Endurance

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  II

  That night, Yang and Julian were visiting Alex Caselnes at his official residence. They had done this from time to time in the past back on Heinessen, but since moving to Iserlohn it had become a custom of theirs to get together once or twice a month. Mrs. Caselnes would serve a homemade meal, and after that her husband and guest would usually enjoy a game of 3-D chess over a glass of brandy.

  That night, the Caselneses were hosting a modest but warm dinner party in particular to celebrate Chief Petty Officer Julian Mintz’s promotion, his first combat flight, and his first heroic deeds on the battlefield.

  When the two guests arrived, they were greeted by Charlotte Phyllis, the eight-year-old eldest daughter of the Caselnes household.

  “Come in, Julian!” she said.

  “Good evening, Charlotte,” Julian replied, returning the little girl’s greeting.

  “Come in, Uncle Yang.”

  “Er …; good evening, Charlotte.”

  Carrying his five-year-old second daughter in his arms, the head of the Caselnes clan favored Yang with an unkind smile as he noticed the slow response. “What’s the matter, Yang? Something bothering you?”

  “I just got my feelings hurt. I was kind of hoping to do without the ‘Uncle’ as long as I’m still single, you know? Can you do something about that?”

  When they were alone, Yang would speak to Caselnes as if he were an underclassman at the academy.

  “You’re spoiled rotten, Yang. Past thirty and still single—how much longer do you think we can let such antisocial behavior slide?”

  “There are plenty of people who stay single their whole life and still contribute to society. I can name off four, five hundred for you right now if you like.”

  “And I could name even more than that who’ve contributed to society while raising families.”

  And the point goes to Caselnes, Julian thought.

  Agewise, Caselnes had six years on Yang, and was far ahead of him as well in both 3-D chess and venomous contests of wit. Yang didn’t attempt another counterstrike—although that probably had more to do with his attention having been diverted by the aroma of dinner.

  The dinner was a lot of fun that night. Mrs. Caselnes’s specialties—chicory omelets and a fish and vegetable cream stew called vachiruzui—were delicious, but what marked the occasion for Julian was being offered wine for the first time. Until that night, he had always gotten the same apple cider as Charlotte.

  Though naturally, this only resulted in him turning beet red in the face and being mocked by the adults …;

  After dinner, Yang and Caselnes moved to the salon like always and started up a game of 3-D chess. After one win and one loss, however, the look on Caselnes’s face grew a bit formal.

  “There’s something serious I’d like to talk about, Yang.”

  With a nod that promised nothing, Yang glanced over Caselnes’s shoulder. Julian was drawing a picture for the girls on a piece of drawing paper spread out on the floor. A picture-perfect kid himself, Yang thought. Whether protected by a combat suit on the field of battle or sitting at ease in a peaceful household, Julian just seemed to belong, the way a figure in a great painting did. It was probably a disposition he was born with. Yang knew one other person—not directly, of course—who had that same kind of disposition: Reinhard von Lohengramm of the Galactic Empire.

  “Yang,” Caselnes said, after searching a moment for the right words, “for a vital piece of our organization, you seem to be very unconcerned about your personal safety. And this time, I don’t mean that in a good way. It’s a fault.”

  Yang subtly shifted his line of sight and gave his upperclassman from the academy a serious look.

  Caselnes continued. “You’re not some hermit living alone in the wilderness. You’re responsible for the security of a whole lot of people. So how about paying a little more attention to your own?”

  “I’ve got my hands full as it is. If I was thinking about that kind of thing too, then …;”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I wouldn’t have time for my afternoon nap.”

  Yang had taken a stab at being funny, but Caselnes was having none of it. He poured brandy into Yang’s glass and his own, crossed his legs, then straightened in his seat.

  “Your problem isn’t free time or the lack thereof—you just don’t want to do it. You know good and well that you need to think about these things, but you don’t want to. Am I wrong?”

  “I’m just not that detail oriented. It’s a pain in the neck to deal with. That’s all.”

  Holding his glass in one hand, Caselnes let out a sigh.

  “One reason I bring this up is that our esteemed head of state, His Excellency Chairman Trünicht, worries me.”

  “What about Chairman Trünicht?”

  “The man is bankrupt in terms of ideals and policy, but he’s very calculating, and schemes he’s got in spades. Now, you can laugh if you want, but to be honest, he scares me a little these days.”

  Of course Yang didn’t laugh. He was remembering that unearthly feeling of terror he had felt welling up last autumn when exchanging an unwanted handshake with the man amid the roar of a cheering crowd.

  Caselnes continued. “I’d always thought of him as a two-bit political huckster with nothing to peddle but sophistry and flowery words, but lately I’m feeling something almost monstrous about him. I keep wondering more and more if he’s going to do something horrible, and not even hesitate. How can I put this? It feels like he’s made a deal with the devil.”

  There were a number of things bothering Caselnes, and one of them was the growing influence of the pro-Trünicht faction on the military. Admiral Cubresly, director of Joint Operational Headquarters and the number one man in uniform, had endured an assassination attempt, long hospitalization, and arrest by the coup d’état faction before returning to his present post, but word now had it he was getting sick of the ongoing friction and passive disobedience he had encountered since coming back. He had found that the critical positions at headquarters were all occupied by members of the Trünicht faction—chief among them Admiral Dawson.

  “When it comes to staff selections and fleet operations, I hear even spry old Mister Bucock’s been running into interference at every turn, and that he’s had just about enough. At the rate things are going, the upper echelon of the military will eventually end up a ‘branch family’ of the ‘Trünicht clan,’ as it were.”

  “If that happens, I’ll tender my resignation.”

  “Don’t look so happy when you say that. Let’s say you retire and start leading that pensioner’s life you’ve always dreamed of. That may be fine for you, but put yourself in the shoes of all those soldiers and officers you’ll leave behind. Once someone like Dawson has been installed as fortress commander, this whole installation’ll end up like the dorm at some seminary. He might even say, ‘Hey, let’s pick a day and have all hands clean out every last garbage chute on Iserlohn.’” Regardless of whether Caselnes was joking or serious, his point was no laughing matter. “Anyway, think about your safety, Yang, even if just a little. Julian’s lost his parents once already. No matter how useless a foster dad he may have now, it would be a shame for him to have to go through that again.”

  “Am I really that useless?”

  “You thought you were doing a good job?”

  “Four years ago, who was it who forced Julian on this useless foster dad?”

  Caselnes didn’t have an answer for that one. After a moment, he said, “You up for another brandy?”

  “I humbly accept.”

  Several refills later, Yang and Caselnes both turned to look at Julian, almost as if they had planned it in advance. Both of the little girls had been getting sleepy, and Mrs. Caselnes and Julian had just picked them up to carry them to their bedroom.

  “Now there’s a good kid—
nothing at all like his guardian.”

  “If his guardian’s lagging behind, it’s because his guardian has a rotten friend. Julian doesn’t have any friends at all, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At that age, you need friends of your own generation—friends to get in fights with, buddies to cheat on tests with, teammates, rivals—all kinds. In Julian’s case, there’s only adults around, and messed-up adults at that. It’s kind of a problem. When we were on Heinessen it wasn’t like that, of course.”

  “Yet for all that, he’s growing up to be honest and straightforward.”

  “I believe he is,” Yang said, fully serious now. But after a moment, he added, “It helps that he’s got such a good foster dad.” Anyone could have seen at a glance that he had tacked on the joke as cover for his embarrassment.

  “That kid’s disobeyed me exactly one time,” Yang continued. “We were taking care of the neighbor’s nightingale for a day. I told him to feed it, but he went off to a flyball practice match without doing it.”

  “And? What happened?”

  “I gave him strict orders to go without dinner that night.”

  “Well, well. I guess that was bad news for you, too.”

  “For me? How come?”

  “Because I can’t imagine you making Julian go without dinner and eating your fill by yourself. You’d just end up skipping the meal with him.”

  Yang paused a moment before continuing. “It’s true I had an appetite come breakfast time.”

  “Oh, did you? An appetite.”

  Yang sipped his brandy and made an attempt at a recovery. “I’m well aware that I’ve got a long way to go as a family man. But even I’ve got my reasons for that. After all, I’m single, and I grew up in a single-parent family myself. There’s no way I could ever be a perfect fa—”

  “Copying perfect parents isn’t how kids grow up. It’s more like they see the negative examples their imperfect parents show them and use those to cultivate their spirit of independence. You copy, Your Excellency?”

  “I copy that some pretty awful things are being said about me.”

  “Well, if you don’t like being talked about, how about this: go find yourself a wife so you can try and get closer to perfect.”

  That sudden sneak attack left Yang momentarily speechless.

  “Even though the war’s not over yet?” he said.

  “I figured you’d say that. But still, what’s our number one duty as human beings? It’s the same as for all living creatures: to transmit our genes to the next generation and preserve the race. To give birth to new life. Am I right?”

  “Yeah, which is why the worst sin a human can commit is to kill somebody, or cause somebody to be killed. And that’s what soldiers do for a living.”

  “You don’t have to keep thinking like that. But okay, sure, let’s say somebody’s committed that sin. If he’s got five kids and just one of them embraces humanitarianism, then someone just might come out of that who can atone for his father’s sin—a son who can carry on the aborted ambitions of the father.”

  “You don’t need a biological son to carry on your ambitions,” Yang said, glancing over at Julian. Then, turning his eyes back to his upperclassman from Officers’ Academy, he added, as if he had only just remembered, “And what you said assumes that the father has ambitions to carry on in the first place.”

  Yang got up to go to the toilet, and Caselnes called Julian over and had him sit in the chair that Yang had occupied until just then.

  “What is it?” said Julian. “You said there was something important …;”

  “You, young man, are Yang’s number one loyal retainer. That’s why I’m telling you: your guardian knows all about yesterday, and tomorrow he can see pretty clearly. But people like that have a bad habit sometimes of not knowing a whole lot about what’s on the menu today. You follow?”

  “Yes, sir, I certainly do.”

  “This is an extreme example, but suppose this evening’s dinner was poisoned. No matter how much Yang knows about tomorrow and the day after, it won’t amount to squat for him personally if he doesn’t realize what’s going on now. Still with me?”

  This time, Julian didn’t answer right away. The light of one deep in thought danced on the surface of his dark-brown eyes. “In other words, you’re telling me to be his food taster, aren’t you?”

  “That about covers it,” Caselnes said, nodding.

  A trace of a smile appeared on Julian’s face. It somehow made him look very intelligent. “You make good personnel choices, Admiral Caselnes.”

  “I don’t think I’m too bad a judge of character.”

  “I’ll do everything I can. But still, is Admiral Yang really in that dangerous a position?”

  Julian’s voice had dropped an octave.

  “Right now, things are still all right. Being as we’ve got a powerful enemy in the empire, Yang’s talents are essential. However, nobody knows how quickly the situation could change. Now, if someone like me has thought this, there’s no way that Yang hasn’t, but something about that guy …;”

  “Don’t go brainwashing innocent boys into believing your weird theories, Alex,” said Yang, flashing a wry smile. He had just returned from the bathroom. He told Julian to start getting ready to leave and then looked at Caselnes, shrugging his shoulders somewhat exaggeratedly.

  “Anyway, don’t worry so much, please. It’s not like I’ve never given this any thought myself. I have no intention of becoming Mister Trünicht’s plaything, and I do want to live long enough to enjoy my golden years.”

  III

  Phezzan. The Phezzan Land Dominion.

  It was a most unusual country. Strictly speaking, it was not even a country at all. It was nothing more than a special unit of regional government under the suzerainty of the emperor of the Galactic Empire, whose internal self-rule and freedom of trade was permitted by his grace. At the same time, however, its name carried all manner of associations to people—of brisk economic activity, amassed wealth, prosperity, and opportunities for success, pleasure, and the exercise of ability. It was Carthage, Basra, Córdoba, Chang’an, Samarkand, Constantinople, Genoa, Lübeck, Shanghai, New York, Marsport, and Prosperpina—every paradise for adventurous and ambitious souls in the history of the human race—all rolled up into one.

  Originally a barren wasteland, this planet was painted with colorful legends of success—and tales of failure many times as numerous.

  Phezzan was in the midst of the stream. At any inhabited point in the universe, people, supplies, money, and information flowed in and then flowed back out, accompanied by a markup in price.

  In the flow of information, even gossip was an important category. At a watering hole called De la Court—a bar widely known as a gathering place for independent traders—it was said that there existed countless “conversation rooms” and “card rooms” in addition to the spacious main bar, in which all kinds of information could be exchanged behind the security of soundproof walls and a formidable anti-eavesdropping system.

  Most of the rumors circulating were dismissed out of hand as irresponsible hearsay or simple jokes, but sometimes they contained nuggets of information that were worth more than gold. One example was the case of the man named Valentine Kauf, whom merchants still spoke of with respect despite the passage of half a century since the days when he’d been active.

  Kauf had been born the son of a trading-ship owner who had hardly been middle-class; however, not long after inheriting a fortune from his father, he lost it all on reckless speculation. With the help of an understanding friend he bought a small ore transport vessel and tried to make a fresh start. That vessel, however, had ended up shipwrecked in a magnetic storm, and even the friend who had cosigned for Kauf had been driven to bankruptcy along with him. Kauf, backed into a corner, had felt there was nothing left h
e could do but take out an insurance policy on himself, name his friend the beneficiary, and commit suicide to pay back a portion of what he owed. And so one night he had been sitting alone at the main bar of De la Court, nursing a drink he had decided would be the last he would ever taste. As he sat there, fragments of a conversation one table over had made their way to his ears.

  “. …; so the marquis is putting forward the emperor’s younger brother …; On the other hand, the minister of military affairs …;”

  “. …; self-destruction and self-abandonment . . . backed into a corner . . . need soldiers . . . won’t win, but . . . Now that you mention it, they do look like pigs …; must be rebelling ’cause they’re drawn to the slaughterhouse …;”

  These snatches of conversation had been followed by raucous laughter, but it never reached Kauf’s ears. He had slammed payment for his drinks down on the counter and gone running out of De la Court.

  One week later, news of an uprising had brought merchants scrambling to the marketplace, where they learned that a number of strategic supplies had been completely bought up by a young, unknown trader named Kauf. Kauf had investigated the characteristics of the people mentioned in those fragments of conversation he’d overheard, worked out their names and territorial holdings, looked into what ores were produced by those territories, and predicted what shortages the chaos would cause. Then he had twisted every arm he could for loans, raising capital to buy up those supplies. Although the war itself was unlikely to last even a month, the things he had bought would be essential during that period. It was as if a condemned man had leapt from the twelfth step of the gallows and landed on a kingly throne—Kauf’s gambit had succeeded. He made enough off the deal to buy a dozen trading ships at once and gave half his earnings to the friend who had helped him before.