Mobilization

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Even if the Free Planets Alliance went down in flames, its national organization would be allowed to flourish. When things went from cease-fire to reconciliation by grace of Yang Wen-li’s ingenuity, the empire would hold a trial for war criminals. But if, when that time came, their highest commander was already dead in action or by his own hand, then those who worked under him would become his scapegoats in the defendant’s chair.

  At this point, understanding dawned in the old admiral’s eyes, and a rather bright expression overtook his aged face.

  “Yes, you’re right. I’ll need this old body to face my enemy’s muzzle.”

  The commander in chief bowed politely, and with reverence.

  “Myself and Marshal Dawson included. A military courtroom needs at least three men in uniform to stand trial. Let’s not make things harder than they need to be. For the future of the alliance, Yang Wen-li and the others must survive.”

  Even as they talked about their responsibility and behavior following defeat, the battle was bounding up the final step toward its conclusion.

  But behind the imperial forces, which were trying desperately to sustain an all-out attack, a modest yet unusual situation was brewing.

  V

  The first to notice it were the operators of the cruiser ship Oberhausen, attached to the Müller fleet. Having lost more than half of its gun turrets in the heat of a fierce battle, and because the captain had been knocked unconscious by a serious injury, the ship had withdrawn from the front line on the first officer’s orders and docked with a repair ship in a safer area of the battlespace. Nevertheless, more ships were spotted approaching from the opposite direction of where the battle raged on.

  “Which side are they on?”

  It was cruel for the first officer to ask in such a manner that betrayed his lack of concern, especially when victory was almost upon them. But when he sent out a formal identification signal, they were met with energy arrows in return. Because they were far away, they lacked intensity and accuracy and didn’t cause much in the way of damage, but it was enough to trick the cruiser into a panic. The tables had suddenly turned.

  “Are those fresh troops sent by the alliance?!”

  The attack emboldened the empire. The alliance’s military power was larger than they’d anticipated. There was plenty of leeway for one division to attack the imperial forces from the fore while another detoured farther afield to cut off the empire’s path of retreat.

  The very thought of this gave even the empire’s leaders, peerless in valor, momentary goose bumps. They’d invaded their way 2,800 light-years deep into enemy territory. The exaltation of conquest and victory had put to sleep the termite of homesickness in their soldiers’ mental infrastructures. Once awakened, the house of their success was destined to fall tragically.

  “They’re cutting us off! Reorganize into battle formation and prepare yourself for the enemy at the rear.”

  This tense command shot through the empire’s command system by whatever media they could mobilize. But what pulled the curtain on their victory was the equal difficulty of reducing their flight speed. The empire’s ships were out of formation. Knowing this, the alliance had taken advantage of an ideal opportunity to return fire while falling back, and so they opened all gunports, plotted a new course, and concentrated every beam and missile on the flustered imperial forces.

  “Our path to Phezzan is blocked! Now we’ll never get back to the empire.”

  It took Reinhard’s rebuke to silence these cries of panic.

  “What are you so afraid of?! Who cares if more alliance forces have appeared? We crush them, one by one. Don’t lose faith in yourselves! You will retreat in an orderly fashion.”

  His coolness and courage under fire made for an exquisite blend.

  “In the unlikely event that the path toward Phezzan is closed off, we just press on to the Bharat star system and put an end to the alliance once and for all. After that, we pass through the Iserlohn Corridor and make our triumphant return to the empire. Does that not put you at ease?”

  As Reinhard said this, his firm voice seemed to lift the fog of panic. The soldiers looked up at their sun—that young, undefeated conqueror—and quickly their faith was restored. So long as they had this young man, his hair golden like a lion’s mane, they would persevere without ever knowing defeat.

  On his comm screen, Mittermeier expressed gratitude for keeping the situation under control.

  “I behaved disgracefully. My apologies. We let winning get the best of us and got sloppy. I guess we’ve gotten so used to victory that we’re rusty when it comes to dealing with sudden turnabouts.”

  Reinhard didn’t rebuke him.

  “It’s understandable. Even I never expected the enemy to have the reserves to pull off such a maneuver. At any rate, this could all just be a diversion, so we’ll proceed with caution.”

  “Roger that. Either way, do you think this is Yang Wen-li’s doing?”

  Reinhard curled his elegant lips slightly, but enough to reflect his beauty.

  “If anyone can pull off something so underhanded, it’s that trickster.”

  Meanwhile, the black-haired commander known as a “trickster” in both Reinhard and von Reuentahl’s parlance was assessing the battlespace, by now a giant sea of residual energy, from the bridge of his flagship Hyperion.

  Were Yang to take on the empire in earnest under present circumstances, he had no chance of success. Waging a futile battle alone was one thing, but to do so as a commander with subordinates under him was the lowest corruption. Yang’s goal was to confuse the empire with a large-scale diversion and to prevent total annihilation of the alliance. On that point, Reinhard had correctly discerned his plan.

  From Iserlohn, Admiral Yang accelerated, shedding the citizens’ transport ship under Caselnes’s command along the way. He made a stopover in the Bharat star system and, without wasting time on orders, arrived faster than even Reinhard had anticipated.

  “But we’re half a day late. I guess I’m losing my touch.”

  Yang was dipping his feet up to the ankles in a pond of self-admonition. And while the possibility of Reinhard von Lohengramm successfully carrying out an invasion from the Phezzan Corridor hadn’t escaped him, his formulation of countermeasures had again been forestalled.

  The Imperial Navy had been led to believe that the alliance had a secret naval force lying in wait, that it meant to cut off the empire’s path to Phezzan, and that this had been done to disperse the imperial forces via dis- and misinformation. Duke von Lohengramm, genius that he was, had seen through their plan, which nevertheless had bought them some time. And yet, why hadn’t he informed Commander in Chief Bucock or Chief of Staff Chung Wu-cheng beforehand? Had he done so, they might’ve fought differently …

  Yang shrugged his shoulders.

  “It was too close to call,” he muttered.

  Wasn’t convincing himself that his presence could have changed things a case of overestimating his abilities? Yang had to tell himself that he’d done his best this time. Even in the worst-case scenario, with Bucock and the rest annihilated, he might still waltz into the battlespace, crushing every target in his path. And now that he’d saved the alliance from certain doom and the empire was retreating, he had to restore his forces, return to the Bharat star system, and protect the defenseless capital from being consumed by von Reuentahl’s forces.

  “All ships, set course for the capital at once!” ordered Yang, feeling overworked.

  He, too, had been frustrated by Reinhard and couldn’t afford to yield himself to simple pleasures.

  At last, the remaining divisions of a stubbornly overwhelmed alliance consolidated themselves around the Yang fleet. Communications were carried out without delay. Yang inquired about the old admiral Bucock’s safety and was relieved to see a familiar white-haired figure on his comm screen.

&
nbsp; “I made it, but not without sacrificing my subordinates in vain.”

  “What are you saying? You must move on and take command for our battle of revenge.”

  Yang entrusted the last defenses to Admiral Fischer and made haste to the capital of Heinessen. Then, as Fischer began his retreat while pretending to change course in pursuit of the imperial forces, an approaching imperial destroyer was detected on their radar. The Fischer fleet nervously sent out a signal—“Stop your ship. If you don’t, we will open fire”—but the answer was most unexpected.

  “This is Julian Mintz of the Free Planets Alliance, Phezzan detachment. We commandeered this imperial ship. We stand against the empire. Requesting permission to be escorted to the alliance capital of Heinessen.”

  Hardly believing their ears, the communications officers quickly apprised Admiral Fischer of the situation.

  “This is unexpected. Julian Mintz? Then he’s safe?”

  Fischer’s voice was filled with wonderment, but, ever the skillful commander, he exercised caution in welcoming the oncoming destroyer. He considered the possibility of subterfuge—that Julian Mintz was unknowingly abetting the enemy. While the warship kept its main battery locked on the destroyer, the sixty men under Lieutenant Piazzi, armed to the teeth, confirmed that the communication from Julian was genuine. The report flew to the capital over the FTL hotline.

  Olivier Poplin muttered to himself when he saw it.

  “So, he commandeered an enemy destroyer? That bastard sure is quick.”

  “Seems there really is such a thing as a natural enemy.”

  Reinhard was talking to himself while, on his screen, the imperial forces were halfway restored to order. The aura of something more than anger wavered across his white face.

  Reinhard thought back to when he had vanquished an enemy twice the size of his fleet in the Astarte Stellar Region, and again an alliance thirty million strong at Amritsar. In both instances, the one who’d warded off total victory at the last possible second was Yang Wen-li. Just after the Battle of Amritsar, Reinhard had reprimanded Admiral Wittenfeld in front of everyone for misjudging the timing of their attack, thus attesting to Yang’s renown in the process. He’d tried to have Wittenfeld punished, but it took his late redheaded friend Siegfried Kircheis to nip his rage in the bud. Kircheis spoke plainly, saying that Reinhard was only angry with himself and that Wittenfeld had become the unfortunate object of his self-projection. He demanded that Reinhard reflect on his actions.

  “Kircheis, if only you were here, we wouldn’t let Yang Wen-li strut his stuff out in the open.”

  Again, Reinhard found himself speaking to a dead man. The elegant dictator told himself he couldn’t afford to lament the dead, but the sentiment blew through the void in his chest, and nothing remotely constructive came forth in return. When he lost his thoughts of Kircheis, Reinhard knew he would lose the most temperate and clearest days of his past. This fear outweighed all reason and self-interest.

  The imperial forces left the battlespace, traveling 2.4 light-years to the Gandharva star system, where they made planetfall on Urvashi. Gandharva’s second planet had a meager population of approximately 100,000, undeveloped land, and vital water resources. At one time, a planetary-development corporation had acquired enormous land shares, which they’d quickly lost in a race for monopolistic development, and for a long time the land had been left as is. Reinhard planned to put it to good use by building a semipermanent military base on it. In the future, when all alliance territory had fallen into his hands, this anonymous planet would serve as a significant base of operations for suppressing military insurrection and piracy.

  I

  Extant records pertaining to the days of February, SE 799, are extremely shoddy. Memories of that time are jumbled, the data inconsistent. Every account tells a different story:

  “The people, trying to avert their eyes from an impending catastrophe, were flooding the pleasure quarters, and cases of alcohol poisoning and injuries from drunken brawls were rampant. The streets were cloaked in a fog of hysteria.”

  “Even in the normally tumultuous pleasure quarters, for those few days it was quiet as an old elephant lying down near water to die. The silence was broken by a trumpet signaling their destruction.”

  “Despair was suffocating the people. The air was so heavy as to be almost solid.”

  “Political and military adversity didn’t necessarily have an influence on people’s everyday lives. Music and other entertainments were, if anything, more vibrant than ever.”

  Ultimately, vast regional and personal differences, along with lack of resolution, were cause for great confusion and inconsistency.

  The people tried their best to enjoy a nice tall drink of optimism, but there were too many unknowns floating in their glasses. In any case, their best-fortified space fleets had suffered crushing defeat, and the capital of Heinessen was about to fall into enemy hands. Other star systems were barren, abandoned to the enemy.

  Crouched at the bottom of a valley of pessimism and indulging in tears of self-pity, the people still had one ray of hope to cling to. Miracle Yang and his fleet were still going strong, now fortified five times over. In addition, reports that Yang’s adopted charge, Julian Mintz, had commandeered an imperial destroyer and repatriated from Phezzan fanned the flames of the people’s naive hero worship.

  “Only a protégé of Marshal Yang could’ve done such a thing. Whatever devilry he used, he’s as cunning as his mentor.”

  Two hours after setting foot on Heinessen, Yang had been awarded a promotion to marshal. Only to Yang, who wasn’t without misgivings about being criticized for abandoning Iserlohn Fortress, was it unexpected. Chief of Staff Chung Wu-cheng was of the same mind, thinking that the opportunity to treat human rights as a plaything was something one made best of only out of desperation.

  Either way, at age thirty-two, Yang had become the youngest fleet marshal to ever represent the alliance. The previous record had been set by Admiral Bruce Ashby at age thirty-six, and because his was posthumous, once again Yang had rewritten history, although he was, of course, never one to be innocently happy.

  “I’m not so modest that I would turn down this honor, but I’m not exactly thrilled to receive it, either. I suppose I’ll share it with Admiral Bucock.”

  Under the auspices of his new title, Yang rode in a landcar sent for him by the chairman of the Defense Committee and headed for the committee’s headquarters. Not even a year ago, he’d ridden in an official committee vehicle just like this as a defendant and been treated almost like a prisoner, but now he was a guest of honor. He was joined by two fellow passengers: “Vice Admiral” Walter von Schönkopf and “Lieutenant Commander” Frederica Greenhill. By including even “Vice Admiral” Alex Caselnes as a placeholder, the Defense Committee was clearly trying to make up for its stagnation of human resources in one go.

  The three of them entered the Defense Committee building. Showered with gazes of anticipation, they were welcomed into the chairman’s office. Despite being already aware of Chairman Islands’s transformation—considerably revitalized as he was in mind and body under pressure of an enormous crisis—they couldn’t help but be impressed, even if they harbored cynical misgivings about just how long this would last. After offering the three of them a seat, Islands caught Yang with a gaze that put him at ease.

  “Admiral, I love my homeland in my own way,” he said.

  Yang knew this already. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to respect it unconditionally. His face twitched slightly, prompting a devilish smile from von Schönkopf.

  As far as the human spirit and history were concerned, Yang didn’t think patriotism held any supreme value. The people of the alliance felt patriotic for the alliance, while those of the empire felt patriotic for the empire. In the end, patriotism justified only the uniqueness of the flag to which one saluted. It was used to valid
ate slaughter, was sometimes coercive, and was in most cases incompatible with reason. When the elite weaponized it, the extent of its harm was unimaginable. When Islands spoke of love for his country as Trünicht’s henchman, Yang wanted to be anywhere else but there listening to it.

  “If you love this nation as much as I do, Marshal, then I hope you’ll be willing to collaborate with us.”

  It was the type of reasoning that Yang detested the most, but he couldn’t avoid being entangled in the threads of this situation, and so he only expressed meek affirmation. At least Islands, who until now had been nothing but an insubstantial political contractor since awakening to consciousness as a patriotic public servant, saw no need to throw water on these helplessly rising flames.

  “I’ll certainly do my best to protect the fruits of our democracy.”

  Yang had been careful to say nothing about his “nation.” As it was, he barely struck a balance between formality and sincerity. The chairman nodded.

  “And I—no, the government—will reward your efforts. If there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “For the time being, I’d only like you to consider what happens if we lose. If we win, we’ll be able to rest on our laurels for quite some time. After that, we’ll carry out peaceful diplomacy and replenish our forces. Such things are within the purview of politicians and are not for a military man to meddle with.”

  “Would it be foolish to ask you to promise that you’ll win?” Islands asked.

  “If I could promise my way to victory, I’d promise anything, but …” Yang tried not to sound heartless, despite the heartlessness of his remark. But Yang spoke the truth. Lacking the ability to shape the world through words, he couldn’t very well make promises about a future unregulated by his opinions alone.

  “Indeed. How foolish of me. I’d be grateful if you would just put what I said out of mind. I would never presume to restrict you in any way.”