There was a hint of warmth in the man’s otherwise brusque tone of voice. “I guess this means we’re partners. Generation gap notwithstanding.”
III
Although she had wavered before making the decision, choosing to rely on Admiral Bucock turned out to be a great success for Frederica. Bucock was not merely willing to help; his position and reputation were such that not even an “overwhelming majority” could afford to ignore him altogether. Had they been able to, they would surely have relieved the old admiral of his duties as commander in chief of the space armada long ago.
First, Leda II, which had been isolated in the corner of a military spaceport, was released from surveillance. The crew, who had been forbidden from leaving the ship without being given a reason, were freed and began acting in coordination with Frederica.
As for Frederica herself, she decided to accept the Bucocks’ goodwill and stay at their house. This was because the room she had been in up until then was not just bugged and under surveillance—there was even a danger of her being physically harmed if she continued staying there. Bucock’s house was protected by security guards assigned directly to him, and even if it hadn’t been, Bay simply could not stretch lawless hands into the home of the commander in chief of the space armada. Mrs. Bucock also welcomed Frederica warmly.
“Please stay as long as you like. Oh, but you can’t do that, can you? You’ve got to rescue Mister Yang and get back to Iserlohn as soon as you can, haven’t you? Anyway, just relax and make yourself at home.”
“I’m terribly sorry to impose on you like this.”
“No need to worry over that, Miss Greenhill. It always seems brighter in this house when a young person comes over, and my husband is thrilled to have a chance to pick a fight with the government. We’re the ones who should be thanking you.”
Mrs. Bucock’s warm smile made Frederica feel envious. Was this what the bond between a husband and wife looked like after they had walked through life for more than forty years together and come to understand one another deeply?
Outside the Bucock household, however, Frederica had to wonder if her nation wasn’t losing its right to be called a free country. Frederica was not only concerned about those things that had happened to her personally; she had a feeling she couldn’t shake that reason and open-mindedness were rapidly disappearing from the nation and society.
Having made the Bucocks’ home her base of operations, she was constantly running in and out, and it was during this time that a certain incident occurred.
There was a civilian organization known as the Edwards Committee. Antiwar activists had joined together to form the organization in honor of the late Jessica Edwards, who had sacrificed her life in the Stadium Massacre the previous year. The committee had raised a certain issue regarding the unfairness of the conscription system.
They had conducted research on 246,000 VIPs in the political, financial, and bureaucratic sectors who had children in the age bracket suitable for conscription, and the results had been utterly shocking. Less than 15 percent of them had children serving in the military, and less than 1 percent had a child on the front lines.
“What do these numbers show? If, as our ruling class never tires of telling us, this long war is essential to bring about true justice, why don’t they let their own sons and daughters participate in it? Why use their privilege to dodge the draft? The only answer is that this war doesn’t mean enough to them to offer up their own flesh and blood!”
The Edwards Committee sent out a questionnaire in writing, but it went utterly ignored by the Trünicht administration.
Intelligence Trafficking Committee Chair Bonnet doubled as a government spokesman, and all he had to say on the matter was, “We do not recognize the necessity of responding to this.” But what angered and frightened the members of the Edwards Committee even more was the fact that this incident went almost completely unreported by the media. E-papers and solivision programs alike rolled out story after story when it came to crime, scandals, and human interest—all completely unrelated to the political authorities—while ignoring the activities of the Edwards Committee altogether.
With no other options, the members of the Edwards Committee decided to take their message out into the streets and go directly to ordinary civilians. When a demonstration involving five thousand members started up, squads of police came out to block their advance. When they turned onto a backstreet to avoid the blockade, they found the Patriotic Knights—a prowar organization—waiting for them, wielding ceramic truncheons. Police officers watched from a distance while Edwards Committee protesters, including women and children, were bludgeoned to the ground one after another by the Patriotic Knights’ ceramic clubs. At last, the Knights ran away, and the police moved in to handcuff the bleeding, fallen members of the Edwards Committee. “Staging a riot” was the charge used as a pretext for their arrest. “An internal squabble between members of the Edwards Committee led to bloodshed,” explained the police, and most media outlets reported it exactly that way, without ever making mention of the Patriotic Knights …;
When Frederica heard that story from João Lebello, a politician of Bucock’s acquaintance, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing at first. While she knew all too well what had been done to Yang and to herself, her trust in journalism and the system of democracy had strong roots.
Even that trust, however, was being shaken day by day in the course of Frederica’s activities. Even with Bucock’s public assistance and Lebello’s stealthy cooperation, her actions were being hampered by invisible walls and chains. They did at last pin down the building in which the court of inquiry was being held—Lebello had found out by contacting Huang Rui. It was on the grounds of Alliance Armed Forces Rear Service Headquarters, but even when Bucock tried to talk his way in, he was refused entry. They used the phrase “state secrets” like a shield. When Bucock requested a meeting with those involved, that was also refused. Also, Bucock found himself tailed from the moment he left home until the moment he returned, and during his second face-to-face meeting with a witness he had at last discovered, the man had seemed afraid of something and had refused to give testimony.
When for the second time Frederica succeeded in cornering Rear Admiral Bay, he dodged her questions left and right, resolutely refusing to give her a straight answer. Losing patience with his attitude, Frederica decided to try telling him she would go to the media instead. However, Bay’s response this time was different from what he had said before.
“If you want to tell them, go right ahead. But you won’t find a reporter anywhere who’ll pick up your story. You’ll just be ignored or, barring that, turned into a laughingstock.”
Frederica looked him straight in the eye, and when she did, she saw a faint flash of panic and regret just underneath his skin. He had just said something that he wasn’t supposed to say.
Frederica felt her heart go cold. As she had seen with the Edwards Committee incident, the Trünicht administration was feeling a lot of confidence in its ability to dominate and control mass communications. When political authority and journalism colluded with one another, democracy lost its ability to critique and cleanse itself, allowing a deadly infection to take root. Had this country’s condition progressed that far already? Were the government, the military, and the media all under the thumb of the same ruler?
It was on the following day that she was reminded of this all over again. Warrant Officer Machungo had been reading an electronic newspaper, but the moment he caught sight of Frederica, he hurriedly tried to hide it. Naturally, that achieved nothing beyond arousing her suspicion. Frederica asked to see the paper, and Machungo reluctantly handed it over.
There was an article in it about Frederica, which noted in lines of venomous text that even though her father, Dwight Greenhill, had been the “ringleader of last year’s coup d’état,” she still held rank in the Alliance Armed Forces. It also p
resented the comments of an unnamed source, speculating that she and her commanding officer—that is to say, Yang—might be involved romantically. Where that article had come from and what sort of intentions were behind it were all too clear.
“This pile of rubbish is nothing but lies,” Machungo fumed, but Frederica didn’t feel like getting angry. Perhaps nastiness above a certain level had the opposite effect, shearing away the energy one had for rage. Another reason, though, was the impatience and sense of hopelessness she was feeling, unable as she was to find a clear way to get Yang away from that court.
However, a miracle finally happened. One day, an emergency call came in for Bucock, after which the daring old admiral seemed unable to remain calm.
“Big news, Lieutenant. Iserlohn Fortress is under attack by the enemy. The Imperial Navy’s invaded.”
Frederica gasped. Before her surprise had even halfway subsided, a thought flashed in her mind, and she shouted out: “Then Admiral Yang will be released from the inquiry!”
“Exactly. Ironically enough, the Imperial Navy’s our savior this time.”
But ironic or not, Frederica was glad. It was the first time in her life she had ever felt gratitude toward the Imperial Navy.
IV
From the very beginning that day, the court of inquiry was pregnant with signs of rough weather ahead. Though Yang had made up his mind to put up with just about anything, President Oliveira of Central Autonomous Governance University, perhaps carried away by academic passion, had begun to lecture him on the raison d’être of the thing called war. According to him, negative opinions of it were nothing more than a product of hypocrisy and sentimentality.
“Admiral, you’re a fine man, but you’re still young. You just don’t seem to have a clear understanding yet of what war really is.”
Yang didn’t answer, but his attitude did nothing to erode the man’s eagerness to lecture a captive audience.
“Listen to me: war is the fruit of civilization and also the most sensible method for resolving both international and domestic conflicts.”
Yang wanted to say, Says who? Who in the world has ever acknowledged such a thing? But he didn’t argue; he figured that asking him would only be wasted effort. Oliveira, apparently interpreting Yang’s silence in a manner favorable to himself, expounded on his pet theory boastfully.
“A human being is an animal that can very easily fall from grace. In particular, peace and freedom—two things that lack a sense of urgency—naturally cause people to lapse into complacency. It is war that gives birth to bustling activity and orderly discipline. War itself drives civilization forward, makes the people stronger, and improves them both physically and spiritually.
“A splendid opinion,” Yang replied without a sliver of sincerity. “If I were someone who’d never taken lives or lost family in war, I might even want to believe it.”
When Yang was in the mood for it, he could sling a lot of snark, even at high-ranking government officials. He had only been refraining here because his chances to do so were so few in number—and above all, the aftermath was sure to be a pain in the neck. By this point, however, Yang had accumulated a critical mass of aggression.
Endurance and silence were not necessarily virtues in every circumstance. Enduring what should be unendurable, not saying the things that needed to be said—that allowed opposing egos to inflate unchecked and let them think that their self-centeredness was acceptable in any situation. Coddling rulers as though they were small children, letting them walk all over you—nothing good would ever come of that.
“Naturally,” Yang continued, “that idea probably does have its charms for people who take advantage of wars and try to build their own fortunes on the sacrifices of others. You know, the sort who drape themselves in a love of country they don’t feel a shred of in order to deceive the public.”
That was when anger first flashed across Oliveira’s face.
“A-are you saying our patriotism is a sham?”
“I’m saying that if it’s really as vital as you say it is that we be willing to defend the fatherland and make sacrifices for it, how about you do it yourselves instead of ordering everybody else around?”
Yang’s tone was almost carefree now.
“For example, you could round up all the prowar politicians, bureaucrats, intellectuals, and financiers, and form some kind of ‘Patriotic Regiment.’ Then, when the empire attacks, you can lead the charge. But first, you’ll all need to relocate from secure zones like the capital and come live on the front line at Iserlohn. How about it? We’ve got plenty of room for you.”
The dead silence that filled the room when Yang finished talking was weighted with both hostility and hesitation. Effective counterargument was impossible, so the wordless interval continued to stretch onward. Yang had known they would have no comeback. He struck again, hard, with a follow-up:
“Of all the things that human beings do, do you know which one is the most brazenly despicable? It’s when people who have authority—and the people who flatter them—hide in safe places singing the praises of war; push a patriotic, sacrificial mind-set on the people; and then send them off to the battlefield. If peace is ever going to come to this galaxy, we should eradicate malignant parasites like those first instead of perpetuating this pointless war with the empire.”
It was as if the air itself had blanched. No one on the court of inquiry had imagined that the young, black-haired admiral would spew venom to this degree. Even Huang Rui was staring at Yang with a surprised expression.
“By ‘parasites,’ you refer to this court of inquiry?” Negroponte said. He was putting on a good show of remaining calm and composed, but there was an uneven ripple in his voice.
Yang fired back, making sure it sounded as disrespectful as possible: “Did it sound like I meant someone else?”
Bursting with anger, Negroponte puffed up like a bullfrog, picked up his gavel, and started banging it on the desk violently.
“Baseless insults! Impudence beyond the pale! It seems we’ve no choice but to impeach the very nature of your character, Mr. Yang. This inquiry will have to be extended even further.”
“Objection—” Yang started to say, although the rest of his sentence was drowned out in the continuous pounding of the gavel on the desk.
“I forbid the inquiree from speaking!”
“On what authority?”
“On my authority as chair of this court of—no, wait. I acknowledge no need to respond. You will submit to the order of these proceedings.”
Yang put both his hands on his hips and showed them as defiant a face and posture as he could. He had already decided that he was going to explode at some point, and now it felt like the right time had come.
“Can’t you just order me to leave the room instead? Because, frankly speaking, I can’t stand the sound of your voices or the sight of your faces for another moment. Just kick me out because I didn’t pay admission or something. Because my patience is at its absolute limi—”
That was when a chime rang out from somewhere near the Defense Committee chair and made Yang close his mouth.
“Hello? Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”
Still glaring at Yang, Negroponte spoke into the receiver in a supremely peeved voice, but then a single phrase from the other end of the line appeared to leave him in utter shock. The muscles in his face became noticeably taut, and several times he spoke, asking for confirmation of certain details.
When he hung up at last, he looked around the table with a panicked expression and in a high-pitched voice said, “We’ll recess for one hour. Fellow members of the court, please retire to the next room. Admiral, you wait where you are.”
It was obvious that some kind of hairy situation had arisen. Yang looked on without emotion as the board members hurried out of the room. Political upheaval, maybe? he wondered. Or even better,
what if Chairman Trünicht has dropped dead …;
It wasn’t easy to call Yang a gentleman when he had thoughts like that.
One room over from where Yang was waiting, ashen faces were lined up in a row, with Negroponte’s dead center. “Massive enemy invasion of the Iserlohn Corridor”—that report was the invisible hammer that had brutally knocked the inquisitors off their feet.
“What we have to do is obvious enough,” said Huang Rui, the only one who had kept his composure. “It doesn’t even bear consideration. Suspend this inquiry, get Admiral Yang back to Iserlohn, and get him—no, ask him—to repel the imperial forces.”
“But we can’t just do a one-eighty on the spot like that! Up until just now we’ve had him under inquiry!”
“Well then, shall we stick with our original plan and continue? Until the Imperial Navy comes charging straight toward this planet?”
An uncomfortable silence stretched out in the room.
“In any case, it seems we have no choice,” Rui added.
“But we can’t decide this at our own discretion,” said Negroponte. “We have to ask Chairman Trünicht what he intends to do.”
With eyes that pitied him, Huang turned to look at Negroponte’s tense features. “Well then, go ahead and do it. It won’t take more than five minutes.”
Yang had counted to about five hundred when the board members filed back into the room. He could sense a mood about them that was completely different from what had existed just a little while ago. He braced himself mentally, and then the Defense Committee chair spoke to him: “Admiral, an emergency situation has arisen. Iserlohn Fortress is facing the likelihood of an all-out assault by the Imperial Navy. Unbelievable as it may sound, the enemy has apparently attached propulsion devices to a space fortress and brought the whole thing there, together with a large fleet of warships. Reinforcements must be sent there immediately.”
“So you’re, um, telling me to go?”
Endurance Page 18
