed through the secretariat, from whence it poured into the hands of the head of state, Landesherr Adrian Rubinsky.

  It was by this mechanism that Rubinsky, “the Black Fox of Phezzan,” was able to keep abreast of developments regarding the coup d’état from the comfort of his home.

  April 13. The day of the coup.

  Admiral Bucock, commander in chief of the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada, received a message at his office from Admiral Greenhill, head of the Defense Committee’s Bureau of Field Investigations.

  “Ground combat units will be holding large-scale training exercises throughout the capital today. Plans for these maneuvers were made at the start of the year, so we ask all departments to pay it no mind and do your regular jobs as if nothing were out of the ordinary. This training will be of great significance regarding the situation on the frontier …”

  That message went out to almost everyone in the military leadership, and the public as well was notified by ordinary broadcasts.

  It followed, then, that even when groups of armed soldiers were sighted in action on city streets, there were few who suspected anything amiss. Even when somebody did become suspicious and call the military police, all doubt was laid to rest with a single phrase: “It’s just a drill.” When a message arrived in the name of the Bureau of Field Investigations’ top executive, the most professional officers were the ones who questioned it least.

  Even Bucock hadn’t given it too much thought—granted, he had been incredibly busy with the oversight of the space armada as it geared up for action on the frontier—nor had it ever occurred to him that someone might stage a coup while the main force of the space armada was still in the capital.

  At high noon, however, the old admiral was being led away at gunpoint to meet with the coup’s prime conspirators.

  These were Admiral Dwight Greenhill, director of the Bureau of Field Investigations, and Vice Admiral Bronze, Director of the Intelligence Bureau. It baffled the old admiral to see such high-ranking officials participating.

  “I see,” Bucock snorted. “So I take it the Intelligence Bureau and the Bureau of Field Investigations have been corrupted for quite some time?”

  The duties of the Bureau of Field Investigations—domestically—encompassed the management and operation of noncombat activities such as training, rescue operations, and migration of troops and facilities, so if its director was one of the conspirators, it would be a simple matter to move the required units into position.

  From somewhere among the several men surrounding him, there drifted a stench of stale alcohol.

  “Humph, I remember that smell.” The white-haired commander in chief turned a bitter glare on the source of that odor. “Rear Admiral Lynch, captured by the empire at El Facil some years ago.”

  “I’m honored you remember,” Lynch replied with slurred laughter.

  “Much as I’d like to forget, that isn’t possible. After all, you abandoned your duty to protect civilians … you abandoned your responsibility to the soldiers under your command … and you tried to escape to safety by yourself … Oh, you’re a celebrity.”

  Lynch didn’t look like his feelings were hurt. He accepted those biting words with a faint smirk and then, with a flourish, pulled out a small bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and took a swallow from it. The officers surrounding him—geniune ascetics—frowned at him with furrowed brows. That Lynch’s compatriots held him in contempt was plain to see, and Bucock was at a loss to explain what a man like him was doing in their ranks to begin with. He turned his eyes back toward Greenhill.

  “Your Excellency, I had thought of you as a bastion of reason and conscience even within the military.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “It looks like I’ve overestimated you, though. All I can think right now is that that reason and conscience of yours must be asleep at the wheel for you to take part in something like this.”

  “I’ve thought about this long and hard. Try thinking about it this way, Admiral. Just how corrupt are our politics at present? Just how smothered is our society? We have a mobocracy running rampant as it hides behind a pretty little word like democracy, and nowhere do I see the slightest sliver of hope that it can reform itself. What other way is there to bring discipline and reform?”

  “So that’s it. Certainly, the present system is corrupt, and it’s reached a dead end. So what you want to say next is, ‘Therefore, I’m bringing it down with armed force.’ I’m asking just to see what you’ll say, but what happens when you become corrupt, especially given that you have all the weaponry? Who’s going to discipline you, and how?”

 
Bucock’s tone was sharp, and his opponent clearly hesitated.

  “We won’t become corrupt,” another voice said with conviction. “We have ideals. Unlike them, we know the definition of shame. We are incapable of doing as the present political class does. They fatten their own bellies in the name of pretty words like democracy, pandering to the electorate to gain power, making cozy deals with capitalists—neglecting all the while our sacred charge to bring down the Galactic Empire. We’re only doing what our passion for the restoration of our nation demands. We’ve risen up reluctantly, because we had no other choice. Corruption springs from the pursuit of self-interest—we will never be corrupted.”

  “I wonder,” said Bucock. “Looks to me like you’re justifying an illegal power grab with pretty words like restoration and sacred charge and passion and so on.”

  The old admiral’s poison tongue cut deep into the officers’ sense of pride, stinging them sharply. Voices rose up in anger.

  “Admiral Bucock, we want to be as gentlemanly about this as possible, but for my part, I can’t help thinking those last words were crossing the line.”

  “Gentlemanly?” Bucock’s laughter rang out in the room, filled with sarcasm. “From the days when human beings were crawling around on all fours right down to this very afternoon, people who break the rules using violence have never been called gentlemen. If that’s what you want to be called, though, you’ve got the power now, so while you still have it, I recommend you get some somebody to write you a new dictionary.”

  Fury was rippling up from the officers like a heat mirage. With a glance, Greenhill held its ignition in check.

  “We could talk all day, but I don’t think we’re going to find any common ground. We only ask history to be the judge of the decisions we’ve made.”

  “History may have nothing to say to you, Admiral Greenhill.”

  At that, Dwight Greenhill, chairman of the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic, looked away.

  “Take him to another room. We mustn’t lack for courtesy.”