Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 6

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Reinhard would likely be remembered for all time as a belligerent emperor. That thought fell lightly like first snow in his heart, but there was no way to change who he’d been born to be. He was never one for bloodshed, but for the collision of grander purpose and ingenuity. He called his chief private secretary, Hildegard von Mariendorf, who’d returned to the imperial palace, to take down an edict.

  While working on the edict, Hilda came to realize that perhaps Reinhard needed a rival in his life. She felt a touch of anxiety over this tragic thought. She wanted nothing more than to point the compass of his vast life force in the right direction, more for his own sake than for the empire’s. Or maybe, she thought, he’d reached the top too quickly, even if it was good for him to encounter an enemy who, like Rudolf the Great, could become a great object of his denial.

  She herself admired Yang Wen-li’s abilities, and couldn’t bring herself to hate him.

  Reinhard read over the letter he’d dictated to her, but suddenly flashed her a roguish smile.

  “Fräulein, did your handwriting get stiffer while you were under house arrest?”

  Another questionable joke.

  On August 8, Emperor Reinhard’s edict went out as follows:

  The imperial headquarters will relocate to Phezzan. Odin is too far from alliance territory. Count von Mariendorf will govern as my regent

  on Odin.

  Furthermore, Reinhard ordered that among his ten cabinet ministers, his secretaries of defense and works would follow him to Phezzan, where they would be transferred to new offices. Among his highest-ranking officers, Kessler (commissioner of military police and commander of capital defenses), Mecklinger (who as the newly instated “rear supreme commander” reserved the right to inspect almost the entire former imperial territory), and Wahlen (now en route back home after fulfilling his duties on Earth) were the only ones staying behind on Odin. The nucleus of the empire, in particular its military power, was relocating to Phezzan—and not, he added, temporarily. Marshals Mittermeier and von Reuentahl were the first to learn that the young emperor intended to relocate the capital to Phezzan.

  The transfer was to be completed within a year, at which time the emperor himself would move to the imperial capital on September 17. Marshal Mittermeier was set to leave before that, on August 30, while Marshal von Reuentahl and the other admirals would be traveling with the emperor.

  After withdrawing from the emperor’s presence, Mittermeier discussed these developments with his friend.

  “Phezzan, huh? I see. He’s thinking on a whole other level. Perfect for absorbing that land into the new territory and ruling over it.”

  Von Reuentahl nodded silently, mulling over a private matter. Because he was a bachelor, he was fine with departing from Odin at any time, given the proper battle formation. But then there was Elfriede von Kohlrausch, that violent young woman who’d become a fixture in his house. Would she follow the man she supposedly hated all the way to Phezzan, or would she steal his valuables and go into hiding? Either way was fine with him. It was up to her.

  “Even so,” Mittermeier spat out, “His Majesty’s error wasn’t using Lennenkamp but von Oberstein. That bastard may fancy himself a loyal retainer, but at this rate, he’ll eliminate those he doesn’t get along with, one by one. And in the end, he’ll bring about a rift in the dynasty.”

  Von Reuentahl moved his mismatched eyes in his friend’s direction.

  “I’m with you on that one. What worries me is the fissure I see between His Majesty the Emperor and von Oberstein. Who knows what might happen when they don’t get along…”

  Von Reuentahl couldn’t suppress a bitter smile, as this level of concern was strange even for him. Didn’t he himself at one time desire a supreme position with many subordinates under him? But there was surely a method behind such madness. There was something disconcerting about watching a man he valued so highly be degraded as a puppet, not unlike von Oberstein.

  IV

  When Julian thought of Yang on Earth, did a butterfly effect cause Yang to sneeze in rapid succession? No official record could confirm that.

  Yang, who’d let João Lebello go free and taken the late Helmut Lennenkamp hostage, boarded a cruiser dubbed Leda II and left the planet Heinessen. Joining him were Frederica, von Schönkopf, Attenborough, and his former subordinates, now released from house arrest. It was July 25. Attenborough served as the cruiser’s captain, but using Lennenkamp as an excuse, he’d succeeded in obtaining a large amount of weapons and provisions from the alliance government. Leaving plans for what was to follow up to Yang, he whistled, every bit the good-humored space pirate.

  Frederica G. Yang switched out her floral-patterned apron for a black beret and military uniform, standing valiantly by her husband as his assistant.

  At the time of their departure from Heinessen, Yang thought of paying respects to Admiral Bucock, but gave up on the idea.

  The retired, convalescent commander in chief of the space armada had also earned the suspicion of the alliance government. Even a one-on-one meeting was too risky, as it might compromise the old admiral’s already-frail position. In any case, the day would come when they would meet again, and so Yang suppressed this desire.

  Yang did, however, get in touch with Vice Admiral Alex Caselnes. He was a man whose affiliations had always been clear, and if Yang didn’t contact him, he might arouse suspicion of some pre-existing secret pact between them. Once Caselnes, who until then had been nominally banished to rear services headquarters, knew of the situation, he contacted his family. He tore off his insignia and placed it on his desk, throwing himself under Yang’s command.

  “Without me there,” he said, “that blasted Yang will never make it.”

  Admiral Rockwell, knowing he’d be left behind as acting general manager of rear services, tried to dissuade him from leaving, but Caselnes looked at the admiral over his shoulder, only snorting through his nose.

  Former chief of staff Murai, Vice Commander Fischer, and Deputy Chief of Staff Patrichev were no longer on Heinessen, but attached to their respective frontier posts, making it impossible to contact them.

  In the summer of that year, the Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz fleet had secured 464 warships and 80 flagships. What the fleet lacked in organizational balance, it made up for in its advanced firepower and strength.

  And while it was diminutive in manpower, many highly experienced soldiers with actual combat experience joined the battlefront. They were, of course, too proud to swear allegiance to the Galactic Empire, but as Lieutenant Commander Hamdi Ashur, who held highest rank among them and was known for his superiority as a fleet tactical operator, was led along the bridge of the Merkatz’s warship Shiva, he deferred completely to Merkatz’s right to command.

  “While I don’t disagree with you about flying the flag of revolt against the empire, under what pretense does this fleet operate? Is it democracy? Another dynastic dictatorship like the Lohengramm Dynasty’s? Militarism, even?”

  As Commander Bernhard von Schneider looked back at Merkatz, the exiled guest admiral signaled for Ashur to continue.

  “I know it’s rude of me to say, Your Excellency Merkatz, but you once held high rank yourself in the Imperial Navy. Furthermore, while I was banished to another country, you served as secretary of defense for the legitimate imperial galactic government. The purpose of the legitimate government should’ve been to restore the inherent authority of the Goldenbaum line, but I cannot be a part of such a goal.”

  The newly recruited soldiers stirred uneasily behind him. Not only because Ashur was their commanding officer, but also because he’d proven himself to be a charismatic character.

  “Allow me to be clear on that point. The purpose of this army is not to restore the Goldenbaum Dynasty.”

  “I hear that you never go back on what you say, Admiral. I believe you. But, while it may not be my place
to say so, when it comes to rallying soldiers dedicated to democracy, your good name, Admiral Merkatz, lacks a certain attraction.”

  “Then who would you recognize to lead this anti-imperial volunteer army?” responded von Schneider.

  Ashur slightly tilted his swarthy, virile face.

  “Admiral Bucock has the requisite accomplishments and popularity for soldiers of democracy, but at his age it’s hard to imagine him as a flag-bearer of the future. Successive former directors of Joint Operational Headquarters, Sitolet and Lobos, are men of the past. And so, I would hope for a younger man with his own charisma and dignity.”

  “Admiral Yang Wen-li?”

  “Don’t jinx his name. In any case, this isn’t something we’ll see realized today or tomorrow. I will follow your command for now, Admiral Merkatz. You can count on me.”

  Because they lacked the requisite number of men for the number of ships they had, Ashur consented when asked to assist in operating the fleet and readied his men for the task. Von Schneider muttered as he watched them go.

  “That one certainly has a lot to say. Seems reliable enough, at any rate.”

  Merkatz gave a rare bitter smile.

  “He’s right, you know. I’m not qualified to be a flag-bearer of democracy. About two or three years ago, I was battling democratic forces as a soldier of a despotic nation. If I were to take up democracy as my flag this late in the game, then future generations would regard me as a man without integrity.”

  “Your Excellency, aren’t you reading too much into this? Everyone knows your hand was forced by the circumstances, and that you always tried to make the best of things regardless.”

  “However posterity chooses to me, the truth of the matter is no one but Yang is capable of uniting the soldiers of democracy. That’s why even his own ally, the alliance government, is afraid of him.”

  Their actions sourced rumors of irresponsibility. They never imagined that Yang and his clique would escape Heinessen.

  Merkatz quickly changed the subject.

  “And His Majesty’s whereabouts are still unknown?”

  By “His Majesty,” Merkatz wasn’t referring to the young golden-haired sovereign Reinhard von Lohengramm, but the Goldenbaum line’s thirty-seventh emperor, Erwin Josef, enthroned at five years of age and kidnapped at seven. Von Schneider ashamedly hid his gaze.

  “That is correct, I’m sorry to say. I know it’s hard to hear, but under the circumstances any investigation is next to impossible.”

  Merkatz knew this. If they’d managed to repeatedly escape the Imperial Navy’s detection, then there wasn’t much point in launching an official investigation or search. The powerless Alliance Armed Forces couldn’t make light of Steinmetz’s ability to rat out an enemy.

  Nevertheless, that Merkatz was fixated at all on searching for the former child emperor was because he knew there’d been a fault line in the boy’s mind before his disappearance. His ego had frequently erupted, even drawing blood from those tasked with caring for him. With every such drop of blood shed, the human spirit had faded away from the Goldenbaum crest. Although such erratic violence was in his nature, it was a crime of circumstance that it wasn’t corrected, and that had been the responsibility of the adults around him.

  Restoration of the Goldenbaum royal line was hopeless. To begin with, the human spirit didn’t desire it. What Merkatz did wish for was that Erwin Josef would grow soundly in body and mind, and that he’d live out a peaceful life as an anonymous citizen under whatever political system he found himself in. But this would probably be even more difficult than the pipe dream of restoring the royal line. And yet, he wanted to make it a reality. This, and to give Yang Wen-li the essential military resources he needed to make his grand reappearance on stage. These are the last two jobs I need to finish before I die, Merkatz thought.

  On the bridge of the cruiser Leda II, the Yang fleet’s three vice admirals—Caselnes, von Schönkopf, and Attenborough—handled their commander with sharp tongues, as they had even at his recent wedding.

  “I can only hope that Yang Wen-li’s star power will stretch its own limits,” said von Schönkopf. “Not that he’s even aware of it himself. It’s hard enough just getting him to stand on the other side of the curtain.”

  “You speak like a teacher worrying over a bad student, Vice Admiral von Schönkopf.”

  “Actually, I once thought about becoming a teacher. But I hated being given homework.”

  “But I assume you like giving it?” chided Caselnes with a laugh.

  Here was a man who, despite having an honorable post as director of rear services on a distant planet, had rejected it with a snort and come along for the ride. Losing his superior administrative skills would be a seed of regret for the Alliance Armed Forces after losing Yang Wen-li.

  “Even so, Vice Admiral von Schönkopf, you were able to see through the government’s vicious trick under the intense pressure of having next-to-no intel.”

  In response to Caselnes’s praise, von Schönkopf attempted an unbecoming expression.

  “Well, maybe the government just didn’t think that far ahead. Or maybe it was just my wild imagination.”

  “Oh, now you tell us.”

  “That’s right, Vice Admiral Attenborough. And at this point, it doesn’t matter whether it was true or not. I’m as sure now as I was then that the alliance government was involved in a malicious conspiracy. It’s not like I lied to you or anything.”

  “Even if you did fan the flames.”

  Despite his sarcastic retort, Attenborough suddenly grew anxious as he rewound the film of reminiscence.

  “Are you sad that things turned out the way they did?”

  “Far from it, Vice Admiral Caselnes,” said the youngest of the three, shaking his head.

  “I’m only a greenhorn, not yet thirty, and yet people are already calling me ‘Your Excellency.’ That’s the blessing and the curse of being under Admiral Yang. We’d better hold him accountable for that.”

  Alex Caselnes took off his black beret and looked up.

  “People call us a ‘rebel force,’ but from where I stand, we’re nothing but a bunch of runaways.”

  The other two made no objection.

  Whether one called him a marshal, leader of a rebel force, or a runaway, Yang Wen-li was Yang Wen-li. Bridging the gap between his commander’s chair and desk with his outstretched legs, a black beret covering his face, he hadn’t stirred in over two hours.

  Sitting not five meters away from her husband, Frederica G. Yang was demonstrating contrastive diligence by compiling data on the cruiser Leda II, the Merkatz fleet, and Yang’s “rebel force,” so that they would have a tactical plan ready at a moment’s notice.

  Since rescuing her husband, Frederica hadn’t thought about the future. All she knew was that whatever path Yang Wen-li chose, she would walk it as his better half. Yang, on the other hand, still had no clear idea about what to do after escaping from Heinessen. He hadn’t been the one to instigate all this mayhem in the first place.

  “Yang and his wife know how to defend themselves,” concluded Dusty Attenborough, “and yet they haven’t thought about the consequences. If only we could give their ambition a shot in the arm.”

  Attenborough had grasped a part of the truth, but from where Yang sat, there was no reason to be criticized by one of the ringleaders who’d led him around by the nose.

  And while the resistance had remained on the planet Heinessen, taken hostage by the alliance government and occupying imperial forces, they too would be swallowed up into Heinessen’s billion citizens. In the end, Yang had been pushed aside by the government he was supposed to serve, his only option now to run away.

  The existence of Lennenkamp, dead and stored inside a body preservation capsule, was the only thing standing between them and total annihilation. When Lennenkamp’s death w
as made public and he handed over the body to the Imperial Navy, a new danger was sure to befall them.

  Nevertheless, many renowned generals before him had passed through the doors of purge and exile by the very motherlands to which they returned safely from the battlefield. One significant achievement was enough to make a million people jealous. The stairs got narrower the higher one climbed them, and led to more serious injuries when one fell.

  In a certain ancient empire, when a general was arrested for treason, he asked his emperor about the nature of his crime. The emperor averted his eyes.

  “My courtiers all say you orchestrated a rebellion against me.”

  “That’s not true at all. Where’s the evidence?”

  “But surely, you’ve at least thought about rebelling against me?”

  “It never crossed my mind.”

  “I see. But you could rebel if you wanted to. That’s crime enough.”

  Those carrying bigger swords had to be careful about getting cut from the other direction. In the end, the sword itself was a third force to be reckoned with.

  Just because one built a third force didn’t mean one could maintain it. As in Yang’s fundamental vision, if political and economic power didn’t go hand in hand, then the candle of rebellion would quickly burn out. Where should they put their base? How was he ever going to stand up to the Alliance Armed Forces, let alone the Imperial Navy? When should he officially announce Lennenkamp’s death? And what about supplies? Organization? Diplomatic negotiations…?

  He needed more time. Not to die in obscurity, but for ripening and fermentation. Time that Yang couldn’t have. It was more indispensable to him than power and authority.

  Yang had many short-term goals. Linking up with Merkatz to establish a chain of command with a unified republican army. Welcoming Julian back from Earth and obtaining information about the Church of Terra. And after that? Although he’d taken João Lebello hostage and forced Helmut Lennenkamp to take his own life for the sake of avoiding an undeserved death, how should he exercise that right?