In the hourglass of his life, the most sparkling among those grains of sand had been plucked from Iserlohn. That this place, which had brought about qualitatively richer memories than any other in his mere seventeen years of existence, had fallen under imperial control was indeed regrettable. When Iserlohn Fortress had been rendered powerless by the Imperial Navy’s magnificent strategic planning, Yang Wen-li had abandoned it without hesitation, opting instead to guarantee the mobility of his fleet. Yang had known he’d made the right decision, and even if he hadn’t, Julian would’ve supported him anyway. Still, Julian had been astonished at Yang’s audacity, and not for the first time. Yang’s actions were always surprising in Julian’s eyes.
Unfaithful’s captain, Boris Konev, walked up and stood next to Julian.
“A pretty gloomy planet, don’t you think?” he said with a wink.
Konev had transported Julian not merely in his role as captain. He was a proud former independent merchant of Phezzan, a childhood playmate of Yang Wen-li, and the cousin of the Alliance Armed Forces’ ace pilot Ivan Konev, killed in action. His investment in Julian’s safety was therefore of multifaceted and utmost priority. Unfaithful had been originally built as a military transport for the alliance and had become his property through Caselnes’s arrangements by way of Yang. He’d wanted to name it after his beloved Beryozka. Unfortunately, that name came with far too much baggage to pass through imperial territory without raising a red flag. Because the ship was illegality incarnate, they had to keep up appearances as much as possible. Unfaithful, then, seemed like a worthy compromise. To Konev, it was a declaration of truth so obvious that it might just go unnoticed.
Julian felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Commander Olivier Poplin, who’d linked up with them midway through the journey. The young ace smiled at Julian with his green eyes before turning to the screen.
“So that’s where it all began—the mother planet of the entire human race, huh?”
An unoriginal thing to say, to be sure, but the ring of nostalgia in Poplin’s voice wasn’t all that genuine to begin with. Nearly thirty centuries had passed since Earth had lost its status as the center of human civilization, and ten centuries more since the young ace’s ancestors had taken flight from its surface. The well of sentimentality for Earth had run dry a long time ago, and far be it from Poplin to waste any tears in refilling it.
In any case, Poplin hadn’t reunited with Julian out of any attachment to Earth. He couldn’t care less about an outdated frontier planet.
“I’ve no interest in seeing a feeble old mother,” he said, with usual bluntness.
Konev, who’d been consulting with his astrogator, Wilock, came back to rejoin the conversation.
“We’ll be landing in the northern Himalayas, the usual drop-off point for pilgrims. You’ll find the Church of Terra’s headquarters nearby.”
“The Himalayas?”
“Earth’s largest orogenic zone. I know of no safer place for us to land.”
Konev explained that it had once been an energy supply center during Earth’s golden age. Establishment of hydroelectric power from the thaw of alpine snow, solar power, and geothermal energy sources had been carefully arrayed so as not to interfere with the natural beauty, all while supplying light and heat to ten billion people. More relevantly, shelters for the Global Government’s top brass had been carved out deep underground.
When the United Anti-Earth Front’s grand forces, blind with revenge, had plowed their way into the solar system and assaulted this “proud planet” with everything they had, the Himalayas, along with military bases and major cities, had been an epicenter of attack. The flames of a giant volcanic eruption nine hundred years earlier had increased their height. Soil, rock, and glaciers had formed a moving wall, taking down everything man-made in their path. The Himalayan mountains were a point of Earthly pride, sometimes even objects of religious worship, but to those still being abused and rejected in the colonies, they were nothing but a towering symbol of oppression.
Global Government representatives requested a meeting with the United Anti-Earth Front’s commander in chief, Joliot Francoeur, to broker peace. But Francoeur hadn’t come to beg for mercy. With a pride befitting any legitimate leader of the entire human race, he explained that protecting Earth’s honor was the responsibility of every human being. If they lost sight of that now, then there was no hope left.
Francoeur’s answer was coldhearted:
“My mother lived in luxury by the fruits of her own labor. And now, what rights can she claim? The way I see it, you have two alternatives. To ruin, or to be ruined. The choice is yours.”
Francoeur told them of his former lover who killed herself after being raped by an Earth Force soldier. The Global Government’s representatives were overwhelmed by the raging violence in his eyes, at a loss for words. Over the past several centuries, Earthers had planted seeds of hatred in the hearts of the colonized and by their actions accelerated the growth of that hatred. Never once had Earthers showed compassion, let alone entertained the possibility of compromise.
Dejected, those same representatives committed mass suicide while on their way home. Beyond having to bear the responsibility of their failed negotiations, it was the inevitable banquet of destruction waiting for them back on Earth that drove them to such extreme measures.
Said banquet lasted for three days. Only after strict orders came down from United Anti-Earth Front leaders did Francoeur put an end to the slaughter. Amid whipping winds and roaring thunder, his youthful face came to resemble a waterfall as rain and tears of violent emotion flowed down his cheeks.
Thinking about the amount of blood shed on this small planet’s surface and the weight of its maledictions sent an electric current of tension through Julian’s body. Whereas before he’d always been confronted with questions of an uncertain future, this time he stood face-to-face with the undeniably horrific past that was the legacy of everyone aboard the ship.
II
Julian Mintz’s travel itinerary to Earth was far from linear. Heading straight for the forsaken planet from Heinessen was illegal.
Despite having submitted his letter of resignation, as someone who’d been an officer of the Alliance Armed Forces until just a few days before, his status as Yang Wen-li’s dependent was still rather vague from the viewpoint of the Imperial Navy and alliance government surveilling him. The fact that Julian and his security guard, Ensign Louis Machungo, had gotten away safely did little to assuage his worries about the pressures his escape might’ve placed on Yang and Frederica.
Yang had risked a lot for Julian’s sake. He’d worked everything out with the aid of Caselnes and Boris Konev, procuring a ship and formally registering Julian and Machungo as crew. And all of this without raising so much as an eyebrow at either the Imperial Navy or alliance government. All the while, he would mutter under his breath things like, “A real father would hardly do as much for his runaway son.”
Once they’d left Heinessen’s gravitational field, Julian and the rest of the crew were on their own. The outcome of their journey hung solely on his discretion and Boris Konev’s resourcefulness as they ventured into the Church of Terra’s dark side. If they returned safely, it would be the first time anyone had succeeded in doing so.
And yet, even with all these meticulous arrangements, the first hurdle impeding their course appeared before the first day had even ended when an unexpected signal stopped everyone aboard Unfaithful in their tracks:
“Halt your ship, or we will open fire.”
The Imperial Navy was possessed of an overwhelming military power that resonated with the worst of human instincts. They couldn’t be sure the Imperial Navy wouldn’t destroy a compliant civilian ship and pass it off as self-defense.
When Konev was asked if he had any intention of making a break for it, Julian shook his flaxen-haired head. Who knew how many inspec
tions they would undergo on their way to Earth? It was in their best interests to treat each imperial encounter as the first.
But when Konev did as instructed, the young sublieutenant who transferred onto their ship to conduct a spontaneous inspection only asked if they had any young women on board. When he was met with an unequivocal no, his expression was that of a child desperate to get his homework over with.
“I don’t suppose you’re carrying any weapons, habit-forming substances, or human contraband, either?”
“Of course not,” said Konev. “We’re just humble, fate- and law-fearing merchants. Feel free to search to your heart’s content.”
Julian felt as though he’d just witnessed a textbook illustration of the saying, “Civility is second nature to the Phezzanese.” Boris Konev was living proof of both its truth and effectiveness.
Seeing it was useless to make something out of nothing, the imperial destroyer captain let them off the hook. Free as he now was to navigate deep into Free Planets Alliance territory and inspect all vessels registered with the alliance, he’d only been confirming that fact as a subtle reminder of his authority to do so. Beginning in the Gandharva star system, now imperially supervised by terms of the Bharat Treaty, the destroyer captain and his crew had been under the command of Senior Admiral Karl Robert Steinmetz. Steinmetz, as was rare for an imperial admiral at the time, was concerned for the alliance and was strict about his subordinates not inflicting unnecessary cruelty upon civilians under martial law. The inspection came and went as nothing more than a formality. Nevertheless, Julian Mintz’s journey was getting off to a rocky start.
Julian reunited with old friends in the Porisoun star zone. Merkatz’s fleet had been hiding in the half-destroyed, abandoned supply base of Dayan Khan. Although this reunion had been planned, any communications regarding it had been scrambled via cryptocomm waves, allowing Unfaithful to make a successful approach to Dayan Khan. Julian cried out with surprise to see a familiar face the moment he stepped off the ship.
“Commander Poplin!”
“Yo, how’s it hanging, boy? You must have, what, a dozen girlfriends by now?”
His dark-brown hair and shining green eyes were a welcome sight. Olivier Poplin, the 28-year-old ace pilot, was a master of air combat techniques on par with the late Ivan Konev, and Julian’s single-seat spartanian fighter craft instructor. He’d followed Admiral Merkatz and the others in abandoning the alliance, which in their minds had become a vassal nation under the empire’s terms of peace, and had been lying low ever since.
“There’s time for that yet, Poplin. But for now, that position has yet to be filled.”
“I’ll say.” Poplin winked, but got no response. “Man, you’re no fun. Anyway, how’d everything go back on the home front? Did our esteemed marshal and Princess Frederica have their wedding?”
“Yes, a modest one, as you can well imagine.”
Poplin whistled with admiration.
“Our esteemed marshal may have pulled off many miracles, but none of them compare to shooting an arrow through Princess Frederica’s heart. Then again, knowing the strangeness of her proclivities, I bet she stepped right up to the target.”
Julian was about to ask what all those other lady-killers at Iserlohn had been doing with themselves, when Admiral Merkatz and his aide, von Schneider, appeared. Julian took his leave of Poplin and approached the exiled guest admiral.
After exchanging salutes, Merkatz welcomed the boy with a warm, if slightly weary, smile. Now over sixty, he was the very picture of a dignified military man. Although he’d worked as Yang’s advisor at Iserlohn Fortress, he carried himself like Yang’s superior.
“Glad to see you made it one piece, Sublieutenant Mintz. And how is Marshal Yang?”
Julian was out of uniform while Poplin was in his, replete with black beret. Merkatz and the others wore the silver-trimmed black of the Imperial Navy. It was a dreary setting, but at least the officers’ mess was clean and had coffee in ample supply. After the usual greetings were dispensed with, von Schneider sat upright.
“For the moment, we have sixty ships. Not nearly enough for a fleet, and far from war ready.” Von Schneider’s expression was stern. “It was the most Admiral Yang could arrange for us and still evade imperial detection. We’re truly grateful, of course, but numbers equal power. Given the present circumstances, we have the resources to mobilize a patrol fleet of one hundred ships at most. The fact that Admiral Yang sent you here can only mean one thing: he has something up his sleeve that he’s not telling us.”
Von Schneider stopped there, looking at Merkatz and Julian.
“About that,” said Julian, “I have a verbal message from Admiral Yang, so I will convey it to you in kind.”
Julian cleared his throat and righted his posture, taking care to relay the message verbatim.
“According to Article 5 of the Bharat Treaty, the Alliance Armed Forces are required to dispose of any and all remaining battleships and carriers. Accordingly, 1,820 ships are slated to be decommissioned on July 16 in the Lesavik sector.”
Julian repeated the date and the location before concluding:
“I trust that Merkatz’s independent fleet will make the best of the situation. End of message.”
“I see. Make the best of the situation? Say no more.”
A broad smile came to Merkatz’s lips. Von Schneider looked at him with interest because the officer he deeply respected seemed to have gotten more in touch with his sense of humor since the exile.
“Very well, then,” concluded von Schneider. “But does Admiral Yang have any insights as to how the situation might change after this?”
“Admiral Yang didn’t tell me what was on his mind, but you can be sure he doesn’t want to be a hermit all his life,” answered Julian.
Or does he? Julian thought.
“I think Yang is waiting it out. He once said something to me: ‘There’s no point in setting fire to the fields during the rainy season, when the dry season is sure to come.’ ”
Had the imperial high commissioner, Senior Admiral Lennenkamp, been privy to this information, his suspicions would’ve hit their expected target. Either way, Yang was a dangerous character, and Lennenkamp most certainly had the foresight to know that.
Next to a nodding Merkatz, von Schneider remembered something.
“Julian, I heard Lennenkamp has been dispatched from the empire as commissioner.”
“You heard correctly. I take it you’re familiar with the man, Commander von Schneider?”
“His Excellency Merkatz knows more about him than I do. Isn’t that right, Your Excellency?”
Merkatz put a hand to his chin, choosing his words carefully.
“An excellent military man, make no doubt about it. Loyal to his superiors, fair to his men. But if he takes even one step outside his uniform, he might not be able to see the forest for the trees.”
Julian understood this to mean he was shortsighted, but he nonetheless felt a shadow of uneasiness stretching toward Yang and his new bride. Yang wasn’t exactly popular among military supremacist types.
“Julian, did Admiral Yang give you any indication of how long we are to wait?”
“Yes, he said about five or six years.”
“Five or six years? Come to think of it, I guess we will need that much time. At the very least, it should be enough to make a dent in the Lohengramm Dynasty.”
Merkatz gave a deep nod.
“Can’t we expect something unusual to happen in the interim, though?”
Julian’s question made Merkatz think as he’d intended it to. Over time, the former imperial veteran had come to hold Julian’s strategic awareness in high regard.
“I predict—let’s say, hope—that nothing happens. Too much has gone down to bring us to this point. There are still many preparations to be made. If we’re too care
less in flying a flag against the empire, one impatient step forward could set us two back.”
Merkatz’s words made an indelible impression in the clay of Julian’s memory.
“Memos and such are entirely unnecessary,” Yang once told Julian. “Anything you’ve ever forgotten wasn’t all that important to begin with. In this world, there are only those things we remember, which are sometimes the worst, and those things we forget, which don’t matter to us at all. That’s why memos are unnecessary.”
And yet, Yang never went anywhere without his notebook.
Seeing as they had ten hours until departure, Julian was encouraged to take a nap in Poplin’s room, which looked like a burglar had just ransacked it. Its tenant was busy packing, whistling to himself all the while.
When Julian asked what he was doing, the young ace winked at him.
“I’m going with you.”
“You are?!”
“Don’t worry. Admiral Merkatz gave me the go-ahead.” His green eyes glittered jovially. “You know, I wonder if there’ll be any women on Earth.”
“I should think so.”
“Duh, I’m not talking mere biological females, but good, mature women who understand a man’s worth.”
“Well, I can’t make any promises there,” said Julian with natural prudence.
“Hmm, oh well. Honestly, I’m so far gone that I’d settle for any biological female right now. Have you noticed there are hardly any women around here? I never thought that far ahead when I signed up for this hitch. Joke’s on me, I guess.”
“I feel your pain.”
“Not cute, man. Every word you say rubs more salt into the wound. When you first came to Iserlohn Fortress, you were like a porcelain doll.”
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 6 Page 10
