“Your tea is getting cold.”
“Did I say anything about tea? We followed your advice, and …;”
“It was wrong of me to advise you.”
“It was what?”
“I said that it was wrong of me to advise you.”
With an elegant flourish that bordered on ostentation, Kesselring raised a cup of cream tea to his lips. “From the very outset, I had no business telling you that Admiral Yang should be questioned. After all, that counts as interfering in your internal affairs. It was your side, rather, that had good reason to refuse. And yet you failed to exercise that right. All of you voluntarily went along with my impertinent meddling. Yet even so, Your Excellency is insisting that all of the blame lies with this humble son of Phezzan?”
The young Phezzanese watched composedly as the face of the FPA’s commissioner changed color by the second.
“But still …; judging by the way you acted when we spoke that time before, it’s hard to blame us for thinking that if we did refuse, the FPA would fall out of favor with Phezzan.”
It was a desperate counterattack, but the landesherr’s aide appeared singularly unmoved.
“In any case,” he said, “that’s all water under the bridge now, so there’s really no point in discussing it. The issue at hand is what comes next. Tell me, Commissioner, what do you intend to do going forward?”
“What do you mean, ‘going forward’?”
“Oh my, you haven’t even thought about it, have you? That puts me on the spot. We here on Phezzan are very concerned about the future—we’re thinking long and hard about whose friendship it would be in our best interests to procure: that of the present Trünicht administration, or that of a possible future Yang administration …;”
Those words struck the commissioner like the shocking blow of a lash across the cheek. His expression was like that of a badger that had just crawled out of its hole, only to find itself face-to-face with the muzzle of a hunter’s rifle.
“A future Yang administration? Ridiculous! Er—excuse me, but there’s no way such a thing would ever happen. Absolutely not.”
“Oh really? You sound quite sure of yourself. In that case, let me ask you a question: three years ago, did you predict that in the very near future a young man named Reinhard von Lohengramm would become ruler of the Galactic Empire?”
The commissioner said nothing.
“That’s what the riches of historical possibility look like. That’s how the capriciousness of fate plays out. Commissioner, here’s something you’d do well to think on at length yourself: to what degree is your personal happiness tied to your unflagging loyalty to the Trünicht administration alone? A clever man like you surely knows how important it is to get in on the ground floor when making investments. The present, of course, is of great importance to human beings, but not because it results from the past—it’s more because it’s the wellspring of the future.”
Kesselring took in hand the cup of cream tea he had set down earlier. On the other side of the thinning haze of steam rising up from it, he could see Commissioner Henlow, a man who tossed and turned amid many calculations, with the look on his face of one who had just lost the ability to act for himself.
The cruiser Leda II raced her way back toward Iserlohn Fortress through a vast labyrinth of darkness and stars. The fair lady known as Leda II had been accompanied by a bare-bones escort fleet only part of the way on her initial trip to Heinessen; now on her return voyage, she was attended on all sides by deep ranks of lesser and greater knights, numbering 5,500 in total.
“I wonder if the government would’ve rather sent me back empty-handed?” Yang said to Frederica. This was not speculation; it was bad-mouthing. After all, no matter how great an animus the Trünicht administration might have toward Yang, they still had to provide him with sufficient force strength to repel the enemy. There was no way they would have sent him back empty-handed.
Of course, it was one thing to put together a decent number of ships and another thing altogether to build an effective fighting force. The force Yang had been given was a textbook case of a unit thrown together on the fly. There were 2,200 ships under the command of Rear Admiral Alarcon, 2,040 ships under Rear Admiral Morton, 650 under Commodore Marinetti, and 610 under Commodore Sahnial. All of these were independent units unaffiliated with the main armada, and up until now they had been performing regional patrol and security duties. To an extent, at least, they had weapons and armor.
Admiral Bucock, commander in chief of the space armada, had tried to get the First Fleet mobilized for Yang. The First was at present the only formally organized fleet the FPA armada had that was a match for Yang’s Iserlohn Patrol Fleet in terms of firepower, defenses, composition, training, and battlespace experience. It consisted of 14,400 vessels, and its commander was Yang’s one time boss, Vice Admiral Paetta. However, Bucock had run into opposition when he had tried to mobilize the First Fleet, not only from the political leadership, but from within the military as well. “What about defending the capital?” they had said. “If the First Fleet leaves for the border, won’t that leave the capital undefended?”
“I say this to my shame,” Admiral Bucock had replied, “but there were several fleets stationed on Heinessen during last year’s coup d’état. And yet the coup still happened, didn’t it? Besides, what forces can we realistically give Admiral Yang to lead if we don’t activate the First Fleet?”
Admiral Cubresly, director of Joint Operational Headquarters, had suffered a setback in his recovery from the wound he had taken earlier, and with him back in the hospital for additional treatment, there was no one to take the old admiral’s side. The Defense Committee ordered the First Fleet to devote itself entirely to the defense of the capital, and Joint Operational Headquarters eventually scraped together a force of 5,500 vessels.
“Even Cubresly’s gone timid as a lamb in situations like this,” Bucock had said. “He’s under a lot of pressure, and if he’s hospitalized too long, he’ll be forced to resign. So finally, I’m just one isolated old man.”
“I’m with you, sir.” Yang spoke those words from the bottom of his heart.
“I appreciate the thought,” smiled the old admiral, “but Iserlohn and Heinessen are much too far apart to be saying that.” Truth be told, Yang himself had his doubts about how much assistance he could supply for the old admiral.
Of the four commanding officers, Yang knew little about the two commodores. I’ll be happy if their command skills and basic military knowledge are up to standard, he just kept thinking.
Rear Admiral Morton he felt he could count on. Lionel Morton had served as vice commander for the former Ninth Fleet. When his CO had been seriously injured during the Battle of Amritsar, he had taken over and commanded the Ninth during the long retreat, managing to prevent it from completely falling apart. He had a solid reputation as a patient, coolheaded commander and a service record that would have surprised no one had it belonged to a vice admiral. In his midforties, he had seen a lot more combat than Yang. He had not come out of Officers’ Academy, though, and an excess of self-consciousness about that might have made life hard for him in the organizational hierarchy.
The real problem, however, was Rear Admiral Sandle Alarcon. In terms of skill, there was little cause to doubt him, but his personality demanded caution. Yang had heard a number of unsavory rumors about him: that he was an obsessive military supremacist; that the only reason he hadn’t joined the coup last year was the personal feud he’d had going with Captain Evens; that his ideas were even more radical than those of the Military Congress. The thing most abhorrent to Yang, though, was the fact that suspicion had been cast on Alarcon more than once for the killing of civilians and captured soldiers, and on each of the several occasions he had faced a perfunctory court-martial he had been found not guilty, either because of insufficient evidence or because his involvement had been intu
ited logically, without hard facts. Yang suspected that some mutual back-scratching of a truly disgusting nature had been going on. For now, however, an admiral was an admiral, and a military asset a military asset. All that was demanded of Yang at this juncture was the skill to use Alarcon effectively.
Yang was not going up against Reinhard von Lohengramm himself this time. These days, Duke von Lohengramm was having to devote all his attention to governing. Or to think of it another way, there was not sufficient necessity to bring him to the battlefield in person. That being the case, the level of willpower driving this invasion was probably about on the level of “Hey, won’t it be great if we can win?” This battle was not of vital importance to him.
The year before last, von Lohengramm, then still but a count, had invaded the Astarte Stellar Region. He had perfected a tactic for striking separate units of a divided force individually, but that was not the only thing that had made that invasion possible. There was also the fact that Iserlohn had been in imperial hands at the time. It had functioned both as a supply base and as a source of rear guard support, and because he knew it was there behind him, Reinhard had been able to fearlessly plough through the enemy envelopment.
Also the same year, Reinhard had won a great victory at Amritsar. He had allowed the front lines to spread until they reached a breaking point and at the same time destroyed the alliance’s resupply capability.
Reinhard’s tactics were so spectacular, so dazzling, that to observers he seemed to be wielding some kind of magic. But that was by no means the case. He was a great tactician—a great strategist, even—who would make all the arrangements necessary to ensure victory before he ever arrived on the battlefield.
No matter how brilliant and completely out of the blue Reinhard’s past victories might have appeared, he consistently acted with logical coherence and made sure to have strategic guarantees in place.
Reinhard was a man who liked to win on the cheap, and it was on that point that Yang acknowledged his greatness. Winning on the cheap meant preparing the conditions for victory, minimizing the losses to one’s forces, and winning the battle easily. The only ones who didn’t give Reinhard his due were foolish military and civilian leaders who thought of human lives as an inexhaustible resource.
It was because Reinhard was so capable that so many brilliant admirals had gathered around him …; although the only one whom Yang had met in person had been Siegfried Kircheis. The day Yang had received word of his death, it had hurt—it had felt like he’d lost an old friend of many years. Yang also believed that if Kircheis had lived, he might have become a vital bridge between the alliance and the empire’s new regime.
As if responding to his unuttered thoughts, Frederica approached Yang with a question about Reinhard. “Do you think Duke von Lohengramm is going to kill the emperor?”
“No, I don’t think he’ll kill him.”
“But it’s obvious he’s planning to usurp the throne—surely the emperor would be an obstacle to that.”
“All throughout history, there’s been no end of usurpers. After all, the founder of a dynasty is by definition a usurper, provided he’s not an invader. But as for whether or not usurpers always kill the previous kings after they come to power, the answer to that’s a resounding ‘no.’ There have been plenty of kings who were treated quite well after they were deposed—made aristocrats, even. Furthermore, in cases where that happens, there are exactly zero examples of the deposed dynasty overthrowing the new one and reestablishing itself.”
The founder of one ancient dynasty had usurped his throne by having the child emperor of the previous dynasty abdicate, and had treated his predecessor generously, bestowing all kinds of privileges on him and even ordering his successor in his will to sign a contract agreeing to not mistreat those of the old dynasty’s bloodline. That contract had been observed throughout the next generation of the new dynasty. Its founder had been a wise man. He’d had the insight to realize that he could win people over by being gracious to the losing side, and that the previous dynasty—having already declined as a system of authority—would, if it were treated as aristocracy, lose its hostility toward the new order and over time grow even less willful.
When Yang looked at the way that Duke von Lohengramm had dealt with the forces of the old noble families—both politically and militarily—he saw ferocity and he saw ruthlessness, but what did not see was heartless brutality. And Reinhard was certainly no fool. Anyone could see that if he murdered a seven-year-old child he would bring down moral and political condemnation on himself. He was not about to go out of his way to make a decision harmful to his own interests.
Of course, the emperor may be seven years old now, but in a decade he would be seventeen, and in two he would be twenty-seven. The future might one day bring about different considerations, but at least for now, Duke von Lohengramm would keep the boy emperor alive. Most likely, he was thinking of how to use him to the greatest effect. Ironically, it was the young imperial prime minister who had to be most concerned for the emperor’s safety. If the boy were to die now—even of genuinely natural causes or in some accident—it would nonetheless be viewed as an assassination by many, if not most. Even with the emperor alive, he would pose no great obstacle to the many reforms Reinhard was enacting. Reinhard didn’t need the support of those who supported the young emperor.
Five hundred years ago, Rudolf von Goldenbaum had made history’s currents run backward. He had dusted off the old garments of autocracy and class society—which humanity had supposedly stripped off and thrown away long ago—and taken the stage before the citizenry. Autocracy and class had been part of a process that civilizations inevitably had to go through on the road from birth to maturity, but the role they had played throughout history had been yielded to modern-day civil society; the old ways should have long since exited the stage. Worse still, the implementation of such a government had created a system by which the many were sacrificed for the sake of a very small number of rulers.
Perhaps Duke von Lohengramm’s reforms were nothing more than an expedient for attaining his personal ambitions or were motivated purely by anti-Goldenbaum sentiment. Even so, the path he was walking clearly matched that of history’s progress—toward freedom and equality. That being the case, there was no reason whatsoever why the Free Planets Alliance should oppose him. Rather, shouldn’t they join hands with him to rid the universe of the dregs of that ancient despotism and build a new historic order? There was no need for the whole human race to be part of a single state, either; what was wrong with multiple nations existing side by side?
The problem was what political process should be used to accomplish that. Should the progress of history and the recovery of its natural currents be left in the hands of an outstanding individual like Reinhard von Lohengramm? Or should the responsibility instead be divided like it was in the FPA—among many people of ordinary morals and abilities, who advanced together slowly through cycles of conflict, anguish, compromise, and trial and error? The question was which way to choose.
Modern civil society, having overthrown autocracy, had chosen the latter. That had been the right choice, Yang was convinced. The rise of an individual like Reinhard von Lohengramm, furnished with ambition, ideals, and ability, was a miracle—or rather, a fluke—of history. He was at present concentrating in one person all the political authority of the Galactic Empire. Commander in chief of the imperial military and imperial prime minister at the same time! And that was fine. He had talent enough to fulfill the responsibilities of both. But what of his successor?
Society gained more by not placing excessive power in the hands of mediocre politicians than it lost by limiting the power of great heroes and statesmen who might or might not appear once every few centuries. That was a fundamental principle of democracy. After all, what a nightmare it would be if a man like Job Trünicht became a “sacred and inviolable” emperor!
II
/> Alarms rang out, and an operator reported:
“Enemy ships detected at eleven o’clock! Enhanced image on-screen.” Her voice was so lovely it almost sounded like she was showing off.
It was a small patrol formation made up of one destroyer and a half dozen small escort craft. Surprised by the appearance of an alliance force of several thousand vessels, they were in the process of trying to flee.
“We’ve been spotted,” said Captain Zeno. “No chance for a surprise attack now.”
Yang looked over at the captain in disbelief. “Huh? I wasn’t planning a sneak attack. Truth be told, I’m relieved that they’ve gone and done us the favor.”
That pronouncement naturally threw the staff officers for a loop, so Yang was forced to explain himself in detail.
“In short, what this means is that the imperial commander’s been driven to the point of searching for enemy reinforcements—er, that would be us. I can only imagine how uncertain he’s gonna be now. Should he keep attacking Iserlohn with his back side turned toward us, or fight against us and show his back side to Iserlohn? Or should he distribute his forces so they face both directions and fight a two-front battle instead? Should he gamble on hitting us separately, even though that’d be a two-act fight with an intermission between? Or decide that there’s no path to victory and withdraw? In any case, he’s got his back against the wall, and that alone gives us the advantage.”
Yang shrugged slightly.
“As for me, I really hope he settles on option five. If he does that, nobody gets killed and nobody gets injured. And above all, the easy way’s always the best way.”
Endurance Page 23
