Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 7

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Admiral Yang, please don’t get fed up over little things like this,” Dusty whispered. “Taller mountains than this one are sure to come up in the future.”

  “I know that,” Yang whispered back, and it was not entirely an empty formality. Even if it had a few—make that a lot—of faults, he couldn’t afford to let this tiny, powerless bud of democracy get nipped. If he stood idly by, all of inhabited space would be enveloped in the white palms of a more eminent, more elegant personality. The issue now was not Reinhard’s own abilities or conscience. Nor was the favorable impression Yang had of Reinhard personally an issue either. What could not be allowed was the whole universe being ruled by a naive system of government dependent on the talents and qualities of a single individual.

  Rather than having the justifications of a solitary, absolute god forced upon them, it was infinitely better to have lots of insignificant people waving about their own petty, foolish justifications and hurting one another. Merge all colors into one, and everything turns black; a chaotic jumble of many colors was preferable to colorless purity. There was nothing inevitable about every human society being united under just one system of government.

  In a sense, one could say that these thoughts of Yang’s were not entirely devoid of elements opposed to republics and democracies. After all, the majority of democratic republicans no doubt wished for the universe to be united by their ideas, and were praying for an end to autocracy.

  Even so, this too could not be more ironic. When the enormous body of the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s age-stricken Galactic Empire had collapsed with silent rumblings, the Free Planets Alliance, after two and a half centuries of steadfast resistance, had been hollowed out and eaten up by termites.

  “Could it be, then, that the historical significance of the Free Planets Alliance didn’t end with its opposition to tyranny, but with its opposition to von Goldenbaum?”

  That was something Yang had thought about before, and while things did, in his estimation, pretty much look that way, it would have been bad form on his part to decide it was so. All of the history since their founding father, Ahle Heinessen, had boldly set out on the Long March of 10,000 Light-Years, all the accumulated hopes, passions, ideals, and ambitions of countless people—a two-and-a-half-century stratum of joy and anger and sadness and delight—were these all just things piled atop the corpse of one man, Rudolf von Goldenbaum?

  Of course, when one put it that way, even the handsome conqueror Reinhard von Lohengramm might not be any different. He had set out to overcome the Goldenbaum Dynasty, and although he had realized that ambition, had it amounted to nothing more than driving the ghost of Rudolf back beneath his tombstone? Romsky was still going on in a heated tone about a new name, a new flag, and a new anthem for his nation. While nodding at appropriate moments, Yang’s thoughts were racing through the darkness of the past, as well as the labyrinth of the future…

  This was how the “Irregulars” became the “Revolutionary Reserve.” Commander Olivier Poplin would later say of the matter, “Winter clothes in the wintertime, summer clothes in the summertime. Whichever you wear, though, what’s inside doesn’t change.”

  The commanding officer was Marshal Yang Wen-li, and his chief of staff was Senior Admiral Wilibard Joachim von Merkatz. Vice Admiral Alex Caselnes became rear service manager. Government Chairman Romsky doubled as military affairs chairman. Yang felt a slight bit of relief. Having only one boss was something to be grateful for.

  But Yang’s arrival on El Facil was rewarded by an even greater joy—his reunion with Julian Mintz and Olivier Poplin.

  III

  On December 11, Attenborough went to the spaceport and had just wrapped up a discussion about reorganizing the military-civilian dual-use traffic control system when he spotted Yang’s ward. Or to be honest, he caught sight of a smart-looking, slightly out-of-place brunette beauty in a leopard-skin coat, walking among waves of people dressed mostly in work coveralls who were flowing through the vast lobby. While he happened to be scanning her with his line of sight, he spotted a familiar-looking head of flaxen hair.

  “Julian! Hey, is that you, Julian?”

  Beneath the flaxen head of hair that turned about, lively, youthful eyes lit up with joy when they saw where the voice was coming from. With fast, rhythmical steps, he came near and saluted energetically.

  “Vice Admiral Attenborough. It’s good to see you again.”

  Unfaithful, the cargo ship he had traveled in, had just come into port, and its captain, Boris Konev, was still at the office, in the midst of the necessary docking procedures.

  “So, where’s the rest of your followers, kid?”

  “That’s awful, Vice Admiral—you shouldn’t call them that.”

  Machungo was hanging back behind Julian, carrying the luggage with both arms and both shoulders; he took up twice as much space as the boy. When Attenborough spotted Olivier Poplin, he was several paces away, pleasantly chatting up three young women who all looked to be somewhere around twenty. Light as feathers, fragments of their conversation came floating to them.

  “Commander Poplin!” Julian called out.

  “Ah, here we go…” Poplin said, grumbling as he approached. “Don’t go interrupting me just when things are getting good. Just a little more time, and I would’ve been having sweet dreams in a double bed tonight.”

  He gave a perfunctory salute to Attenborough, who was not so small a man to get his feelings hurt over that degree of rudeness—though it did bring out his sarcasm: “Look at you, hard at work the minute you hit port. You must seduce new women by the minute.”

  Poplin showed no sign of contrition.

  “The human race has forty billion people, and half of them are women. If half of those are either too old or too young, and half of that number I disqualify based on looks, that still leaves me five billion eligible romantic interests. I can’t afford to waste even a second.”

  “You must not be too particular when it comes to intellect and personality.”

  “Oh, I’ll leave the ones with great personalities to you, Admiral Attenborough. The half with bad personalities I’ll take off your hands.”

  “Commander, have you no self-awareness? From the way you talk, I could only assume you’re a swindler, and that’s putting it nicely.”

  “Aw, you can cut me this much slack. After all, while we’ve been working our butts off on some gloomy old planet called Earth, you’ve all been living it up on Heinessen, doing whatever you wanted.”

  “Hey, we’ve been working hard, too.”

  As he made that childish comment, Attenborough noticed Julian trying not to laugh, and with a self-conscious clearing of the throat, he changed the subject.

  “Seriously, though, it’s great that you’ve made it all the way out here. We only got here two days ago.”

  Julian had of course been trying to get back to Heinessen at first, but the instant they had crossed over from the Phezzan Corridor into FPA space, they had heard Kaiser Reinhard’s renewed declaration of war, learned that Yang had fled, and been forced to change directions. After carefully considering various factors, Julian had predicted that, regardless of what happened in the meantime, Yang was sure to plan Iserlohn’s recapture eventually, and in some capacity make contact with the independent revolutionary government of El Facil.

  “A lot happened along the way,” Julian said, “but somehow we managed to make it here safely. At any rate, thank goodness everyone’s safe, and we get to meet again. Truly.”

  Though Julian had said this concisely, they truly had had a lot of things happen along the way. Following the conclusion of Senior Admiral August Samuel Wahlen’s mission to crush the Church of Terra, they had followed him to the imperial capital of Odin, where they had toured inside Neue Sans Souci Palace, presently being repurposed as a historical museum. Here Poplin, unsurprisingly, had had his picture taken with a dark-
haired girl who had also come to sightsee. For cover, they had passed themselves off as a party of very curious free traders from Phezzan. Although it had been a simple formality, they had also faced questioning by military police. The optical disc they had carried out of the Church of Terra’s headquarters under utmost secrecy had been stolen at one point, and they’d had to spend three days searching for it. Poplin, on the verge of sharing a night of passion with an imperial officer’s wife, had been discovered by her husband. Thanks to Admiral Wahlen’s good favor, though, they had finally been allowed to depart Odin. They had returned by way of Phezzan, where there had been obstacles by the dozen to overcome before they could return to Free Planets space. After all that, they had almost been picked up by one of the Schwarz Lanzenreiter’s reconnaissance crafts, but thanks to Boris Konev’s piloting, they had in the end made their way to El Facil.

  Inside the landcar, four men—Attenborough, Poplin, Julian, and Machungo—were en route to the building that now served as Yang’s command center. Due to Machungo’s bulk and the large amount of luggage, no one was able to sit straight. With effort, Poplin leaned toward the driver’s seat, where Attenborough was sitting.

  “Still, that’s a pretty bold move, cutting ties with the Free Planets’ government. Guess this is what happens when he wakes up and stops lazing around.”

  Probably thinking he should say something, Attenborough, still facing forward, replied: “Listen here, Commander Poplin—don’t get the wrong idea. We’re in this sort of revolution to show off and have some fun.”

  “Much as I’d rather not, I can see that just by looking at all of your faces. I guess the Yang Fleet has only changed its nameplate.”

  When they arrived at the command center, the four men were freed from their state of near suffocation. Carrying a small mountain of luggage, the giant Louis Machungo went down to a basement-level locker room for the time being, while the other three went in through the lobby and headed for the elevator hall. That was where Olivier Poplin stopped in his tracks. A young junior officer, her black beret resting atop a thick head of hair the color of lightly brewed tea, approached with a rhythmic gait that rivaled Julian’s, called out to him, and saluted. Hurried salutes and changes of expression crisscrossed among the four of them, and the elevator door closed with just Julian and Attenborough aboard. A somewhat complicated blend of moods drifted on the air of the twelve-cubic-meter enclosure.

  “Julian, do you know her? That girl just now.”

  “Yes, Commander Poplin introduced us at Dayan Khan Base. How do you know her, Admiral Attenborough?”

  “Um, well, she’s the daughter of someone I know.” The young admiral started fanning his face with his black beret. It seemed their commander’s bad influence had rubbed off on him.

  “Oh, so you must know Corporal Katerose von Kreutzer quite well, then.”

  At Julian’s casual probing. Attenborough decided to go ahead and cross that line.

  “All right, I’ll tell you. That girl is the daughter of Vice Admiral von Schönkopf.”

  Bombshells, however, don’t necessarily have the desired effect when they burst. Julian blinked three times, cocked his head sideways, and stared at Attenborough. At last, his cognitive circuitry matched language to meaning, and the young man started chuckling.

  “I’m sorry, sir—it’s just a little hard to believe that Vice Admiral von Schönkopf has a daughter.”

  Even more so if it was Katerose von Kreutzel, a.k.a. Karin. All Julian could do was shake his head.

  “You’ve sure got that right. Even now, I still can’t believe it myself. But think about it. Vice Admiral von Schönkopf’s been earning his stripes in that arena, too, since he was about your age. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s dropped bastards by the dozen, never mind just one.”

  For a long moment, Julian said nothing as he scanned through the hall of portraits occupying a portion of his memory. Never mind Karin’s light, tea-colored hair and those indigo eyes that shone like the sky in early summer; something about her overall appearance left him with the slightest hint of déjà vu. Could that be because she was von Schönkopf’s daughter? Poplin had said there seemed to be some sort of situation regarding her birth…

  “Does Vice Admiral von Schönkopf know about this?”

  When Attenborough said no, Julian sank into thought once more.

  “How about it, Julian?” said Attenborough. “Wanna try using that virtue of yours to mediate a father-daughter reunion?”

  “It would never work. She probably doesn’t like me.”

  “Did you do something to be disliked?”

  “No, sir, nothing in particular. It’s just that, somehow, I was getting that kind of feeling.”

  Attenborough shot a slightly downturned look at the young man, but was unable to make out anything in his face to draw conclusions from.

  “Well anyway, for the time being, we ought to be pouring all our energy into retaking Iserlohn, instead of looking down from the nosebleed section at von Schönkopf’s family squabbles.”

  The elevator door opened, and as the view outside expanded, Attenborough laced his fingers behind his head and signaled Julian with a jerk of his chin. “Come on, Julian—our sloth of a marshal’s this way, reluctantly hard at work.”

  Even His Excellency, their sloth of a marshal, sometimes had momentary bursts of diligence. That day, too, Yang was at his desk, setting off chained volcanoes of thought. Papers that had been used for taking notes and making calculations were scattered all around him.

  “You’ve got to do your best. If this isn’t settled during Your Excellency’s generation, Julian’s generation is going to have an awfully hard time of it.”

  So said Lieutenant Commander Frederica G. Yang, his aide at Revolutionary Reserve Command HQ, a mischievous twinkle dancing in her hazel eyes. Her husband let out an indignant sigh, and took a sip of the tea that his wife had brought him.

  “When we work hard to progress, remarkable things follow,” he opined with a patronizing air.

  “I’m honored, Your Excellency.”

  Laughing, Frederica caught a glimpse of her husband rising to his feet, teacup still in hand. While she was turning toward him, she saw her husband’s expression change from surprise to joy within a few tenths of a second.

  Julian Mintz was standing there. He was even taller now than when they had parted; already fit to be called a young man rather than a boy. His rounded, handsome face smiled with nostalgia as he took in Yang’s and Frederica’s looks of welcome.

  “Welcome home!”

  Yang spoke first, and Frederica followed.

  “Julian! You’re looking good!”

  “I’m feeling good…I just got in.” Even Julian’s voice rebounded with rhythmic excitement. “It’s been too long, Your Excellency. This may be sudden, but materials related to the Church of Terra are recorded on this. I hope that it’s helpful, even if just a little.”

  So speaking, he held out the optical disc. Try though he might to assume a grown-up’s attitude as he did so, he still seemed so childlike and innocent. He was not devoid of unease, though what he had was measurable only in microns. What if Yang’s family was no longer his home? What if the opening bell had rung for the new Yang family’s history, and he was nothing more than a foreign element that had arrived too late?

  But all that was just needless concern. He was one piece in the giant jigsaw puzzle that was the Yang family, so of course he fit right into the space where he belonged. The warmth of the Yang household and the free-spirited nature of the Yang Fleet formed the temporal and spatial environment that was most valuable, most worthy of nostalgia in all of Julian’s memories. That he could never forget this was a great blessing to Julian, and was later to become a nostalgia that accompanied the pain in his heart.

  After at last enjoying a pleasant chat with Attenborough and Poplin also present,
Yang explained his plan to them—as had long been his custom. In order to organize and reexamine his plans, Yang had often asked Julian for his opinions, which in turn had provided Julian with incomparably valuable lessons in strategy and tactics.

  “We’ll finally be able to go back to Iserlohn, won’t we?”

  “If it goes well, Julian.”

  “It will. I’m sure. But still, Kaiser Reinhard really does like those large-scale pincer and envelopment strategies, doesn’t he?”

  “I like ’em, too.”

  Julian could hear a bit of a wry smile in Yang’s voice. If he, as strategist, had a large military force whose size exceeded that of Reinhard’s, he would have surely divided it in two and tried to catch the enemy in a pincer movement. If he could lure Reinhard out toward Iserlohn, and use an auxiliary force to cut him off from his forces in the rear…Or without even going that far, if he could use one unit to capture and hold Iserlohn Fortress, the other he could send through the corridor to invade imperial space, attacking their former capital of Odin after a long-distance run through their territory…

  Earlier, during Operation Ragnarok, powerful admirals including von Reuentahl, Lennenkamp, and Lutz had been positioned within the Iserlohn Corridor, but now, if he could capture Iserlohn Fortress once Lutz was deployed elsewhere, the Iserlohn Corridor would be an open sea as far as the Yang Fleet was concerned. When Kaiser Reinhard tried to return to imperial space, he would have no option save a long detour through the Phezzan Corridor, and if those who wished to recover their independence rose up at the same time on Phezzan, the young conqueror would lose his way home. Then, for the first time, Yang would be able to throw a white glove at the golden-haired kaiser.

  Yang rested one hand on his black beret, and shook his head with a wry grin. Unfortunately, there was not enough time to turn this fantasy into a reality. It wasn’t as if he were in communication somehow with Phezzan’s independence faction. The reality was that that was the task he had to start working on now. He had to capture Iserlohn Fortress a second time, establish what Attenborough called a “liberated corridor” between Iserlohn and El Facil, and finally say to them, “Send us capital—this investment’s a sure thing!” He had to show them promissory notes that contained nothing but uncertainties, and with them secure such cooperation as he could. One misstep, and it would be fraud, pure and simple.