Mobilization

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Upon being shown such deference, Yang sensed this man was trying to milk hope for all it was worth.

  “If we’re ever going to make up for our strategic inferiority by means of a tactical victory, I can see only one way.”

  Yang stopped here for a moment. Not for dramatic effect, but because he needed a drink to lubricate his throat. The glass of iced tea placed in front of him when he came in was empty. Yang felt awkward asking for a refill, but an untouched glass was slid across the table to him as Frederica gently pushed hers over to Yang. Yang opened the curtains of hesitation and gratefully accepted her goodwill.

  “Namely, to kill Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm in battle.”

  As Yang spoke, glass in hand, a momentary confusion contorted the chairman’s face. It seemed it was too obvious a thing to have said. Before that confusion could rewrite “despair” on its name tag, Yang geared the conversation toward the crux of his argument.

  “Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm is a bachelor. I aim to exploit that.”

  This time Chairman Islands stared back at the marshal, as if being shown the path of reason. Even a guardian angel awakened to its task had not the discernment to extract the true intentions behind this surprising statement. Naturally, Yang had every intention of spelling it out for him.

  “In other words, if in death Duke von Lohengramm were to leave behind a wife and children, especially a male heir, his subordinates would simply groom that heir to further the Lohengramm Dynasty. But he has no children. If he dies, the Lohengramm order dies with him. The loyalty and unity of his subordinates will inevitably lose cohesive power and dissolve into thin air. They will return to the empire at a loss as to whom they might fight for and will argue violently about a successor,” Yang said.

  Islands’s eyes—those eyes which had for so long been focused on factional infighting, office seeking, and concessions—shone with the light of understanding and admiration. Driven by a comfortable stimulation, he nodded repeatedly.

  “Of course, you’re right, Marshal! The planets cannot live without their sun. With his death, the empire will fall apart and the alliance will be saved.”

  Never had Islands in his lifetime so fervently and truly wished for the death of another human being. Yang went on:

  “If we can somehow break imperial forces apart and destroy them one at a time, then Duke von Lohengramm, being a man of great courage and ambition, will come for me directly. That’s the opportunity we need to create. It’s our only chance at winning.”

  “If his subordinates are taken out one by one, then he’ll have no choice but to show himself. Yes, it makes sense.”

  “Well, it’s more a matter of psychology than tactics.”

  Yang solemnly crossed his arms. Reinhard von Lohengramm wasn’t holing himself up contentedly within his palace, but standing at the head of a military force in want of danger and hardship. Had this luxuriously golden-haired young man merely been a soldier, he would only be looking for a fight. And if he were merely a ruler, then he would only desire victory. Reinhard valued both fighting and winning, and more than anything else. And wasn’t this, thought Yang, one reason why he was the supreme ruler of supreme rulers?

  Yang was confident that Reinhard would show himself but couldn’t say for sure until it happened. He might corner Reinhard into a compromising position for five minutes and, if he was lucky, face that brilliant war genius head-on. Moreover, he would first have to fight and defeat Reinhard’s veteran generals in succession. On a tactical level, he had no doubts about the uncommon difficulties ahead. The heterochromatic von Reuentahl and “Gale Wolf” Mittermeier: the involvement of these two alone made Yang feel weary.

  We’ll try our best to avoid Mittermeier and von Reuentahl at all costs. We mustn’t compromise our performance by wasting too much mental energy on them, thought Yang.

  Chemical elements of masochism and narcissism existed only below the waterline of his spirit, and so he wasn’t poisoned by the notion that “playing against stronger opponents only makes you stronger,” which confused combat with sports. If Yang had to fight, then he might as well do it efficiently—which was to say, with as little effort as possible. If forced into battle against Mittermeier and von Reuentahl, winning would come at a great expense of energy and time.

  Cold light cast a faint shadow at Yang’s feet. As he left the room, glancing sullenly at the movements of that shadow, a voice of grave doubt reverberated in his brain. Narrow-mindedness and false patriotism aside, hating someone just because they looked up to a different flag was about as foolish as believing in one’s own. But did that justify Yang’s position? Was it possible for people to throw themselves and others into the crater of war without madness? And Yang had an even graver doubt, which was …

  Suddenly, a figure appeared before the three of them. Yang was deep in thought when he noticed that von Schönkopf had drawn his blaster and rushed in front of Yang. There stood a man who identified himself in a metallic voice as a reporter on assignment. His request was clearly rehearsed.

  “Admiral Yang, please promise all of the citizens of the alliance—right here, right now—that you’ll save our country and our people from the bloodied hands of those fiendish invaders, that justice will prevail over evil when Armageddon comes, that you’ll answer our citizens’ hopes with victory. Please promise us. Or can’t you?”

  Although the door to Yang’s emotions was secured with a lock of endurance, by now it was ready to pop off. He turned to face the intruder and was on the verge of giving him a piece of his mind when a much calmer voice came to his aid.

  “His Excellency the Marshal is tired, and we’re not at liberty to discuss anything remotely related to classified military information. If you want us to win, then I ask that you please understand this and leave us be.”

  Something in Frederica’s hazel eyes made the man stand back. Von Schönkopf pushed the reporter aside. If not for her quick wits …

  II

  No one objected when Julian Mintz was promoted to sublieutenant. Defending his superior, Phezzan’s resident commissioner Henslow, he’d managed to escape from enemy territory and take an imperial destroyer by force. If one achievement was worth a rise in rank, then no one would’ve been surprised to see him promoted two steps up to full lieutenant, but as an apparent formality, this was substituted with a “Freedom Fighter” medal.

  In any case, the emergence of a hero too young for his own good was all the rage among a certain journalistic sector. One e-paper wrote, “Marshal Yang recognized Sublieutenant Mintz’s prodigy from an early age and took him on as an adopted son,” but such words were quintessentially exaggerated. The young hero in question wasn’t very sociable with those praising him.

  “I believe that I—or, more accurately, the tactic I employed—will be extremely effective when the alliance battles future invaders. Therefore, please understand that disclosing any details before our decisive battle with the enemy would only offer them an advantage.”

  With that one page torn from Frederica Greenhill’s book of reasoning, Julian shored up a broken levee of one-sided, irresponsible news coverage. When he was at last released from the press, Julian hoped he might reunite with those he’d left behind on Iserlohn, but all he knew was that Vice Admiral Caselnes was in a three-legged race trying to process all refugees. Julian was riding the beltway, thinking he might have to go back to the official residence on Silverbridge Street if he was going to meet Yang, when a woman’s voice called out his name. His heart skipped a beat when he turned to see Frederica Greenhill’s golden-brown hair. A few pedestrians were clearly annoyed at her for blocking a fast lane.

  “Welcome back, Julian. Seems you’ve grown into quite the hero.”

  “Thank you. But even though the admiral will be glad I’m back, I don’t think he’ll be so happy about me being put on such a high pedestal.”

  “Are you saying he migh
t be jealous, Julian?”

  In contrast to Frederica’s shapely lips, her hazel eyes didn’t seem to be smiling. Julian stared back at her, unable to answer right away, and his heart and lungs went all out of order.

  “Not a chance. The thought never crossed my mind.”

  “Good. If it had, I would’ve given you a good slap, like this,” she said, miming it. “I was known for my quick hands when I was little.”

  Yet again, Frederica had succeeded in surprising the alliance’s boyish hero. Frederica smiled at Julian’s face, which betrayed his disbelief.

  “Since entering the military, I’ve had to be more ladylike. It hasn’t been easy.”

  “I wouldn’t know it to look at you.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  Brushing back her golden-brown hair, Frederica told him that it had been arranged for Yang to stay at the Hotel Capricorn, near the Defense Committee building. And so, on February 13, Julian was at last able to reunite with Yang at a dreary hotel reserved for military personnel. When Julian opened the door, Yang’s nostalgic voice welcomed him.

  “Hey, Julian. Take a look. It’s like my heart, and the ways of our age.”

  Yang was pointing at a table piled indiscriminately, and without regard for aesthetics, with sausage, eggs, fried fish, mashed potatoes, and meatballs. Julian reverted to his old stern criticisms.

  “You won’t find many marshals eating such crude meals at any point in history.”

  “I agree. Now that I’m a marshal, my pension will be higher, so let’s go out to eat in celebration of our reunion, shall we?”

  “I’d be delighted. All things considered, you’re as particular as ever about your finances.”

  “Naturally. I won’t get paid anything if the alliance government ceases to exist. I fight the empire to guarantee a stable retirement. I’m nothing if not consistent.”

  “At any rate, congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Your promotion to sublieutenant is far more impressive than mine to marshal,” Yang said.

  Yang grabbed a topcoat sprawled across the large sofa and looked at the flaxen-haired boy with warm, dark eyes.

  “I’m glad you got back safely. You’ve really done well for yourself. Even sprouted a few centimeters to show for it. You’re coming into your own.”

  “No way, I’m barely half a man,” answered Julian, meaning every word. “I still have a lot to learn from you.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything left for me to teach.”

  Yang threw on his coat and headed out the door. Julian followed close behind, rushing down the dimly lit hallway.

  “If anything, I want you to teach me. What kind of sorcery did you use to commandeer an imperial destroyer?” Yang asked. “I know it’s classified, but you will tell me, won’t you?”

  The pleasantness of Yang’s tone indicated he’d seen the solivision report. Because he was also fed up with impudent journalists, dealing with Julian gave him hope again, but Julian only blushed.

  They made their way to an old standby, the March Rabbit. It was packed when they arrived. The old waiter grinned as Yang congratulated the restaurant on its continued success.

  “Thanks to you. Despite these uncertain times, a society without restaurants and hotels is no society at all. Skillful chefs are always in demand. Maybe it’s imprudent for me to say so, but I can’t be bothered to worry about the war and our ruined nation.”

  “Here, here,” said Julian.

  Yang, who had never aspired to become a military man, nodded enthusiastically and ordered roast beef for his main dish. He’d wanted to make a display of originality, but the deterioration of interstellar distribution meant there weren’t enough ingredients to make a variety of dishes.

  “Now then, Sublieutenant Mintz, I’d like to hear all about your heroic deeds over dinner.”

  “Please don’t make fun of me. I just put to practical use the same method you did to take over Iserlohn Fortress.”

  “Hmm, put to practical use, did you? I should’ve copyrighted it. A pension plus royalties …”

  Thinking this didn’t sound like a joke at all, Julian began his tale.

  When planning his escape from Phezzan, most vexing for Julian was the Imperial Navy’s erratic behavior. He had no idea when they might show the true nature of their military rule by cracking down on civilian ship traffic.

  Marinesk had confidently assured them that they were okay on that front. At the time, the empire had yet to bring all civilian routes under control. The reason for this was twofold. First, from a political standpoint, they’d failed to gain the popular sympathy of military-occupied Phezzan. For this reason, they abolished direct rule and groomed former landesherr aide Nicolas Boltec to be governor-general of a sham democracy. With stricter management in place, they prevented a rebellion among the merchants.

  “I see. And the other reason?” asked Julian.

  Marinesk winked.

  “Because it’s physically impossible.”

  However extensive the imperial forces were, they paled in comparison to the scope of Phezzan’s population and economic activity. There was no way to control it all, and if done carelessly, circulation of money and goods would stagnate, resulting in a Phezzanese uprising.

  It was in this climate that Julian and the others made their escape, although when their ship left the planet, Julian was prepared for the worst. Because he wasn’t involved in a peaceful business in a peaceful time, he had no reason to feel 100 percent confident about their safety. They only acted by a combination of the resourcefulness of Marinesk, the pilot Wilock, Warrant Officer Machungo, and himself, along with a little fate for good measure. Or maybe fate had played a bigger role than all their planning combined.

  Indeed, even a man attentive to every little detail like Marinesk had overlooked one thing: the existence of a traitor in his midst. Acting governor-general Boltec felt it necessary to demonstrate his loyalty to the empire first, sending his own subordinates in imperial patrol ships to police those routes under imperial surveillance and making them participate in imperial raids. As he saw it, determining Landesherr Rubinsky’s whereabouts would serve the empire’s needs and increase the stability of his position. He was beyond enthusiastic. Historically, collaborators of occupied nations were always more capable than the soldiers occupying them in the lowly work of surveilling and unmasking civilians. Before Julian and the others made their escape, Boltec had discovered more than two hundred stowaways from thirty ships and had them all detained. Among them, as Julian subsequently learned from data on board the imperial destroyer, was the alliance’s military attaché, Captain Viola.

  “It seems I underestimated things.”

  When Marinesk said this, examining the classified information from other ships, a week had passed since leaving Phezzan behind. There was no turning back now. They continued to avoid the empire’s surveillance network. Considering all the Phezzanese collaborators lurking about, even forged passports wouldn’t serve them. But before they could decide on a backup plan, the operators announced the approach of an imperial destroyer. Marinesk looked at Julian with dejection.

  “I wish I could’ve been more reliable. Forgive me, but I guess this is where it ends.”

  “Not so fast. There’s still a chance we might get away with this.”

  When Yang had occupied Iserlohn Fortress without spilling a single drop of his comrades’ blood, Julian was still fourteen and not even a legitimate military man, but he had learned two lessons from Yang’s exemplary success: First, when your enemy cannot be captured from the outside, you do it from the inside. Second, your enemy will always hold hostage the most important member of your crew. Julian’s train of thought ran at full speed. Within five minutes he had a plan, and for the next three he explained it to a group of fellow passengers.

  “Well then, let’s give it
our best shot,” he added at the end, consciously adopting a Yang-like air of composure.

  There was no guarantee his proposal would work, but it was their only hope, and so it was accepted.

  When the imperial destroyer Hamelin IV ordered the suspicious civilian ship to stop, its captain was informed that stowaways on board had tried to take over the ship and that the only reason they’d changed course was to make contact with Hamelin IV. Beryozka’s administrative officer, Marinesk, implored them to take these dangerous elements—regular and noncommissioned alliance officers alike—off their hands as soon as possible. Cautiously, the destroyer’s captain confirmed the information that came up on his comm screen and, during docking, had the “dangerous elements” brought aboard his ship.

  “Which one of you is the alliance officer who planned the hijacking?”

  As Julian was pulled forward, his flaxen hair disheveled, his face dirty, and his clothes torn, the captain lifted his eyebrows in an affected manner.

  “Well, this is surprising. You’re still a kid. Looks like the alliance is scraping the bottom of its human resources barrel.”

  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.