Ambition Page 10

  Heinessen’s strategic points were under the control of rebel units.

  Joint Operational Headquarters, Science and Technology Headquarters, and the Space Defense Command and Control Center, as well as the High Council Building and the Interstellar Communications Center, had fallen into the rebel units’ hands with hardly any bloodshed. Even Admiral Dawson, acting director of Joint Operational Headquarters, had been confined.

  However, the ultimate object of the attack—High Council chairman Job Trünicht—was nowhere to be found at his office. He was believed to have escaped by way of a secret passage for use in emergencies and had disappeared underground …

  V

  Yang felt like he had a pretty good understanding of how what we call the fates are intrinsically mean-spirited, like old witches.

  It was being hammered home to him now, though, that this was just his feeling. Had the fates been furnished with minds and personalities, this was the point where he would have wanted to raise his voice in complaint, saying, “Come on! You’ve never been this mean before!” That, of course, was impossible. Fate was coincidence combined with countless accumulated wills, not some kind of transcendent entity.

  But having to do battle with Frederica Greenhill’s father so he could protect the authority of a man like Trünicht!

  Yang had lost track of how many dozens of laps he’d walked through his private rooms. When he came to himself, young Julian Mintz was standing by the wall, staring at him intently. Yang could see a worried gleam in those dark-brown eyes. Unable to be of help to Yang, the boy was feeling frustrated and powerless.

  But what to do next was a decision only Yang could make, and nowhere in the world was there anyone with whom he could share that. Breathing out a sigh, Yang forced a happy-go-lucky smile.

  “Julian, get me a glass of brandy. After that, can you get my executive staff together in the meeting room in about fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  “Also, call Lieutenant Greenhill for me right quick.”

  The boy left the room at a run.

  If it were all right to not make decisions when he didn’t want to, he would be living la vie en rose. Although the ancients had said it adds flavor to life when things don’t turn out the way we’d like, this time around, the spice seemed a little too hot.

  Frederica Greenhill appeared two minutes later. She wore a calm expression, but there was no hiding her sickly complexion. Yang had his own way of resigning himself to his role here: Having lost his father at age sixteen, he had enrolled in the Department of Military History at Officers’ Academy after searching for a school where he could study history at no cost. He’d had absolutely no desire to become a soldier, so in a way, he viewed what he had to do now as the tab coming due for his self-serving choice.

  But for Frederica, this was like being caught in the sort of thought experiment people used to try to prove the absurdity of gods. She was being put in the position of having to become her own father’s enemy. It was a harsh thing for a young woman of twenty-three.

  “Lieutenant Greenhill, reporting.”

  “Ah. You’re looking cheerful.”

  With that, Yang had really put his foot in his mouth. As for Frederica, she also seemed at a loss as to how to respond.

  “What is it you need me for?”

  “Right … I’m getting the staff together for yet another meeting, so I’d like you to handle the prep and run the controls.”

  Frederica looked taken aback.

  “I—I thought I was going to be relieved of my duties as your aide. I came here expecting that …”

  “You wanna quit?”

  Yang’s tone of voice at that moment was rather curt.

  “No, but …”

  “If you’re not there for me, I’ll have a rough time of it. I’ve got a terrible memory, and I’m no good with that awful control panel, either. I need a competent aide.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll carry out my duties, Excellency.”

  For just an instant, he was able to see through her businesslike expression and catch a glimpse of laughter and tears churning underneath.

  “I appreciate it. Go on ahead to the meeting room.”

  There were other ways he could have phrased that, but for Yang, it was the best he could manage.

  When he left his room, he ran into von Schönkopf in the hallway. The empire’s former citizen saluted and smiled at his superior.

  “It seems you haven’t fired Ms. Greenhill.”

  “Of course not. Why would I when I can’t find anybody who could do the job better?”

  “You’re avoiding the issue,” von Schönkopf replied, although it was rude of him to say so.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, sir, it’s just that … well, I’ve been wondering about a number of things … such as what she thinks of Your Excellency. From the standpoint of a subordinate.”

  “Well, what do you think about me?” Yang said, assaying a clumsy escape.

  “Hmm, I don’t rightly know, to be honest. You’re pretty much a mountain of contradictions.” Von Schönkopf looked back at his superior’s disappointed face with a friendly smile. “What makes me say that? First of all, there’s not a man alive who hates the stupidity of war as much as you do. Yet at the same time, there’s no one better at waging war than you, either. Am I wrong?”

  “What do you think of Marquis Reinhard von Lohengramm?”

  “That it’d be fun to have a go at him.” This outrageous pronouncement came from the empire’s former citizen without the slightest hesitation. “I think that if you were both operating under equivalent conditions you’d probably beat him.”

  “Hypotheticals like that are meaningless,” Yang said.

  “I know that, sir.”

  Tactics was the art of moving troops so as to win on the battlefield. Strategy was the art of preparing conditions that allowed one’s tactics to be used to their utmost potential. Accordingly, von Schönkopf’s supposition was irrelevant to realities on the ground, as it had ignored the element of strategy in war.

  “At any rate, let’s move on to the next point. You have an awareness that runs straight down to the bone of just how out of whack the FPA’s current power structure is—in terms of both its capabilities and its morals. Yet in spite of that, you’ll do everything in your power to save it. That is a huge contradiction.”

  “Let’s just say that ‘perfect’ is the enemy of ‘good.’ I certainly recognize that the alliance’s present authorities are ‘out of whack.’ But take a look for yourself at the slogans put out by that Rescue of the Republic thingie. Are those guys not worse than what we’ve got now?”

  “If I must answer …” said von Schönkopf, eyes brimming with an odd light, “I say we let these Military Congress buffoons purge the current regime. Thoroughly and completely. In any case, they’ll expose their own shortcomings in due time afterward and lose control of the situation. At that point, you ride in, expel the cleaning staff, and take power as the restorer of democracy. That’s what I would call ‘better.’ ”

  Dumbfounded, Iserlohn’s young commander stared at his subordinate. Von Schönkopf was no longer smiling.

  “How about it? Even if it were only a formality, as dictator you could safeguard the practice of democratic government—”

  “ ‘Dictator Yang Wen-li,’ huh? Any way I turn that, it just doesn’t sound like my style.”

  “Being a soldier wasn’t your style, either, originally. Yet here you are, doing it better than anyone. You’d probably be pretty good at dictatorship, too.”

  “Commodore von Schönkopf.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Have you shared your thoughts on this with anyone else?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Glad to hear it …”<
br />
  Saying nothing more, Yang turned his back on von Schönkopf.

  Following along five or six steps behind him, von Schönkopf smiled just a little. Was Yang even aware that there were no other high-ranking officers in the service who let their subordinates speak their minds as freely as he did? It was a pretty hard job, serving as von Schönkopf’s commanding officer.

  There were many civilians living within Iserlohn, and their anxieties had been heightened by news of the coup d’état at home and the civil war that had erupted in the empire. One such individual noticed Julian when he had gone out to a civilian residential district on an errand for Yang and asked him whether there was really any chance of winning.

  The young man looked fixedly at the face of the one accosting him and then, chiding him for his panic, answered with confidence and spirit.

  “Admiral Yang Wen-li doesn’t fight battles that can’t be won.”

  In no time at all, this exchange became renowned throughout Iserlohn. “Admiral Yang doesn’t fight battles that can’t be won.” Indeed, victory was the man’s constant companion. Therefore, he was sure to win this time as well. At least on the surface, civilian anxiety had been calmed.

  Yang, who heard about what had happened later, confirmed the facts of the matter with Julian, then spoke to him in a teasing voice.

  “I hadn’t expected it, but you’ve even got talent as a PR spokesman.”

  “But what I told him wasn’t just a bluff, it’s a fact. Isn’t it, Excellency?”

  “Uh, yeah. This time, anyway.”

  Julian couldn’t help thinking that his guardian’s brow had furrowed ever so slightly.

  “Sure hope it always works out that way …”

  When Julian went out to practice piloting one of the single-seat fighter craft called spartanians, Yang called for Commodore von Schönkopf.

  Yang had decided to split the fleet under his command into a high-speed mobile unit he would command himself and a rear support unit built around supply and defensive firepower functionality. However, he was still wondering to which unit he would assign von Schönkopf. This he consulted the man himself about, and decided ultimately to place him as a staff officer at his own side.

  It was during this conversation that Yang asked him about Julian. This was because von Schönkopf was Julian’s instructor in both shooting and hand-to-hand combat.

  “If you mean as a warrior, he pulls his own weight splendidly—in that regard, he’ll be much more useful than you are, Your Excellency.”

  Von Schönkopf knew no reserve.

  “However, that’s not the kind of thing that Your Excellency is hoping for for Julian, is it?”

  Yang’s reply was halfway directed at himself. “There are limits to what people can do, but even so, we can change fate within the ranges of our abilities. I want Julian to change fate within as large a range as possible—even if he doesn’t actually do it, I want him to have that potential.”

  “What of your potential?”

  “No can do. I’m involved just a little too deeply in the FPA for that kind of thing. Gotta fulfill my obligations to the ones who pay my salary.”

  Von Schönkopf looked as though he had not taken that reply entirely as a joke. “I see. Is that why you won’t make Julian a regular soldier? So he won’t have to feel obliged to the Free Planets Alliance the way you do?”

  “I hadn’t really thought it through that far …”

  Yang shook his head two or three times. It wasn’t like he always acted based on careful thought and long-term planning. That wasn’t what others seem to think, though. Yang couldn’t say for sure whether that was advantageous or not.

  The Alliance Military Joint Operational Headquarters on Heinessen had become a stronghold of the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic. Its top leaders were gathered in an underground meeting room.

  When Admiral Greenhill informed them that “Yang Wen-li has refused to participate in the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic,” a soft stir arose from among the attendees.

  “Well, all we can do is fight him, then.”

  “Let’s get Miracle Yang to show us what he’s got. See for ourselves if he’s as skilled as they say.”

  Perhaps these aggressive voices were raised in order to drive away the unease of the speakers.

  Admiral Greenhill didn’t join in with their forced enthusiasm, however.

  He did not think of seeking his daughter’s forgiveness. Nor was there any chance of her forgiving him. His actions were rooted in his beliefs. If renewal did not come through the military, his homeland would collapse into the depths of corruption. If Yang didn’t understand that, then nothing but war could remain between the two. The decision was not an easy one, but once it was made, his will would not be shaken.

  “Admiral Legrange.”

  In response to his call, a middle-aged man with a square jaw and close-cropped, platinum-blond hair rose to his feet.

  “Take the Eleventh Fleet, and go to Iserlohn to do battle with Yang.”

  “As you command, sir, but … what about your daughter?”

  It was no secret that Frederica Greenhill was Yang’s aide-de-camp.

  “That’s not an issue,” Greenhill said forcefully. Then, in a more moderated tone, he added: “I gave up on my daughter the moment I conceived this plan. It’s also likely that Yang will have relieved her of duty and placed her under house arrest. There’s no need to take her into account.”

  “As you wish, sir. Yang will either be slaughtered or forced to surrender.”

  The Eleventh Fleet was a rarity in the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada: a regiment unscathed by prior combat. It had supported the coup d’état, and now, to bar the path of Yang’s advance, it was mobilizing a vast, powerful, and complete force.

  On April 20, Yang appointed Caselnes as temporary acting fortress commander and ordered the mobilization of his entire fleet. When asked the destination, he responded thus:

  “Ultimately, Heinessen.”

  Just prior to his boarding the flagship Brünhild, Reinhard was paid a visit by an out-of-breath secretary who had come from the Ministry of Military Affairs.

  “State your business.”

  The secretary stared in admiration at the handsome young commander in his elegant black and silver uniform while awkwardly stating the business at hand—that the enemy’s official nomenclature was still undecided.

  “Official nomenclature?”

  “Y-yes, milord. I mean, they’re calling themselves the Army of the League of Just Lords, but, naturally, we can’t put something like that in official documents. That said, if we use ‘the rebel forces,’ it doesn’t distinguish them from the so-called Free Planets Alliance. Even so, we have to decide on some kind of official name.”

  Reinhard nodded and, pinching his well-formed chin with long, supple fingertips, thought about it for a moment. Before five seconds had elapsed, his fingers came away.

  “Here’s a fitting term for their ilk: brigands and usurpers. Refer to them as such in official documents—brigands and usurpers. Understood?”

  “Yes, milord. As you wish.”

  “Publish it throughout the empire that it is thus ordained, and let those so named know exactly where they stand: ‘You are an army of brigands and usurpers.’ ”

  Reinhard raised his voice in laughter. It was a cruel laugh, yet even so it resounded, beautiful and clear, like the ring of precious jewels against one another.

  “As you seem to have no other business, I’ll be on my way. Don’t forget what I just told you.”

  As Reinhard turned to go, his steps were as light as a man in free fall. Admirals von Oberstein, Mittermeier, von Reuentahl, Kempf, and Wittenfeld all followed along in his wake, and at last the deep-blue sky was all but blotted out by a great fleet of warships departing for the batt
lefield.

  Vice Admiral Mort, commanding officer of the forces left behind, saluted as he saw them off with his aides.

  Reinhard had left only a minimal force behind on Odin: just thirty thousand officers and soldiers, charged with protecting the emperor’s castle residence of Neue Sans Souci Palace, the admiralität and Ministry of Military Affairs, and the estate where he and his sister resided. Vice Admiral Mort, to whom this home guard had been entrusted, was already in late middle age. He was hardly the type to be called a master tactician, but he was loyal and a man who could be counted on.

  The secretary, upon returning to the Ministry of Military Affairs, put Reinhard’s order into action right away. FTL transmissions leapt across the void to every quarter of the empire, repeating the phrase “brigands and usurpers.”

  “Brigands and usurpers! They dare call us an army of brigands and usurpers!”

  Indeed, that name dealt a stinging blow to the pride of the highborn nobles, who clung fast to the idea of themselves as a chosen people. Faces gone white with hatred and humiliation, they shattered their wineglasses against the floor, feeling renewed hostility toward the golden brat.

  Though to hear the likes of Merkatz’s aide von Schneider tell it, the highborn nobles were badmouthing Reinhard as well, so didn’t this just make it even?

  The nobles were driven by emotion even in small matters, and thus it was no surprise that the strategy meetings of their allied military were also constantly being swayed in one direction or another by their emotions.

  Duke von Braunschweig had what for him passed as a tactical plan: He would build nine military strongholds along the route from the imperial capital of Odin to the confederacy’s home base—a fortress called Gaiesburg, or “Bald Eagle Castle”—positioning large forces at each to intercept Reinhard’s advancing fleet. While fighting their way past one stronghold after another, Reinhard’s forces would suffer no small losses in terms of lives and ships, and those that remained would be degraded by the time they got through. That was when he would launch an attack from Gaiesburg and crush them all in one fell swoop.