Stratagem Page 17

  In the end, Julian entrusted von Schneider to give Merkatz his regards and left Heinessen in a hurry without being able to meet him.

  II

  As the ship approached, the planet of Phezzan took shape as a delicate blue orb and was a sight for sore eyes. In the space behind them, silver particles of light danced boisterously against a black backdrop, while the planet in the foreground appeared for all like a piece of music visualized in all its variations of light and darkness. From within its fluctuations of intensity, études of tones and wavelengths spun outward.

  As Julian Mintz gazed at the planet from the observation window, a pair of hazel eyes superimposed themselves over its light as he thought of Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill. She was eight years his senior, which put her about halfway between himself and Yang Wen-li. Had it not been so obvious that Yang was the object of Frederica’s affections, Julian’s own might have been a little stronger and, if only subtly, clearer. Their last conversation before his departure replayed in his mind. It began with her story of meeting Yang on the planet of El Facil.

  “Admiral Yang was a sublieutenant back then. He never got used to that black beret.”

  The citizens of El Facil had no reason either to respect or trust this wet-behind-the-ears officer, but their open hatred of him nevertheless filled Frederica with righteous indignation. She felt obligated to do whatever she could to help him.

  “I thought about it a lot. He was an unreliable, pompous sort of man who slept on the sofa in his uniform, didn’t wash his face in the morning, and nibbled on bread without even putting any butter on it, muttering to himself all the while. I knew that if I didn’t love him, no one would.”

  Frederica laughed. The ripples of her laughter were never monotonous. Many things had happened in the decade since, and each had faintly yet deeply cast its shadow.

  “I didn’t fall in love with him because he was a hero or a famous commander. Maybe I just have a knack for investing in the future.”

  “You sure do,” Julian answered, although he couldn’t be sure if this was the response Frederica had wanted to hear. Had Frederica’s impression of Yang changed?

  “No, Yang Wen-li hasn’t changed. The surroundings have changed, but he himself not one bit.”

  During his days as sublieutenant, Yang felt ill-suited for the job, as he did also for his admiralty. If and when he ascended to marshal, he was sure to feel just as incompetent. Yang gave the impression that, whatever his rank, he would never quite get accustomed to the duties of his station. Yang had never once actively considered becoming a military man, and even now had his heart set on becoming a historian. But picturing him as a teacher, Frederica imagined he’d be as much of a sore thumb standing at a podium as on a battlefield, and in this respect Julian understood her thinking full well. More difficult to understand, of course, was Yang’s emotional side, and Julian wanted to know what it was in Yang’s mental labyrinth that made him seemingly oblivious to Frederica’s attentions.

  The visiphone chirped, and the boy was informed they would soon be arriving on Phezzan.

  By Phezzan standard time, it was noon, and for the first time in his life, Julian Mintz was about to set foot on the surface of this distant planet. His new life had begun.

  III

  Although Julian had heard that Captain Viola, chief of staff and military attaché of the FPA commissioner’s office on Phezzan, was relatively tall and obese, in Julian’s eyes he didn’t fit that description. He was more hefty than obese, had no traces of either fat or muscle beneath his pallid skin, and if anything looked like he was bloated with gas. Julian guessed he weighed less than expected and wondered if he was going too far in thinking of him as a walking airship—until the next day, when he discovered the existence of the nickname “Grounded Blimp.”

  “You have a lot to learn, Ensign Mintz. I understand you’ve made a name for yourself in the battlespace, but here that means nothing. First off, if you have any feelings of dependence, get rid of them.”

  The implication was clear: any benefits he’d received by dint of Yang Wen-li’s patronage were no longer valid.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. I am fully aware of my inexperience and trust you to guide me well in all matters.”

  Julian sensed this Captain Viola was going to be a tough nut to crack and felt miserable inside. Back on Iserlohn Fortress, he’d had some unpleasant exchanges, but such hollow diplomatic etiquette was almost entirely foreign to him. Maybe there were too many wildflowers in the greenhouse and its external environment was harsh, but Iserlohn was a world unto itself.

  “Hmm, you speak well, don’t you? Your silver tongue belies your age.”

  Although those words indicated the captain’s narrow-mindedness, Julian was pained by their apparent insincerity. The captain’s slightly high-pitched voice and thin, epicanthic eyes only served to emphasize an underlying malice in his remarks. It seemed pointless to waste any emotional energy trying to get on his good side.

  One thing was for certain: Phezzan was enemy territory. Whether inside the commissioner’s office or outside it, the air was filled with a colorless, odorless hostility that might catch fire at any moment. Julian resigned himself to the fact that the only person he’d be able to trust from now on was his warrant officer, Louis Machungo.

  Any internal hostility directed at Julian was ultimately a reflection of the Trünicht camp’s feelings toward Yang Wen-li. If any of it was personal, it was doubtless because of a certain jealousy and enmity over his reputation as the youngest military attaché in history. All told, he was nothing more than an ensign, and as such would never exercise much of an influence over his surroundings. Julian understood that, seen from the outside, he was Admiral Yang Wen-li’s property, and that if he ever made a mistake, it would reflect badly on Yang. He had to be careful.

  Neither could he just curl up into a little ball like a hedgehog and isolate himself. He had duties as a military attaché, and even if the outcomes of the Trünicht faction’s schemes should became an unexpected part of his work, that didn’t mean he would be justified in defying his station.

  Julian had never cared too much about his dress. On formal occasions, he got along just fine in uniform. Whenever Yang took Julian clothes shopping, a lack of fashion sense prompted Yang to drag him inside and leave everything up to a more knowledgeable sales associate. He’d been content having cheap things for himself but always sought out goods of higher quality for Julian, perhaps as a way of showing his admiration. As Alex Caselnes put it, Yang and Julian were of different classes. Julian didn’t need to attract other people’s attention, so naturally he didn’t care, and in Yang’s case it was just a nuisance.

  A military attaché was tasked with the important duties of gathering and analyzing information and observing people’s lives out on the streets. It was credible work. Dressed like a civilian in a thin cream-colored turtleneck and jeans, and with his characteristically flaxen hair grown long, Julian, like Yang, looked nothing like a military man. Machungo, who was accompanying him, tried to hide his muscles beneath a thicker sweater, without success, and looked like some dark, giant turtle sheltering a mythical vagrant prince, but his round eyes brimmed with respect and helped to diffuse some of the danger in the air.

  Once their procedures were finished and they were released from work, they walked together out into the streets of Phezzan. Office buildings lined the streets as far as their eyes could see, places where they would be treated as obstacles by superiors and colleagues alike. As outcasts, they weren’t about to be invited out for dinner anytime soon.

  Julian and Warrant Officer Machungo walked the lively, bustling streets at a leisurely pace. A group of half a dozen girls around Julian’s age sized him up on their approach. When Julian looked up at them, they shrieked with laugher and ran away at a half gallop.

  “He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?” they said. �
��Doesn’t look like he’s used to it, though.”

  Julian turned his flaxen head sharply around. In contrast to the power politics that went on behind closed doors, Julian understood nothing of women. Had Poplin been there, he would have given him a lecture for sure.

  Spotting a side street, the two of them went into a clothing store. The shopkeeper ran up to them, plied them with courtesies, and recommended a few items after seeing where Julian’s eyes were traveling.

  “This one would look great on you. Not everyone could pull it off, but with your features and sense of style, it would be a perfect fit.”

  “It’s expensive.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m making a big sacrifice selling it to you at this price.”

  “I thought it was twenty marks cheaper last month,” lied Julian.

  “You must be mistaken. In any case, check the electronic newspaper. It tracks fluctuations in the price index down to every cent.”

  Julian nodded, seeing that the shopkeeper had other fluctuations in mind, and answered enthusiastically.

  “I’ll take it, then. Can I get a receipt?”

  He paid ninety Phezzan marks and grabbed a sweater while he was at it. An unexpectedly extravagant price to pay for a little information gathering. Later, at a terraced café, he checked out a few electronic newspapers to verify the shopkeeper’s assertion.

  “The prices are stable, and the quality of goods is high. Financial troubles are rare, which means the economy here is quite robust.”

  “A far cry from back home, wouldn’t you say?” lamented Machungo openly.

  Compared to the alliance, which was falling into ruin, Phezzan’s economic strength appeared solid from head to tail, down to every little shop.

  “Those who shed blood, those whose blood is shed, and those who engorge themselves on the shed blood…Takes all kinds, eh?”

  Julian’s voice trembled with a hateful brilliance. He’d never once heard Yang speak of Phezzan in prejudiced terms, but when he compared those who suffered calamity in battle to those who boasted of their prosperity and the profits they gained from it, Julian could see no reason to feel good about the latter. Try as he might, Julian couldn’t squeeze his sensitivity through his military filter.

  When they left the café, Julian and Machungo made their way to the commissioner’s office in the city proper. They didn’t go inside, of course, but only gazed at its facade.

  “Strange, isn’t it? Housing enemies and allies in the same place.”

  Julian nodded to Machungo’s obligatory observation, casting his gaze on the white-walled commissioner’s building, half-hidden by a grove of trees. Perhaps they were also being watched by the infrared camera system, the butt of some grandiose Phezzanese joke.

  IV

  The next day, a party was held at the Hotel Batavia to welcome the new attaché. Julian heard they’d decided not to use the commissioner’s office building to avoid the danger of attendees setting wiretaps inside. But then, he couldn’t help but wonder, what would happen if the hotel itself had been bugged in advance? In either case, as the guest of honor Julian was obliged to attend. Formality was formality.

  He knew well from Yang’s example that being a guest of honor meant having to stand constantly like a statue entitled Starving. Moreover, due to being exposed to everyone’s scrutiny, it took a certain amount of effort just to smile. As Yang had once told him with a sigh, a life in which one could get by without doing things one didn’t want to do was as rare as pure metallic radium.

  If someone observed him, it was also an opportunity for Julian to observe in kind, and as Yang’s representative, it was necessary for him to disseminate the virus of a groundless rumor involving Phezzan’s occupation by the Imperial Navy. He had no choice but to plant the virus, let it gnaw at people’s hearts as it bred its powerful toxins, and wait for symptoms to show. If it exhibited its biggest effect, it would spawn antagonism between Phezzan’s people and its autonomous government, and the government, pressured by the people, would reluctantly repeal its secret pact—assuming there was one—with the empire, while the alliance thwarted any invasion by the Imperial Navy from the Phezzan Corridor. Even if there was no secret pact, he had to confirm whether this would sow suspicion of the empire among Phezzan’s people and, regarding their feelings toward the autonomous government, whether they would still grant imperial passage through the Phezzan Corridor. The alliance stood to gain either way.

  Yang’s worry was that, if the Phezzanese people panicked and sealed off the corridor by their own means, bloodshed was possible between the autonomous government and the empire’s occupational forces. Such was the pinnacle of Machiavellianism: peripheral countries being tricked into sacrificing themselves for the sake of the whole. What helped Yang overcome this hesitation was that, when the Imperial Navy’s passage through the Phezzan Corridor went from hypothesis to reality, it was clear that the Phezzanese people would come out en masse to prevent bloodshed at all costs, groundless rumor or no.

  Yang said as much in his letter to Bucock:

  “As stated above, while I do think that Phezzan’s autonomous government has made a secret pact with Duke von Lohengramm of the empire, and that they mean to sell out the corridor, how will Phezzan’s people, proud as they are of their independence, react? I predict it will never come to a showdown with either the empire or the autonomous government. Although it would be a chance to act, that doesn’t mean they would make the impossible possible. In the end, they are who they are. If they cannot avoid shedding blood to protect their own freedom and dignity, then blood will be shed. And if not, the Imperial Navy will not occupy peacefully. The problem is that Phezzan’s people might start acting when this information is leaked, thereby giving imperial forces a giant head start. If that happens, this will backfire in the worst possible way. Moreover, the Imperial Navy is already on the move. It’s too late to work out a secure countermeasure.”

  This last bit made Bucock and Caselnes feel that sometimes Yang saw too well into the future. He saw everything at its worst.

  Yang was clearly endowed with talent as a strategist, but talent wasn’t everything. Character and intention, as well as being successful in carrying out one’s strategies, in and of themselves had no meaning. To him, the highest sense of value was not the pursuit of national benefit through war and strategy—unusual for a career soldier who’d risen to such a high position at his age. There were those who criticized Yang, as there always would be, for lacking honesty of conviction, noting that although Yang never saw righteousness in war, the more decorated he became, the more enemies he killed. Julian, of course, didn’t share that criticism, and Yang himself would have responded with little more than a bittersweet smile. Even then, he’d probably be criticized all the same for neglecting his duty as a human being to assert his own righteousness.

  Julian was standing in the middle of the crowd, dressed in the white formal dress reserved for officers. His long, somewhat unruly flaxen hair, graceful features, animated dark-brown eyes, and upright posture attracted the attention of everyone in the room.

  Had it been Reinhard, he would have overwhelmed his surroundings with his magnificence, as if he were the only chromatic thread in an otherwise achromatic tapestry. Julian might not have possessed that kind of intensity, but he did give the impression of someone who was exactly where he needed to be, the indispensable corner piece to a larger puzzle.

  Phezzan’s gentlemen and ladies were bubbling with conversation around the youngest military attaché in history, and every time one of those bubbles popped, a wave of laughter radiated across the room. As Julian predicted, the constant smiling was already getting to him.

  “How are you finding Phezzan so far, Ensign?”

  “Well, I’m impressed by how clean even the back alleys are. That, and there are so many pets, and they’re all so well fed.”

  “My, you do ha
ve some eclectic interests, eh?”

  Julian shrugged his shoulders on the inside. He was being metaphorical anyway. The cleanliness of the back alleys was another way of saying that Phezzanese society was running smoothly, and many well-fed pets meant that Phezzan’s people enjoyed a material surplus. Although Julian had hinted that, from these snapshots of daily life, he’d observed one facet of Phezzan’s perfect national power, no one picked up on it. Julian felt like he was being fired at with blanks. Had Yang been here, he would surely have winked and called him a show-off, making Julian turn and blush.

  “And what do you think of the girls here on Phezzan, Ensign?”

  His conversation partner, experienced enough with these sorts of functions to lend the rookie guest of honor a helping hand, had changed the subject.

  “They’re all so pretty. And lively, too.”

  “How tactful of you to say so.”

  Just saying the right thing, however insincere, would allow him to coast through the evening unscathed.

  “Phezzan’s got everything, from pretty girls to terraforming systems. Everything you could possibly need. You can get anything with the right resources. In your case, Ensign, you could probably buy a girl’s heart with just a smile, no money. I’m so jealous.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Julian flashed an unseemly expression, which made him feel even more out of place. He couldn’t help but think he was overreaching.

  “Incidentally, speaking of buying,” said Julian, casually switching on his detonator, “I’m concerned about these rumors I’ve been hearing regarding the Imperial Navy buying out the Phezzan Corridor and Phezzan’s independence.”

  “Come again?”

  It was a forced, hackneyed way with which to answer a question with a question. Julian followed suit by rephrasing. Did Phezzan mean to sell out its corridor to the Imperial Navy like a piece of merchandise?