Mobilization

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Then why did you say ‘basically’? Do you have reservations?”

  Caselnes avoided an immediate reply and poured himself a third glass. Taking the drink in hand, he answered without putting it to his lips.

  “For the same reason you drained your glass before we toasted.”

  Julian was silent.

  “I can only assume you’ve got a thing for Miss Greenhill.”

  Julian went completely red. The ice cubes danced as he slammed his glass back on the table.

  “I want nothing but the best for them! Really, I love them both. It’s only natural they’d end up …”

  “I understand.”

  Caselnes did his best to keep the boy calm.

  “Another round?”

  “Yes, watered down.”

  The vice admiral obliged the boy’s order.

  “Maybe it’s not my place to say, but the mechanisms of love and the human heart can’t be solved with arithmetic. There’s no magic formula. You’re young enough to move on from this. But when it gets more serious, your love for one thing comes at the expense of your love and respect for other things. It’s not a question of good versus evil. You just can’t help it. Honestly, I’d be a little worried if you were head over heels at this point. You’re a smart kid, and of good character to boot. Then again, flames have a way of flaring up in the most unexpected places.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Hmm, well, I’m glad you do, even if it’s only in your head,” said Caselnes, who saw right through Julian. He changed the subject. “But I wonder, will they still call each other ‘Admiral’ and ‘Lieutenant Commander’ even after they’re married?”

  “No way—they’d never do that.”

  Caselnes made a stern face at Julian’s knee-jerk response.

  “When my wife and I got married, she called me Commander Caselnes at first. It was all I could do not to salute every time.”

  Julian laughed, but it was obvious to Caselnes he did so mostly out of courtesy.

  “Let’s save this discussion for after our victory. And what will you do, Julian, once they’ve married? You could always live with them.”

  Julian’s breath was hot with alcohol and other things. He put his empty glass back on the table and coughed a few times.

  “I wouldn’t want to interfere with their newlywed life. How does the saying go? ‘Those who disturb the love of others should be killed by a horse’s kick.’ I’d only get in the way.”

  Julian was trying to make light of it, but if Yang and Frederica did get married, he knew he would need to distance himself from them.

  In Julian’s chest, the image of a planet he’d yet to see was taking shape. It was a modest planet revolving around a small sun, situated on the outskirts of imperial territory. This planet, Terra, was the third in its solar system. It had once been humanity’s only inhabited world. When he’d heard that name come out of Bishop Degsby’s dying mouth, Julian knew he had to go there at least once.

  Julian had no way of knowing what awaited him on Terra. If the blade by which he might rend the veil of history was hidden there, then he had to take hold of it. Mixed with the cream of this desire, the black coffee of his foresight was no longer just that.

  Either way, he saw value in going there for the pure sake of it. Julian had nowhere near the perceptiveness of Yang, who had no choice but to approach the past and the future differently. But what Julian lacked in insight he would make up for in action. If he did have a life after this war, and Yang’s marriage to Frederica became a reality, he would take that as a sign to set off for Terra.

  “To your happiness,” muttered Julian under his breath, stuffing his aimless thoughts into a drawer and locking it.

  Caselnes watched him closely, his expression a mixture of curiosity and sympathy.

  III

  The Yang fleet left base and set a course for the Vermillion star system.

  “Suddenly, we’ve become one big extended family. I don’t envy Yang for having to oversee it all.”

  Caselnes was speaking to Julian as an “irregular” himself. After losing Iserlohn Fortress, his position as administrative director had gone with it, but until his subsequent duties were decided, we would ride the flagship Hyperion with authority. The reduction of distance between them and their destination was directly proportional to the increase of his anxiety.

  When they arrived at the outermost perimeter of the Vermillion star system and saw on-screen its faint sun hanging like a small fruit in early spring, the alliance’s leaders could almost hear their own veins constricting.

  “Such a pathetic sun,” cursed Vice Admiral Attenborough.

  In his nervousness, the faintness of that lone fixed star made him uncomfortable. No matter how vividly that star shone, he would’ve found a way to criticize it.

  “If we don’t manage to block Duke von Lohengramm this time, we’ll have nowhere else to go.”

  More than an ordinary realization, this was a decided reality, and so Julian couldn’t quite sympathize with what the staff officers were saying. Their eyes, in accordance with some silent pact, were focused solely on their commander. Seeing Yang enjoying his conversation with Merkatz with such composure slightly lessened their emotional burdens. So long as their commander was alive and well, they could expect a miracle.

  Even as marshal, Yang’s military getup hadn’t changed. His black beret—embossed with a white five-pointed star—black jacket and half boots, ivory scarf, and slacks were all the same. Only the star rank insignias had increased by one. The meaning of what that one star symbolized seemed major, but it had brought about no noticeable change in the behavior of the one it honored and made Yang seem like no more of a military man than he had before.

  Merkatz, standing by Yang as his advisor, was wearing the black-and-silver uniform of the Imperial Navy. On his middle-aged body, insignias overlapped one another. He was, quite naturally, a man of warrior-like qualities more than military, and even in Frederica Greenhill’s highest esteem seemed more like Yang’s superior.

  The skirmish between both sides opened with a silent competition of reconnaissance. The alliance divided the 125 billion cubic light-seconds surrounding the Vermillion star system into ten thousand sectors, which were covered with two thousand vanguard patrols. Chief of Staff Murai oversaw the entire operation, far excelling his black-haired commander when it came to these meticulous tasks. Yang felt justified in this allotment of duties, since any practical diligence left in him had been destroyed by his taxing evacuation of El Facil eleven years before.

  In the thirty minutes leading up to battle, the level of their anxiety rose with every continued silence until the imperial forces arrived on the scene. A petty officer within Lieutenant Chase’s FO2 reconnaissance division was the first to make the discovery.

  “Lieutenant, look!”

  The officer’s voice was restrained in volume, his tone anything but, and was enough to make the lieutenant nervous. A billowing multitude of lights threatened to overtake the pitch-black expanse, swallowing the weak light of the stars behind them in silent approach.

  The lieutenant switched on the FTL, his voice and fingers trembling.

  “This is the vanguard reconnaissance, division FO2. We’ve spotted the enemy’s main forces. Current position is sector 00846, heading for sector 1227, 40.6 light-seconds out. They’re closing in fast!”

  On the other side, the Imperial Navy’s enemy-search network had discovered a small nest of mice roaming ahead of them. Vice Admiral Rolf Otto Brauhitsch, who had fought in the Battle of Kifeuser under Siegfried Kircheis, was the first to receive images from their recon satellite, along with a report from their small patrol group.

  When asked by his subordinate whether they should seek and destroy, he shook his head.

  “It’d be a small win at best to attack a recon
fleet. Let’s not waste our time. We’re better off trying to determine the direction of their return, along with the position of the enemy’s main forces.”

  Brauhitsch’s command was spot-on, for while the alliance’s FO2 recon division was making the enemy’s position known to its allies, the opposite was also taking place. Because they weren’t taking the most direct course back to their base of operations, the trajectory of their path was easily discerned by tactical computer.

  When he received Brauhitsch’s report, Reinhard had been gazing at the ocean of stars spread out on the overhead display from the bridge of his flagship Brünhild. His fair face took on a paler hue in the light of stars raining upon him, like some white porcelain image at the bottom of a river. The others around him hesitated to speak, holding their breaths as they immersed themselves in their respective duties. It was Senior Admiral Paul von Oberstein who broke that sacred silence by announcing the enemy fleet’s approach to the young imperial marshal.

  “We’ll most likely make contact in the Vermillion star system.”

  From the start of their mission, Reinhard had agreed with von Oberstein’s deductions on all fronts. Since time immemorial, battlespaces were most often chosen based on implicit agreements between enemies and allies alike. In this case, and for that reason, Reinhard had no doubt as to why Yang Wen-li had chosen the Vermillion star system as his decisive battlespace.

  “So, it’ll be here after all.”

  Although the blond-haired youth muttered these words without much admiration, when he called for his chief aide, Rear Admiral von Streit, he ordered a rest for all divisions. Reinhard smiled at his surprised aide.

  “There’s no reason to think the battle will begin anytime soon. Let us gather our nerves while we still can. Let them do as they will for three hours. They can even drink if they want to.”

  When the aide took his leave, Reinhard remained seated in his commander’s chair and closed his dark eyelashes, giving himself over to the expanse of his heart.

  All troops were granted an unexpected rest on the alliance side as well, while their highest leaders took to chatting in the conference room over coffee. Yang took a sip from his cup. He didn’t know the first thing about coffee. Neither did he care about its quality.

  “Not that I need to remind you, but Duke von Lohengramm is a genius without parallel. If we face him on equal terms, we’ll have hardly any chance of winning.”

  “You’re probably right,” Yang said.

  Von Schönkopf was being frank. It wasn’t taboo within Yang’s fleet to imply retreat or surrender.

  “That said, you’re not as bad as all that. This year alone, have you not led not one but three renowned imperial admirals by the nose?”

  “I got lucky. Maybe not just lucky, but lucky all the same.”

  Yang spoke the truth as he saw it. Despite having destroyed three imperial fleets already in this war, going head-to-head with Oskar von Reuentahl and Wolfgang Mittermeier meant that Reinhard von Lohengramm would be unable to compose his victory song as planned. Although he didn’t think he would lose, a succinct victory would be easier said than done. Insofar as he was in the scouting stage, it was unthinkable that Reinhard himself and the Imperial Navy—these two matchless things—would be thrown into the mix at this point, and for that reason he had no intention of trying his luck further. To be sure, he’d succeeded so far, but that didn’t mean the goddess of fate was smiling down on him still. Rather, by those consecutive victories he felt like he’d used up his three wishes.

  Merkatz eyed his commander, young enough to be his son, with gentle eyes, but said nothing.

  “The enemy’s formation is narrow but makes up for that in depth and density. I’d say they’re planning a central piercing attack.”

  Deputy Chief of Staff Patrichev’s crossed arms were practically the size of Yang’s torso. Although intent on transcending his desk work to become a frontline commander since the days when the Yang fleet was called the Thirteenth Fleet, this jovial and dynamic man had been consistently stationed by Yang at headquarters.

  “You aren’t worried about letting them run free?” chimed Olivier Poplin.

  But Patrichev understood Yang’s strategy.

  “Makes sense to me,” he intoned in his operatic bass, although he wondered how much of a relief it would be to the soldiers.

  As the chain of discussions pulling their mental equilibrium to its limit slackened, and the staff officers left the room, Walter von Schönkopf stayed behind. Yang momentarily looked away before speaking up.

  “Do you think we can win, Vice Admiral?”

  “That depends on whether you truly want to win.”

  Von Schönkopf’s tone was deadly serious. Yang was in no position to discount that.

  “Every fiber of my being wants to win.”

  “Wanting isn’t enough. If you don’t believe it, then how are you ever going to get others to believe?”

  Yang was silent. Von Schönkopf’s incisive tongue had cut him to the core.

  “Whether you’re a career soldier with his heart set only on winning or an ordinary man of ambition who desires power without knowing how much, you’re a worthy adversary. And while I’m on the topic, if you were a man of unwavering conviction and responsibility who believed in his own righteousness, you’d be all too easy to agitate. But the fact is you’re someone who, even in the heat of battle, doesn’t believe in his own righteousness.”

  Yang gave no answer.

  Von Schönkopf tapped his coffee cup and went on.

  “He who is sure to win in a fight, although he doesn’t believe in himself, lives, from a spiritual point of view, an unpardonable existence. That’s the definition of a hopeless man.”

  “Even the worst democratic government is superior to the best autocracy. That’s why I fight Reinhard von Lohengramm on Job Trünicht’s behalf,” Yang said. “I think that’s conviction enough.”

  Even as he opened his mouth, Yang confirmed the truth of von Schönkopf’s keen insight by not believing a single word of what he’d just said.

  Back on ancient Earth, as the democratic empire of Athens warred with the despotic empire of Sparta, the independent nation of Mílos had assumed neutrality, affiliating itself with neither faction. Upset with Mílos for refusing subordination, the Athenians invaded, treating Mílos as their enemy. They slaughtered civilians, annexed their territory, and toasted their own actions as a victory for democracy. This ugly paradox set a bad example for the future. Had this invasion and the subsequent mass killings arisen out of an insane despotic ruler’s ambition, they’d still have had hopes of being saved. Only cases in which the people were harmed by rulers they themselves had chosen were truly hopeless. People had the peculiar habit of sometimes applauding those who disdained them. Rudolf von Goldenbaum, on his way to the throne, surely got there by riding on the shoulders of his people. That was a consequence of the “worst democratic government.” It was impossible for Yang to believe everything he himself had said. Even so, he thought, while the collapse of an autocracy might bring about the best democracy, the collapse of the worst democracy had, oddly enough, never brought about the best autocracy …

  When their rest was over, preparations for war were carried out at once. Relaxed minds suddenly came alive with the power of ignited engines. Already various enemy-seeking channels had announced the presence of a giant enemy ahead, setting off an alarm in the heart of every officer.

  “Distance from the enemy: eighty-four light-seconds.”

  The operator’s voice was beamed to all ships, and with it cold hands to grip the soldiers’ chests. Their breathing and pulses quickened, body temperatures rising.

  “They’re getting closer, little by little.”

  “Obviously. What would we do if they were moving away from us?”

  Conversations between fellow soldiers at gunports
and turrets were a yin-yang of nervousness and uneasiness. If they allowed the guns to overheat, they’d blow flame and burn each other up completely.

  Yang, per usual, sat on top of his commander’s desk, tented one knee, and kept his eyes on the main screen. But then his gaze wandered of its own accord over the high leaders—first to Merkatz, then to Murai, von Schönkopf, Julian Mintz, Machungo, Frederica Greenhill, and Patrichev in turn, not lingering for a moment—before returning to the screen. Frederica, feeling both great reassurance and slight discouragement, looked at the young marshal, who’d taken off his black beret and was ruffling his unruly hair. He belonged to her now. But not only to her. Compared to the more than ten billion people of the Free Planets Alliance who had their own faith in him, hers was modest at best. She felt overambitious for wanting to share a future with him.

  Yang put the beret back on. Frederica braced herself and focused on the screen. Nothing else mattered until after they survived the war.

  “Enemy forces are breaching the yellow zone.”

  The operator’s voice was dry and formal at first. Then it spiked.

  “They’re completely within firing range!”

  The gunners were ready, fingers poised at their firing buttons. They held their breaths, waiting for their commander in chief’s orders. Yang took a breath, raised a hand, and swung it downward ten times as quickly as he’d lifted it.

  “Fire!”

  Tens of thousands of glowing dragons charged through space. Before these could reach their prey, the Imperial Navy’s own dragons were loosed from their cages, rushing down on their opponents. Fang clashed with fang, exploding in dazzling offshoots of light.

  At 1420 on April 24 of SE 799, year 490 of the imperial calendar, the Vermillion War had begun in the most mundane way.

  IV