“What kind of strategy?” Staden asked, making no attempt to hide his suspicion.
Reinhard glanced at Kircheis for a moment and then began to explain the operation.
Two minutes later, the interior of the soundproof field was filled with the sound of Staden’s shouts.
“That sounds fine on paper, but there is no way it will actually work, Excellency. This kind of—”
“Enough! There’s no need for further debate. His Imperial Majesty named me as commander for this operation. Your obedience to my commands must needs be interpreted as proof of your loyalty toward His Majesty. Is that not the duty of a soldier of the empire? Do not forget: I am your commanding officer.”
A moment passed in silence.
“All authority over your lives rests in my hands. If you wish of your own accord to defy the will of His Highness, very well. I will simply use the authority he has vested in me to relieve you of duty and to punish you severely as insubordinates. Are you prepared to go to those lengths?”
Reinhard glared at the five men standing before him. They did not answer.
II
The five admirals departed. They neither accepted nor consented, but they did find it difficult to oppose the authority of the emperor. Only Fahrenheit’s expression could have been interpreted as favorable toward Reinhard’s plan for the coming operations, but the expressions of the other four were to varying degrees saying, “How dare that brat brandish the emperor’s authority!”
For Kircheis, circumstances were forming in which it was a bit difficult to remain silent. Even without all this, Reinhard had a bad reputation as an overly young upstart. From the standpoint of these veteran commanders, Reinhard was nothing more than a weak little asteroid, giving off no light of his own, using the influence of his sister Annerose to borrow the power of the emperor.
It was not as though this were Reinhard’s first campaign, though. In the five years since he had enlisted, he had already emerged victorious in a number of battles. But if someone were to tell that to the commanders, they would only say something like, “He was in a good unit” or “The enemy was too weak.”
And because it was difficult to say that Reinhard was humble and courteous in all matters, their antipathy toward him had been amplified, and now in the shadows he was widely referred to as “that impudent golden brat.”
“Are you sure about this?” the red-haired youth asked Reinhard, a look of anxiety rising up in his blue eyes.
“Leave me alone,” his commanding officer said calmly. “What can they do? They’re cowards who can’t even make a nasty remark individually—they have to come in a group. They haven’t the courage to defy the emperor’s authority.”
“But what little courage they have may gather in the shadows.”
Reinhard looked at his aide-de-camp and gave a low, amused laugh. “You’re still the same old worrier. But there’s nothing to fret about. Even though they’re full of grievances now, that situation will change in a single day. And I’ll show that idiot Staden a framed copy of the ‘track record’ he loves so much.”
Saying that he’d had enough of such talk, Reinhard rose from his chair and invited Kircheis to come to his cabin for a break. “Let’s have a drink, Kircheis. I’ve got some good wine. It’s supposed to be a rare 410 vintage.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Well, then, let’s go. And by the way, Kircheis—”
“Yes, Excellency?”
“That ‘Excellency’ thing. There’s no need to go around calling me that when nobody else is with us. Talk to me like you always have.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but—”
“If you understand it, then do it. Because when this battle is over and we return to Odin, people will be calling you ‘Excellency’ as well.”
Kircheis said nothing.
“You’ll be promoted to commodore. Look forward to it.”
Leaving the bridge to Captain Reuschner, Reinhard set out for his private room. Following behind him, Kircheis ruminated over what his commanding officer had said to him.
When this battle is over and we return, you’ll be made a commodore … It seemed that defeat wasn’t in the young, blond-haired admiral’s mind at all. To anyone but Kircheis, those words would surely be taken for hopeless arrogance. But Kircheis knew that Reinhard had only been speaking out of affection for a dear friend.
A thought suddenly occurred to Kircheis: Has it already been ten years since we first met? In meeting Reinhard and his sister Annerose, his destiny had changed forever.
Siegfried Kircheis’s father was a minor official who worked in the Ministry of Justice. Harried about every day by bosses, paperwork, and computers, he earned forty thousand imperial marks a year. He was a kind, ordinary man whose only two pleasures were raising some sort of Baldurian orchid in his narrow garden and drinking black beer after dinner. As for his little redheaded son, the boy somehow managed to dangle at the lower edge of the honor roll at school, was a powerhouse in sports, and was his parents’ pride and joy.
One day, a man and his two children moved into the house next door, which had been as good as abandoned.
Young Kircheis had been shocked when he first heard that the dispirited, middle-aged man was of the aristocracy, but when he saw the golden-haired brother and sister, he believed it. They’re so beautiful! he had thought.
The next day, he met the younger brother. The boy named Reinhard was the same age as Kircheis, born only two months later according to the standard Space Era calendar. When the red-haired boy gave his name, the blond-haired boy’s well-shaped eyebrows had shot upward.
“Siegfried? What a vulgar name.”
At such an unexpected reply, the red-haired boy had been shocked and at a loss for how to reply.
Then Reinhard had continued, adding, “But Kircheis is a good last name. Very poetic. So I’ve decided to call you by your last name.”
On the other hand, his elder sister Annerose had abbreviated his given name, calling him “Sieg.” The features of her face bore a strong resemblance to those of her younger brother but were a step more delicate, and her faint little smile was infinitely gentle. When introduced to her by Reinhard, she had given him a smile that was like dappled sunlight streaming through the trees.
“Sieg, please be a good friend to my brother.”
From that day until now, Kircheis had obeyed her request faithfully.
A lot had happened since then. One day, a luxurious landcar that Kircheis had never seen before stopped in front of the house next door, and a middle-aged man wearing fine clothes stepped out. All through the night, the tearful voice of the indomitable Reinhard had lashed out unceasingly against his father.
“You sold my sister!” he cried.
The next morning, when Kircheis went over on the pretext of asking Reinhard to walk to school with him, Annerose had said with a gentle, sad smile, “My brother can’t go to school with you anymore. I know it was just for a short time, but thank you for being his friend.”
Then the beautiful young girl had kissed him on his forehead and given him a homemade chocolate torte. That day, the red-haired boy hadn’t gone to school. Instead, he had carefully carried the torte to a nature preserve, and, taking care not to be spotted by any patrol robots, had sat down in the shadow of some conifers—“Martian pines” they were called, for reasons no one knew—and there he had stayed for a long time, eating the torte. As he contemplated being separated from Annerose and Reinhard, tears had welled up in his eyes, and he had wiped them with his hands, leaving dark-brown stripes across his face.
When it was dark, he had returned home, preparing himself for a scolding, but his parents had said nothing. The lights were out at the house next door.
One month later, Reinhard had without warning come suddenly to visit, wearing the uniform of the Imperial M
ilitary Children’s Academy. The blond-haired boy had spoken to the shocked, thrilled Kircheis in the affected tones of an adult. “I’m going to be a soldier,” he had said. “It’s the fastest way to get ahead. And I have to get ahead in the world so I can set Annerose free. Kircheis, come to the same school as me, won’t you? They’re all louts at the Children’s Academy.”
His parents were not opposed to the idea. Perhaps they had been hoping that their son would be able to get ahead in the world that way, or perhaps they had realized that their son had already been stolen away from them by the brother and sister from the house next door. At any rate, Kircheis made the decision in his youth that he would walk the same road as Reinhard.
Most of the students at the Children’s Academy were the offspring of aristocrats, and the rest were all sons of eminent civilians. It was clear that Kircheis had only been admitted due to Reinhard’s earnest desire and Annerose’s intercession.
Reinhard’s marks usually put him at the top of his class, and Kircheis also placed high. Not just for his own sake, but also for Reinhard and Annerose, he could not afford to let his grades slip.
From time to time, the fathers and elder brothers of students would come to visit the school. All of them were aristocrats of high status, but Kircheis had no respect for them. He could smell the stench of men who had become arrogant in their privilege.
“Look at them, Kircheis,” Reinhard would whisper. Whenever he saw such nobles, his voice filled with an intense hatred and scorn. “They didn’t get to be where they are today through any effort of their own … They inherited their authority and fortune from their fathers only by reason of blood, and they aren’t even ashamed of it. The universe does not exist to be dominated by such people.”
“Reinhard …” Kircheis would begin.
“It’s true, Kircheis! There’s not a shred of reason why you and I should have to stand downwind of their ilk.”
This kind of conversation had passed between them not a few times, but on one occasion, Reinhard said something that gave his red-haired friend the shock of his life.
They had just made a polite salute—a salute that was the sacred duty of all subjects of the empire—before one of the many statues of Emperor Rudolf that towered haughtily above every quarter of the capital. They dared not do otherwise, for the eyes of these statues were elaborate video cameras, and the Ministry of the Interior was ever watchful for dangerous elements who flouted imperial authority. It was after this salute that Reinhard began to speak passionately.
“Kircheis, have you ever thought about this? The Goldenbaum Dynasty doesn’t go all the way back to the dawn of humanity. It was founded by that arrogant, overbearing Rudolf. And the fact that there was a founder means that before he came to power, there was no imperial family, and he amounted to nothing more than a single, solitary citizen. There at the beginning, Rudolf was an ambitious upstart and nothing more. But in time, he ended up claiming titles like ‘Sacred and Inviolable Emperor.’ ”
What is he trying to tell me? Kircheis had wondered as his heart began beating faster.
“Do you think that what was possible for Rudolf,” Reinhard had asked, “is impossible for me?”
Then, with thoughts that took his breath away, Kircheis had looked back into the gaze of Reinhard’s ice-blue, jewellike eyes. It had been winter, just before they entered the military service.
III
… from the twentieth century through the twenty-first century AD, one can produce many examples of the rampant technological development which threatened to rob humanity of its identity. In particular, the replication of human beings by cloning—one of the fruits of genetic engineering—was once mistakenly believed to be a guarantee of eternal life, despite the fact that only its theoretical possibilities had been demonstrated. When cloning was brought together with ideas of social Darwinism, fearsome ideologies that took a very light view of human life ran rampant across the face of the planet known as Earth. The opinion that those possessing inferior genes were unqualified to bear children and that inferior races should be weeded out for the qualitative improvement of the human race began to hold increasing sway. This was truly the first budding of the assertions that Rudolf von Goldenbaum would make in latter times …
The passage that was displayed on the console’s tiny screen suddenly dimmed and faded out. Faster than one could push a control button, another passage appeared.
“Commodore Yang, the commander is calling for you. Please report to the conn as quickly as possible.”
His reading interrupted, Commodore Yang Wen-li grabbed his uniform beret and ran a hand through his unruly head of black hair. He was a junior staff officer in the Free Planets Alliance’s Second Fleet, occupying a seat in a corner of the bridge of its flagship, Patroklos. Since he had been enjoying his private reading on a console originally intended as a tactical computer, there was no sense in feeling annoyed.
Yang’s Name Notation Type was “E.” This was a tradition carried over from the days of the federation. People whose family names came before their given names were designated “E,” which stood for “Eastern.” Those whose given names came before their family names were called “W,” for “Western.”
Of course, in this day and age, with the races having mixed as thoroughly as has they had, a person’s name was only a vague indicator of his or her direct ancestry.
The twenty-nine-year-old Yang, with his black hair, black eyes, and medium height and build, gave more the impression of an easygoing scholar than that of a soldier. At least that’s the impression one might describe if pressed. Most people who looked at him saw nothing more than a very quiet-natured young man. Most couldn’t believe their ears when they heard his rank.
“Commodore Yang, reporting as ordered, sir.”
The fleet commander, Vice Admiral Paetta, turned his unfriendly eyes on the young officer saluting him. He was a middle-aged man with stern, forbidding features that made it impossible to imagine him in any line of work but the military.
Observing Yang again, he simply said, “I’ve looked over the tactical plan you submitted,” though what he wanted to say was, How in the world can a sissy-looking kid like you be only two ranks below me?! “It was a fairly interesting idea,” he continued. “But too cautious. And I wonder if it wasn’t just a bit too passive.”
“You don’t say,” Yang answered. He said it in a very quiet tone of voice, but on reflection, it might have seemed a pretty rude thing to say to a commanding officer. Vice Admiral Paetta hadn’t noticed it, though.
“As you yourself noted,” he continued, “it would be pretty hard to lose with this strategy. But there’s no point in simply not losing. We’ve gotta win. We’re closing in on the enemy from three directions. And on top of that, we’ve got twice their numbers. All the conditions are lined up for a big win, so why are you thinking up ways to avoid losing?”
“Well, yeah, but it’s not like they’re surrounded already.”
This time Paetta did notice. His eyebrows drew together in irritation, making a splendid vertical crease in the midst of his forehead.
Yang was as relaxed as ever.
Nine years ago, when he had graduated from the National Defense Force Officers’ Academy, Yang had been an unremarkable, newly minted ensign. He had graduated 1,909th in his class of 4,840. But now, he could certainly not be called an unremarkable commodore. He was one of only sixteen officers in the entire alliance who had reached admiralty while still in their twenties.
It was impossible that Vice Admiral Paetta was unaware of the young commodore’s service record. In nine years, Yang had participated in over a hundred combat operations. And even though he hadn’t often been in large-scale battles involving thousands of vessels like this one, he hadn’t been just some kid playing with firecrackers, either. Above all else, he had been the shining hero of the so-called El Facil Evacuation.
Though he was young, he was the hero of a historic battle, and yet Vice Admiral Paetta didn’t get that impression from him at all. Still, when the officers’ salaries were calculated in the rear service at headquarters, it was clear that he was being well paid in accordance with his record.
“At any rate, this tactical plan is rejected.”
Paetta held the papers out to Yang, then added unnecessarily, “Let me also just say, this is nothing personal.”
IV
Yang Wen-li’s father, Yang Tai-long, was known as a man of great ability among the many traders and merchants of the Free Planets Alliance. Beneath his inoffensive little smile, the wheels of a keen mind for business were turning, and since the day he had set out as the owner of a small commercial vessel, his fortune had grown steadily.
“It’s because I dote on my money,” he would say to friends who asked him the secret of his success. “It goes out into the world and makes its fortune, and then it comes back home like a faithful child. Bronze coins turn into silver ones. Silver ones turn into gold. It all depends on their upbringing!”
As he himself seemed to think that this was a sharp-witted joke, he went around telling it every chance he got, eventually acquiring the nickname “The Financial-Parenting Expert.” It would be difficult to claim that this title was always spoken with affectionate intent, but Yang Tai-long himself was apparently quite happy with it.
In addition, Yang Tai-long was a collector of antique art. His residence was piled high with stacks of paintings, sculptures, and ceramics from the days when the AD calendar was still in use. Before he came to occupy an office and command a fleet of interstellar commerce vessels, he was always busy at home admiring and polishing his antiques.
After this hobby had metastasized, there were rumors that he had even chosen an antique as his spouse. For after divorcing his first wife—who had had a penchant for wasting money—he had married another woman of considerable beauty, who was, however, the widow of a certain soldier. Then his son, Yang Wen-li, had been born.
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