The Rosen Ritter’s second commander, Captain Kasper Rinz, also stood up firmly.
“As the son of a refugee, I won’t stand to be subordinate to the empire any longer. Allow me to accompany Admiral Merkatz. That being said …” Rinz looked at the black-haired marshal. “Someday, I want Admiral Yang to lead us all. So long as you’re alive, you have the Rosen Ritter regiment’s loyalty.”
“This is the first step toward militarization, pledging loyalty to neither nation nor government, but to one man. Only bad can come of this,” said Alex Caselnes benignly, at which one person laughed.
Feeling his stance being questioned, Caselnes answered.
“I’ll stay behind. Or should I say, I must stay behind. If too many generals disappear, the Imperial Navy might get suspicious. I’ll remain here with Marshal Yang.”
Von Schönkopf, Fischer, Attenborough, Patrichev, Marino, and Carlsen chose to follow Caselnes. Merkatz opened a window of words to something he’d long kept locked inside and bowed to Yang.
“When I was exiled here, I put my entire future in your hands. Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll happily do.”
“Thank you. I’m indebted to your efforts.”
The staff officers took a temporary recess, leaving Frederica Greenhill behind with Yang. And to yours, above all, his eyes said.
“Sorry, Frederica,” said the young black-haired marshal awkwardly when they were alone. “If someone else did the same, I’d surely think them foolish as well. But I can’t live any other way. And to make matters worse, I’ve forced my dearest comrades into a tight spot …”
Frederica reached out a white hand, fixing the unkempt scarf peeking out from his collar. She smiled, his dark eyes reflected in her hazel.
“I don’t know whether what you’re doing is right or not. But there’s something I do know. I’m crazy about you.”
Frederica said nothing more. There was no need. She’d always known the kind of man she’d fallen for.
While there were those in the Imperial Navy who weren’t surprised by the sudden cease-fire, Reinhard wasn’t one of them. Upon receiving chief of staff von Oberstein’s report, the young blond dictator recoiled as if his self-importance had been wounded.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Reinhard’s voice was more than incisive; it was diamond plated. Having this unpardonable reality pointed out to him, he felt contempt and rage, even if it was good news clad in showy dress.
“The alliance has stopped its advance. And that’s not all. They’re requesting a cease-fire.”
Von Oberstein guarded himself against an appearance of his master’s violent side.
“This is madness. How did it happen so suddenly?! One more step—no, half a step—and those bastards would’ve won! What justifiable reason could they have to abandon certain victory?”
Waiting for his master’s ripples of emotions to subside, von Oberstein explained the situation.
“You mean to tell me victory has been handed over to me?”
Understanding the situation, Reinhard’s elegant limbs, clad in black and silver, sank into his commander’s chair.
“A pathetic development. Have I been given a victory that was never mine to begin with? As if I were some sort of charity case being given a handout …”
Reinhard laughed in a way he rarely did. It was a laugh lacking in magnificence and vitality. The laugh of a lifeless statue.
I
It was 2240 on May 5, SE 799, IC 490. After nearly twelve days, the Vermillion War came to an end. The forces that had participated on the imperial side numbered 26,940 war fleets and 3,263,100 men. Of those, 14,820 fleets had been destroyed and 8,660 had suffered major damage, bringing the total damages to 87.2 percent. A total of 1,594,400 were killed in action and 753,700 were injured, for a casualty rate of 72 percent. Those forces that had participated on the alliance side numbered 16,420 war fleets and 1,907,600 men. Of those, 7,140 fleets had been destroyed and 6,260 had suffered damage, bringing the total damages to 81.6 percent. A total of 898,200 had been killed in action and 506,900 were injured, for a casualty rate of 73.7 percent.
Historians have reached no consensus on whether the empire or the alliance won this war. That the casualty rates on both sides exceeded 70 percent was unusual from a military perspective, and the pointlessness of quibbling over a fraction of a percent determining the outcome was lost on no one. It was, for all intents and purposes, a draw.
Those who asserted the alliance’s victory gave the following reasons:
“In the Vermillion War, the strategic leadership of alliance commander Yang Wen-li had always surpassed that of imperial commander Reinhard von Lohengramm. From the beginning, they were evenly matched, and Duke von Lohengramm’s magnificent deep defense seemed to have been a success, but once it crumbled, the war’s outcome was entirely in Yang’s hands. Had he not been ordered to cease fire by a government under enemy threat, history would have recorded him as the unequivocal victor.”
Those who advocated an imperial victory rebutted as follows:
“The Vermillion War was but a trivial episode in the grander-scale war that Reinhard von Lohengramm had plotted with the goal of conquering the Free Planets Alliance and unifying the entire universe. Drawing the enemy’s main forces into his battlespace, with a detached force he attacked the enemy capital and forced their surrender by an unabashedly superlative strategy used since time immemorial. The Imperial Navy achieved its battle objectives, while the Alliance Armed Forces lost. In terms of who won, one need only resist the temptation to romanticize and look directly at the results. The answer is clear.”
There were, too, those who flaunted justice.
“The alliance may have won in the battlespace, but the empire won beyond it.”
“The empire may have won strategically, but the alliance won tactically.”
Many such theories were put forth, but no matter how one sliced it, each had its own persuasive power. This war would spawn countless books in the future and provide sustenance for as many historians.
The mental states of the war’s actors were clear, for neither side considered itself to be the supreme commander or winner. Reinhard couldn’t rid himself so easily of the shame of being handed his victory. Yang, on the other hand, from the point of view of his own military thinking, respected a strategic victory far more than a tactical one and held no conviction in his success. Perhaps they were overestimating, but each valued the other’s success more than his own. Both sides were becoming painfully self-aware of a superiority complex.
The Imperial Navy’s highest commander and imperial marshal, Reinhard von Lohengramm, held audience with the Alliance Armed Forces commander of Iserlohn Patrol Fleet, Marshal Yang Wen-li, at 2300 hours on May 6, nearly twenty-four hours after the cease-fire had gone into effect.
During that time, on both sides the strongest human urges of appetite and sexual desire were overtaken by a desire to sleep. Throughout the twelve-day war, lulls of alternating naps and tank bed sessions were never enough to put their frayed nerves at ease. And now, released from the fear that a one-hour nap might turn into an eternal one, the imperial heroes and the alliance’s wise generals alike were able to enjoy a deep and replenishing rest at last, although not without the aid of sleeping medication.
Meanwhile, around the battlespace, the imperial leaders—including Schwarz Lanzenreiter fleet captain Wittenfeld, Fahrenheit, Wahlen, Steinmetz, and Lennenkamp—who arrived to the battle too late, fled. Having already received reports of the cease-fire, and given how distressed they were over their shame and frustration, it was a necessary measure.
At 1900 hours on May 6, Yang Wen-li woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. He pulled himself reluctantly out of bed, surrounded by forty thousand imperial ships, perfectly unharmed. As he gazed at that multitude of overlapping lights with admiration, Yang took a show
er, washed his face, and took care of his necessary grooming.
“There’s something quite odd about drinking tea while surrounded by forty thousand enemy ships.”
Yang leisurely let the steam of his black tea waft over his face. It had been a long time since he’d tasted the sweetness of Julian’s Shillong leaf brew. Only his closest associates—Julian, Frederica, Caselnes, and von Schönkopf—shared his dinner table. Without the prospect of an imperial massacre looming over them, it felt almost like a gathering with friends. Nonetheless, Yang’s audacity and stolidity were admirable, and his guests relished the opportunity to observe them in such close quarters.
By that time, the sixty-ship fleet under Merkatz’s command had already left the battlespace, escaping the eyes and ears of the empire. Those same sixty ships included eight warships—among them Shiva, Cassandra, and Ulysses—four mother ships, nine cruisers, fifteen destroyers, twenty-two weapons transports, and two manufacturing ships. And while all of them were in reality unharmed, according to falsified data they’d been obliterated in the battlespace. Those on board were land troops and battleship personnel totaling 11,820 men. Captain Rinz, Commander von Schneider, and Commander Poplin, for their part, were on record as having been killed in action.
Inside the imperial flagship Brünhild, an exquisite accord of solemnity and elegance showed the extent to which its functionality as a warship was unharmed. Yang drew gazes of frank admiration from everyone.
“So that’s Yang Wen-li, huh?”
Small waves of exchanged whispers washed on the shore of Yang’s ears. He had the feeling he’d disappointed them. And who could blame them? Yang was a far cry from Reinhard, who was the most elegant noble youth of all time. And unlike Karl Gustav Kempf, whom he’d consigned to oblivion by his own design, Yang was hardly a man possessed of heroic appearance. Neither was he the coolheaded prodigy type. Then again, he didn’t fit the scraggly bumpkin mold, either. At least, those who saw him seemed to think him handsome—Frederica Greenhill, for one. All in all, he was probably more acceptable as a young scholar confined to being a lecturer due to his lack of political connections. While at first glance, he looked to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight and of essentially medium build, his muscles sagged from the weight of a prolonged battle that had also left him scrawny. His unruly hair and beret didn’t peg him as a military man at all. In any case, his appearance gave no strong impression to others of one who’d accomplished as much as he had.
A tall young officer with sandy hair and eyes turned to Yang and performed a salute.
“I am Neidhart Müller. It’s a privilege and an honor to meet Your Excellency Yang, highest commander of the Alliance Armed Forces.”
“Not at all, the honor is all mine …”
Yang offered an artless response as he exchanged salutes. He attempted no further answer.
He seemed to have made enough of an impression on Müller that the latter couldn’t continue to hold feelings of defeat or enmity. There was a brief period of silence, but Müller, out of respect to one so decorated, broke the tension with a smile, as if his heart had been settled.
“If only you’d been born on our side of the galaxy, I would’ve wanted to study tactics under you. It’s too bad that’ll never happen.”
Yang’s expression also softened.
“Much obliged. I, too, wish you’d been born our side of the galaxy. If so, I’d probably be taking an afternoon nap right about now.”
Yang wasn’t just being polite. He was speaking the truth. A man of Müller’s caliber would’ve made a brave fleet commander, and would’ve considerably reduced Yang’s troubles.
Müller smiled, saying it was unfortunate indeed, and led Yang to Reinhard’s private chamber. A young topaz-eyed officer stood before the door. After saluting Müller in silence, he opened the door and let their guest inside. And so, Yang Wen-li, black beret in hand, came face-to-face with Reinhard von Lohengramm in the flesh.
The mighty dictator’s private room seemed far from luxurious, but that was probably because its master was already so magnificent. When the golden-haired youth stood up from one of the facing sofas, Yang felt it almost strange to hear no music. Yang had now seen, within reaching distance, a living legend, the figure of a youth who’d monopolized the favor of history and the gods. Yang had never seen anything so regal as his imperial uniform, silver against black.
Returning to his senses from a momentary stupor, Yang saluted. As he did so, unkempt bangs fell and covered his eyes. He brushed them back and tried his best to make up for his salute with another. Reinhard didn’t seem to mind. He nodded to Kissling past Yang’s shoulder. The door closed behind Yang, leaving the two of them alone. Reinhard’s elegant lips resolved into a smile.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time. At last, my wish has come true.”
“Thank you.”
Another artless answer, but he didn’t feel like competing with this blond youth’s eloquence. He took a seat on the sofa Reinhard offered and put the beret back on his head, feeling that his hair was unrulier than ever. A boy who looked young enough to be in grade school opened the door and brought in a coffee set made of silver. Before long, a fragrant steam was wafting above the marble table. As the boy withdrew, eyeing his master with admiration and their guest with interest, Reinhard lifted a cup in one flowing motion.
“Our fates are intertwined. Do you remember, three years ago, at the Battle of Astarte?”
“I received a message from Your Excellency. You bade me well, until the next war. Thanks to you, I’ve made it out alive from some close calls.”
“I never got a response from you.”
Reinhard smiled, and Yang, won over, smiled back.
“Pardon my rudeness.”
“That’s not the loan on which I seek your interest …”
As Reinhard suppressed his smile, he returned the cup to its saucer without so much as a clink.
“How about it? Will you work for me? I understand you’ve been appointed the rank of marshal, but I’d like to appoint you as imperial marshal. Surely that’s more than enough to entice you over to our side. Right here, at this very moment.”
Yang asked himself: It might seem crazy, but without an answer prepared, can I really resist such an invitation?
“It’s an undeserved honor—one I’m afraid I must refuse.”
“Why?”
Although Reinhard didn’t seem the least bit surprised, it was only natural to ask.
“I don’t see how I could be of any use to Your Excellency …”
“Are you really that modest? Or are you trying to say I lack charisma as a master?”
“Not at all.”
Yang’s tone grew slightly stronger, and he wondered how he might explain it so as not to hurt the blond youth’s feelings. Surprisingly, he wasn’t afraid of angering the dictator—rather, he felt it was a crime to refuse his kind offer.
“Had I been born in the empire, I would’ve gladly served under Your Excellency, even without Your Excellency’s invitation. But I was raised on a different water than the people of the empire, and I hear that drinking water one isn’t used to can ruin one’s body.”
Thinking it was a poor metaphor, Yang put the coffee to his lips to buy himself some time. Although devoted to his favorite black tea, Yang could tell that the highest-quality beans and craftsmanship had gone into making this black liquid he now ingested. Unfazed by Yang’s refusal, Reinhard lifted his own cup.
“I don’t believe your water necessarily agrees with you. Given the nature of your accomplishments, I’d say you’ve been held back more often than rewarded.”
He couldn’t very well say that he should receive a pension as well, and so Yang shamelessly gave a solemn answer.
“I myself feel that I’ve been sufficiently rewarded. Besides, I like the way my water tastes.”
; “So, your loyalties lie only with democracy. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
It was a barely impassioned answer, but Reinhard put down his cup and diligently pursued the argument.
“But is democracy so great, I wonder. Didn’t the republican government of the Galactic Federation give birth to Rudolf von Goldenbaum’s deformed child?”
Yang was silent.
“What’s more, the one who sold your beloved—or so you think—Free Planets Alliance over to me was the very ruler freely elected by an alliance majority. A democratic government is a body which, by free will of its citizens, looks down upon its own system and spirit.”
Yang had heard enough and felt compelled to respond.
“Forgive me for being rude, but you might as well say we should devalue fire because it causes so much destruction.”
“Hmm …” Reinhard twisted his mouth, but not even that was enough to spoil the blond youth’s beauty. “Perhaps, but is not the same true of autocracy? While tyrants do occasionally appear, you cannot deny the merits of a government built on strong leadership.”
Yang looked back at Reinhard pensively.
“But I can.”
“How so?”
“The right to harm the people is up to the people themselves. Put another way, the people have always been responsible for granting authority to the likes of Rudolph von Goldenbaum and even to far less significant players like Job Trünicht. You cannot blame anyone else. That’s the crucial point here. The crime of autocracy is that the people can displace the evils of their government onto someone else. Compared to the enormity of that sin, the good deeds of a hundred wise rulers’ good governments are insignificant. What’s more, if we can think of a ruler of such sagacity as Your Excellency as being rare, then your deeds, good and evil alike, are just as explicit.”
Reinhard looked as if he’d been lied to.
“Your assertions are as daring and original as they are extreme. I’m reluctant to concede. Just what are you trying to convince me of?”
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 5 Page 24
