The captain let out a scornful laugh that would never reach its coda. The boy’s wrists, which appeared securely shackled in electromagnetic handcuffs, shot up, pushing him from under the chin. Moments later, the captain’s body had fallen to the floor. While he was pinned down by the boy, three of his bodyguards were thrown against the wall by Machungo’s pillar-like arms. A fourth leapt back from Machungo’s whirling attack, readying his gun, but a beam shot from the side caught his right calf. He let out a scream and fell to floor, writhing in pain. The shot came from the gun that captain Wilock had once had trained on Julian.
Thus, the destroyer Hamelin IV was taken over by an unlawful gang.
But the victors weren’t ready to celebrate just yet. They still had to be careful of other imperial forces and take precautions accordingly. Julian and the others transferred over to the destroyer and left Beryozka empty. Marinesk was sad, but it was an unavoidable consequence of their success: Beryozka would have to be sacrificed.
They set the ship on autopilot, and after giving out three warning signals, Julian apologized in his heart, blowing Beryozka to atoms. After making a convincing show of it for the eyes of the Imperial Navy, the moment he entered alliance territory, Julian evicted the destroyer’s crew and put them on a rescue shuttle, inside of which sat the Phezzanese collaborator. At first, looking at the image on the comm screen, he confirmed the faces of Marinesk and the others. Wilock and friends had every intention of killing this man who’d become a hunting dog for the empire, but Julian was hesitant to take the life of an unarmed man. Julian provided them with food and water and had set a time-release lock to open communications after forty-eight hours. Otherwise, the evicted crew might never have been able to contact the Imperial Navy for pickup. Such was the meticulousness of Julian’s technique. After that, his only aim was to link up with the alliance.
Everything was far from over. Marinesk kept stressing that the destroyer now belonged to the Beryozka crew and readied himself for a lawsuit with the alliance …
III
As Julian narrated these events, the meal progressed to a dessert of cranberry pie and black tea.
“We should compensate Marinesk somehow. For his cooperation above and beyond.”
Yang was generous enough to think he should be the one to provide that compensation. And on that front, Yang had succeeded in the most daring way. Now it was Julian’s turn to ask questions.
“So, you handed Iserlohn Fortress back to the empire? I’m sure you had some ulterior motive for doing so, but can you tell me what that was?”
“It was nothing, really. I just set a trap is all.”
Yang wasn’t being particularly modest. The explosives were a diversion, and when Yang told him his plans, Julian shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s underhanded, even for you. If it works, the empire will no doubt kick itself. You’re a wicked man.”
“Fine with me. I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
Yang’s expression changed slightly.
“The only ones who know about this are von Schönkopf, Lieutenant Commander Greenhill, and now you. Maybe it’ll amount to nothing, but remember it just in case.”
Julian was glad to know it, but when he was asked about the rest of his journey, he remembered something important.
“I got to know two, and only two, remarkable people. One directly, the other indirectly, and who’s now on Heinessen. An old acquaintance of yours, apparently.”
“Oh, is she pretty?”
Yang’s comment was only slightly serious.
“It’s a he: Boris Konev. Do you know him?”
“Boris Konev … ?”
He held his knife in midair, digging through the mines of his memory, but nowhere in the ore he came up with was that name carved. Yang discovered it, at last, deep down the tunnel when Julian mentioned he was a childhood friend.
“Ah, that Boris. Now I remember him.”
“I hear that senility starts with not being able to remember people’s names.”
“Who are you calling senile? I’m only thirty-one,” said Yang, unabashedly shaving off a year, and thrusting a fork into his cranberry pie. “It’s only because you called him by his full name, Boris Konev, that I couldn’t remember. If you’d called him ‘Boris the troublemaker,’ then I’d have known who you were talking about.”
“He was that bad?”
“Sure was. He made everyone cry. His parents, his friends, you name it. He was a first-rate hooligan, a real nuisance. He always got in my way.”
“Really?” said Julian sarcastically. “According to Marinesk, Boris was able to pull off his numerous pranks only because of his excellent partner in crime.”
“I’m sure I’ll run into Konev one of these days. Now, who was the second person?”
Yang’s attempts at glossing over his complicity weren’t exactly convincing, but Julian didn’t pursue the matter.
“The other was a man by the name of Degsby, a bishop of the Church of Terra. He claimed that he was no longer a clergyman, that he was an apostate, but …”
“There must’ve been a reason for his self-abasement.”
Julian told Yang what Degsby had told him. Yang learned for the first time of the conflict between Landesherr Rubinsky of Phezzan and his son and aide Kesselring.
I see, thought Yang. So that’s why they were playing out their secret feud behind the scenes. Even so, for a son to try killing his father, only to have the tables turned on him, was like something out of a medieval court tragedy. None of which explained, however, why it was possible for a bishop to have such insider knowledge of Phezzan’s elite. It seemed the Church of Terra’s relationship with alliance leaders ran deep, but perhaps its relationship with Phezzan ran deeper still. Did the rhizome of the Church of Terra branch out that far?
“Yes, there was. Degsby left me with something before he died. He said that the origin of all these events lay in Terra and its church, and that I had to look to Earth if I wanted to know the truth behind the past and the present.”
Degsby had breathed his last just after being transferred from Beryozka to Hamelin IV. It felt more like protracted suicide. The color of his skin and the breakdown of his internal organs were sure signs of alcohol and drug abuse. Perhaps he’d been tortured by the pain, but to Julian it seemed he’d been submitting to that abuse as punishment for his apostasy. When the bishop was given a space burial, Julian couldn’t help but feel for him.
“So, everything is on Earth,” muttered Yang, turning his teacup in both hands and warily observing the squall clouds rising from the horizon of his heart.
“He also told me this: humanity must never forget its obligation and debt to Earth.”
It seemed this was what Degsby had most wanted to say. Yang was still observing and analyzing the rain clouds but nodded at Julian’s words all the same.
“It’s a sound argument. But righteous awareness doesn’t always lead to righteous action. Julian, our civilization began about seven thousand years ago in a corner of a small planet called Earth.”
“In the East, was it?”
“Yes. Some theories postulate the existence of an unknown advanced civilization before that, but either way, the continuity of history tells us that the ancient world was the womb of our current space civilization.”
As the failed student of history spoke, his thoughts as a strategist were working busily in his head. He couldn’t very well discount what the bishop had said as delusional rambling.
“But even just on the surface of this one planet called Earth, the political, economic, and cultural center has shifted over time. Ever since humans have ventured into outer space, that center has unavoidably moved off planet.”
Yang guessed that the Church of Terra’s disciples were involved in extrareligious activities with the goal of restoring sovereignty of humanity t
o its rightful throne on Earth. That was what the deceased, using the grandest terms he allowed himself, had been trying to convey. He’d detected in Julian the secret fragment that he wanted him to know.
“Julian, compared to those who built the first towns on the banks of the Tigris and Euphrates, we haven’t developed that much mentally. But, right or wrong aside, our knowledge has increased and our limbs have grown too much for us to return to our cradle. It’s unthinkable that Earth should restore its supremacy by means of some conspiracy.”
Despite thinking this way, there was nothing he could do about it.
“Then we should just leave Earth to its own devices?” Julian asked.
“No, I wouldn’t go that far.”
Yang urgently opened the directory of his brain, drawing a red line on a certain page.
“I’ll have Bagdash look into it. Such things are more up his alley than fighting.”
Thus, his intelligence staff, who’d been idling about for two years on Iserlohn Fortress, were given a significant task for the first time in ages.
“In the meantime, I’ll have him get in touch with those from the Phezzan commissioner’s office still left here on Heinessen. With his quick wits, he’ll at least catch the tail of that poisonous snake.”
“Captain Bagdash …”
What Julian had said was neither a question nor a confirmation, but a humble objection. Bagdash was a member of Yang’s field staff headquarters, but his participation had no small pretext. Two years ago, when a group of militant diehards known as the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic brought about a coup d’état with the goal of establishing military dictatorship, it was Bagdash who’d smuggled them into Yang’s fleet to assassinate him. But his intention had been readily detected, and Bagdash had betrayed his comrades to profess his loyalty to Yang.
“There’s no one else.”
Julian relented. By way of changing topics, he asked about Yang’s strategic plot to bring down Reinhard von Lohengramm. Yang opened his heart to Julian in a way he hadn’t when speaking to Chairman Islands.
“Even if I succeed, I wonder what kind of historical significance it’ll have. What I mean is, while defeating Reinhard von Lohengramm by force and dissolving the empire will surely benefit the Free Planets Alliance, what will it mean for the rest of humanity?”
Julian had thought that getting rid of a dictator should benefit all of humanity for a long time to come, but Yang didn’t buy into such reductive optimism. Yang rustled his unruly black hair.
“It would obviously be a major blow to the people of the empire. They’ll demand a ruler of powerful reform, which will likely be followed by governmental breakdown. And if—no, when—things go bad, you can be certain there’ll be civil war. The people will become victims of one another. It’s a harsh story. Must we do this just to get some short-term peace for the alliance?”
“But why concern ourselves to that extent? I think we’d do best to leave the empire’s business to the empire.”
Yang was disappointed to hear this.
“Julian, don’t ever think that just because you’re fighting against another nation you shouldn’t care about what happens to its people.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. It’s just that when you look at things through the prism of nationhood alone, your field of vision narrows and you lose sight of things farther away. You should really stop distinguishing between friend and foe as much as possible.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“Things will only get harder from here, but they say it’s always darkest just before dawn.”
“That’s a famous saying of our founding father, Ahle Heinessen, isn’t it? He was cheering on his comrades when they escaped from the Altair star system in ships of natural dry ice to embark on a long march of ten thousand light-years.”
“So it’s said, but who knows if any of that ever really happened? It’s something that any revolutionary or leader of a political movement could’ve said. But Heinessen saying it has more cachet than a nobody saying it. I doubt that Ahle Heinessen sought to be idolized, much less deified.”
Yang shook his head. Although he had a violent aversion to any thinking that condoned national supremacy, here he was obediently showing his respect and affection for Heinessen’s founder. He’d compromised a part of himself to protect his beloved democracy, but when he thought of how the results of his victory might affect the people of the empire, the wings of his heart grew heavy and damp.
IV
By the end of February in SE 799, year 490 of the imperial calendar, Yang Wen-li’s fleet maneuvers were under way. Later described as the leading example of “the exquisite art of military operations,” it would come to be widely known as an elegant tactical success but was unprecedented even at the conceptual level. That its actions were diversionary tactics and its final objective something else entirely would excite future historians.
As a military man of a democratic nation for whom authority wasn’t some despotic ideal, Yang had faced numerous limitations and until now had always conceded to the superiority of Reinhard von Lohengramm’s front lines. He was at last able to meet the empire head-on.
As for Reinhard, the first act had been entirely underwhelming. The reasons behind this would also be of great interest to historians, but even an unparalleled genius was prone to occasional lapses of judgment.
While construction of a military base on the planet Urvashi was under way, Reinhard gathered his highest leaders to draft and determine middle-term strategies. Senior Admiral Oskar von Reuentahl and Admiral Lennenkamp arrived with their fleets, bringing the total of soldiers to twenty million. Only Admiral Kornelias Lutz stayed behind on Iserlohn Fortress to establish sovereignty over the corridor. With nearly all the highest leaders of Reinhard’s expeditionary forces gathered in the tactical meeting being held on the flagship Brünhild in Urvashi’s satellite orbit, Mittermeier and von Reuentahl shook hands to celebrate their reunion.
The long-term objective of rendering Iserlohn Fortress powerless by passing through the Phezzan Corridor had already been achieved, and they’d reaped more than enough benefits by recapturing it. But there was little reason to be proud of their accomplishment when Yang’s strongest fleet continued to roam freely.
Their current plan hung on two options. The first was to deploy all forces and make a direct hit on the enemy nation of Heinessen. The second was to capture and suppress the various other planets and leave the capital independent, thereby securing future supply routes from the imperial mainland. Reinhard’s decision would determine which course the empire would follow.
In recent meetings, Reinhard had kept his own judgments to himself, and this time was no exception. He wasn’t fully present, and the admirals’ discussion was trifling to his ears.
“It’s entirely pointless for us to be locked here in indecision. I say we attack the enemy capital in one fell swoop and bring about total conquest. Isn’t that why we came all this way?”
Of course, there were opposing opinions.
“Now that we’re here, we should avoid doing anything rash. Gaining total control of the capital doesn’t guarantee the alliance will fall. There’s a good chance of getting tripped up by rebellions in other sectors. We’d do better to subjugate the surrounding areas by cornering them physically and psychologically until they beg for mercy.”
This vigorous argument didn’t stimulate Reinhard’s mind at all, and the meeting adjourned without a conclusion having been reached. The young dictator’s head was heavy, and he had no appetite for dinner.
The next morning, Reinhard couldn’t get out of bed. He had a temperature of over 38 degrees Celsius. The doctor rushed in rather nervously, but his fears soon melted like ice in spring when he diagnosed Reinhard with nothing more than a fever from overwork. Captain Kissling, the head of Reinhard’s pers
onal guard and the one who’d called the doctor, was just as relieved as he was.
When Reinhard, leaning his golden head on a pillow, thought about it, he realized that he’d been running around nonstop for more than a decade. Not that he looked back on this ascendency with any sort of self-pity. Compared to his rival, Yang Wen-li, Reinhard was far more durable in his industry. He’d always worked in both military and political spheres, where his judgments were always necessary and reasonable.
It was probably a good idea to take a rest occasionally. A weary body meant a weary mind. Although he forced himself to think and make decisions, it was impossible for him to be as on top of things as when he was healthy. He was impatient, but at some point he had to give in.
“You should take it easy today, and tomorrow if you can. Rest is the simplest, yet most effective, medicine.”
Reinhard obediently took the doctor’s advice, taking a lap around the sandman’s park, and woke up close to noon. He pressed the intercom switch near his pillow to ask for water.
It’d been seven years since Reinhard had been laid up in bed with a fever. He’d had many fevers as a child. Every time, his sister Annerose would nurse him back to health. In fact, even when it wasn’t a significant fever, he’d sometimes stay in bed just to feel the porcelain touch of her hand on his forehead.
“It’s only a little fever. Go ahead and sleep if you want. Before you know it, you’ll get bored and want to get out of bed, Reinhard …”
His sister was right. In the morning, he’d had enough of the feel of clean sheets, and when he was fed a lunch of vegetable soup by his sister’s hand, his muscles ached for lively activity, and he fretted over how he might justify getting out of bed.
An academy student came in carrying a tray with a crystal water pitcher on it. Reinhard remembered his reddish-brown hair and dark-green eyes. In response to Reinhard’s inquisitive gaze, Emil von Selle held the glass reverently and gave a deep bow.
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 5 Page 13
