Stratagem

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “It’s easy to laugh now before it becomes a reality, but I’ve seen smiles fade more times in my life than I can count, Huang.”

  Although as a politician Lebello was aboveboard when it came to his ethical duties, he sadly lacked a capacity for humor. It was the one thing Huang felt sorry for in his friend.

  “To make this cocktail we call a dictator requires capturing its essential flavor. Dictatorship can be a good thing. Dictators are unwavering in their beliefs and sense of duty, express their own sense of righteousness to maximal effect, and possess the strength to regard their adversaries not solely as their own foes, but as enemies of justice. But I wonder if you can see that much, Lebello.”

  “Of course I can. And in Yang Wen-li’s case?”

  “Well, Yang Wen-li makes a delicious cocktail, but as I see it, he lacks the ingredients to make a dictator. It’s not a question of intelligence or ethics but of belief in one’s own infallibility and a certain infatuation with authority. Maybe it’s just my own cocktail talking, but I’d say he’s lacking in both areas.”

  The two politicians went quiet as their whitefish soup was brought to them. Lebello brought the spoon to his mouth, glancing at the waiter as he walked away.

  “But does he not have a belief in his own infallibility? At the hearing, he came across as a dauntless accuser and a stubborn orator. You said so yourself.”

  Huang shook his head, not only to express his disapproval of Lebello, but also, it seemed, to comment on the poor flavor of his soup.

  “Ah, you’re right, but he had to throw down the gauntlet to thwart his examiners’ idiocy. As far as that hearing is concerned, he was an outstanding strategist. But not when it comes to war. As a tactician, he’d just as soon side with any dumb lot to avoid a conflict. Nevertheless, our good old boy Yang Wen-li would never…”

  Huang grimaced as he brought another spoonful to his mouth.

  “That’s why he called those pigs what they were to their faces. People lose their dignity when they’re upset. Any number of pitiful examples from history will tell you that. Humanity’s dignity and political triumphs sometimes make for a fair exchange.”

  Huang looked down dubiously at his empty bowl and took a drink of water.

  “I see no reason to believe that Yang Wen-li will become a dictator anytime soon. At least he harbors no such ambition.”

  “Not if the situation unfolds to his liking.”

  “Granted. And Yang Wen-li’s not the only one we should be worrying about. You’re no exception, Lebello. You hardly seem anxious about Admiral Yang, but what are you prepared to do if he should grab the dictatorial reins and put an end to democracy as we know it?”

  Lebello knitted his eyebrows, not giving an immediate reply. Huang didn’t press him for one, either. He was having enough trouble keeping his own sound views and resolutions stowed away.

  Choosing between a corrupt democracy or a virtuous dictatorship was one of the most difficult dilemmas faced by human society. The people of the Galactic Empire were fortunate in being delivered from what was inarguably the worst condition: a corrupt autocracy.

  Now was a time when miscalculation and dejection were being mass-produced. The bewilderment of the legitimate imperial galactic government over welcoming a child emperor who should’ve been worthy of loyalty and devotion surpassed even that.

  “Damn that brat! There’s nothing redeeming about him. He’s arrogant, rude, and harder to deal with than a psychotic cat.”

  Anger, disappointment, and other unpleasant feelings boiled in their stomachs, pushing acidic saliva up into their mouths. They had known little about the child emperor, except that he’d had the full support of Reinhard and former imperial prime minister Duke Lichtenlade, but had never imagined he would stimulate so little devotion from his subordinates.

  Were the young emperor to grow to adulthood without ever learning to control his ego, they could look forward to another August II.

  August II had been the biggest pariah in the history of the Goldenbaum family and the empire, and if this child were to successfully claim and hold the imperial throne, August II’s name had to be prudently ignored. Per future historians, fortunately his successor had not interfered with any expression of views about August II, allowing the tyrant’s deeds to be understood and forestalling the need for a political insurgency.

  The current emperor had neither the appearance nor the character of someone who respected the opinions of adults, and so the criticisms of Erwin Josef II were severe. First, one couldn’t very well question a seven-year-old child about self-invested responsibility. He was to be kept in check by the adults around him who’d so diligently labored to improve his character. With his parents already dead and Reinhard being in no position to be a father figure, and coupled with the fact that his attendants had all the temperament of petty officials, the emperor exerted himself only in the most minimal of official duties. Not that love necessarily decided all, but a total lack of it meant that positive change was impossible.

  Unfathomable ruin was gnawing at the child’s mind, and it would continue to expand and intensify. It was enough to steer others away from him.

  To the higher-ups of the legitimate government, the emperor needn’t have been a hero or a wise ruler in the least. A banal puppet was far preferable. Falling so far below even that standard was troubling all the same. As for the government-in-exile, which had no domain to govern, no citizens to exploit, and no army to rule by organized violence, the protection of the Free Planets Alliance and the assistance of Phezzan were necessary for its existence. They were weighing their options as they went along, but even so, between the goodwill they were burning through and the favor they were currying with their allies, they had to prepare for future opposition and reconstruction by keeping themselves in the good graces of the child emperor.

  For that reason, they’d wanted the seven-year-old emperor to be a sweet angel out of some fairy tale. Those hopes were quickly vanquished. It was all they could do to minimize any animosity surrounding him. And so they decided to keep His Majesty from the public eye as much as possible. They ordered a doctor to administer tranquilizers to the child emperor and restricted his world to the bedchamber of his “temporary palace.” Although his “court physician” was worried about how the drugs might affect the child’s frail body, in the end he had to follow orders.

  Thus, all politicians and financiers from the alliance, the press, and those wanting to do their part for the government-in-exile had to be content with staring from the doorway at the face of a child who’d been forced into a kingdom of sleep. Among his visitors were those fascinated by his slumbering face, while others regarded him as the living embodiment of five centuries of ongoing despotic darkness.

  It had become a vexing situation, as everyone carried out their decisions based not on reason but on emotion. They supported him through sentiment, opposed him through visceral hatred. Any debate over whether recognizing the emperor’s defection as such would bring about the lasting peace of democracy had been abandoned. Both supporters and detractors—the former of which occupied the larger camp—disparaged the foolishness of their opponents and stopped wasting time and effort on futile persuasion.

  Emperor Erwin Josef II wasn’t the sweet little angel that some fantasized him to be, but an utterly charmless and undisciplined child. This realization put a dent in Caselnes’s so-called white knight syndrome, although it had more than enough political cachet to go around. In any case, Duke von Lohengramm, a person of insubordinate ambition, had predicted that most of the officers in the Imperial Navy would hesitate to point their guns at the child emperor. Back on ancient Earth, when Muslims were embroiled in civil war, the opposing army held out an original manuscript of the Qur’an. Seeing that, the enemy threw down their weapons and ran. The parallels were clear, although Duke von Lohengramm’s prediction was the bastard child of desire and d
elusion.

  Although burdened with uneasiness and regret, the refugees and alliance government that supported them had been herded past a point of no return. Reinhard’s shocking response had roped them from the center of the ring. With no room left for discussion, resolution was reachable only by force. Military fortification and maintenance were now urgent matters. The alliance government’s first undertaking was to dispel any modesty in its military authority and to increase its government’s political influence by seating military heads with high-ranking officers from the Trünicht camp.

  Thus, the director of Joint Operational Headquarters, Admiral Cubresly, retired for reasons of illness, while former acting director Admiral Dawson was promoted in his place. Although Dawson’s loyalty found suitable reward in Trünicht’s political power, military leaders were at least opposed to appearing as if they adhered to the current administration. The hands of human resources didn’t reach so far as the commander in chief of the alliance’s space armada, Admiral Bucock, but they did stretch indirectly to Yang and could one day summon a roaring thunder over his head.

  “Julian Mintz has been promoted from warrant officer to ensign and is to be appointed to the resident commissioner’s office as a military attaché. He will take up his new post on-site by October 15.”

  When this order was brought to Iserlohn Fortress by FTL, Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill couldn’t bring herself to look her superior officer in the eye.

  II

  Aware that his authority was anything but omnipotent, Yang understood this was part and parcel of being in a democratic republic. Upon receiving the order, he couldn’t help recalling von Schönkopf’s sarcastic recommendation, when the fortress defense commander had advised with utmost impropriety that they should just become a dictatorship. Acquiescence on their part meant condoning the arrogance of their colleagues.

  Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill stood clutching a file to her chest as Yang paced back and forth exactly sixty times. The young commander took off his beret and ruffled his black hair. He let out a breath that sounded like a geyser, casting a foreboding glance at something unseen. He wrung his beret in both hands, not realizing he was treating it like someone’s throat.

  “Your Excellency,” said Frederica by way of diffusing the tension.

  Like a misbehaving boy grabbed by the scruff of the neck, he looked at his beautiful aide, stopped strangulating his beret, and heaved a sigh.

  “Lieutenant Greenhill, get Julian here for me.”

  “Right away. Excuse me, Admiral, but…”

  “Ah, I know what you want to say…I think. Would you please just summon Julian?”

  Yang’s choice of words betrayed his insecurity, but it was all Frederica could see in the young commander’s heart. She did as she was instructed.

  Anyone could see that Julian was a sharp boy, but since Frederica had managed to suppress her feelings, until Julian stood before Yang’s curtain-drawn face and was handed the directive, he had no idea of the ill fortune that would soon be upon him.

  He read over the directive repeatedly. Once he understood the meaning of its inorganically arrayed letters, his blood boiled with fury. He looked from Yang to Frederica and back again, his vision clouded by distortions of anger. He had an urge to tear up the directive right then and there, but he bit that urge in the jugular with fangs sharpened on the wall of reason.

  “Please, you must revoke this order!” Julian shouted.

  He knew he was being louder than propriety allowed, but felt justified in his response. Anyone who could keep their cool in his shoes was emotionally defective.

  “Julian, when you were a civil servant, appointments and transfers were always up to the on-site commander. But you’re a real soldier now. It’s your duty to follow orders from the Defense Committee and Joint Operational Headquarters. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you this late in the game.”

  “Even when the orders are this absurd?”

  “In what way are they absurd?”

  Yang’s retort was so forced that Julian avoided a direct answer and grew defensive.

  “If that’s the case, I’d rather go back to being a civil servant. Then I wouldn’t have to comply with this order, would I?”

  “Julian, Julian…” said Yang, sighing.

  He’d never once rebuked Julian, but this time the boy was rebuking him. Perhaps Yang had overestimated Julian’s maturity.

  “You should know better by now. No one forced you to become a soldier. You volunteered, remember? You knew that following orders was part of the job the moment you signed up.”

  Yang’s retort was formulaic at best. If there was any power of persuasion in it, it was not in the content of his words, but in something underlying his tone that inspired sympathy in Julian.

  While Julian tried to restore balance in his heart, the surface of its waters remained disturbed. His face was flushed from increased blood flow.

  “Understood. I’ll take up my new post on Phezzan as resident military attaché. Not because it’s an order from Joint Operational Headquarters, but because it’s an order from Admiral Yang Wen-li. If that’s all you wanted to see me about, do I have permission to leave, Your Excellency?”

  With an expression that seemed coated in alabaster, Julian performed a perfect salute by rote and left the room with a disingenuous gait.

  “I understand how Julian feels,” said Frederica at last.

  It was only Yang’s prejudice that made him detect an element of blame in her voice.

  “I’m sure he feels like Your Excellency sees him as expendable.”

  Frederica looked at the commander with hazel eyes that wordlessly questioned his lack of consideration for the boy’s feelings.

  “Expendable? It’s nothing like that.” Offended, Yang attempted an explanation. “So sending him away means he’s expendable, while keeping him by my side means he’s needed? It doesn’t work that way. Even if he wasn’t useful to me, I’d keep him by my side. No, his necessity isn’t a question of utility.”

  Losing confidence in the expressive power of his own words, Yang went quiet. He ruffled his hair, crossed his arms, and took a breath. There was plenty to back up his decision, but pushing the boy away without making any effort to understand his side was the last thing he’d wanted.

  “I guess I’ll need to have a talk with him.”

  Even as he said it, Yang wondered why he hadn’t just done so in the first place. Yang was fed up with his own carelessness.

  The grand botanical garden of Iserlohn Fortress was the perfect place to refresh oneself. Frederica had nonchalantly informed Yang that Julian was sitting, deep in thought, on a bench among the jacaranda trees where Yang occasionally napped alone.

  Yang had no intention of working overtime and left the central command center at five o’clock.

  He sat himself down on the garden bench next to an inconsolable Julian, who lifted his head to see Yang with a can of beer in his hand and an imposing look on his face.

  “Admiral…”

  “Hey, uh, you mind if I sit here?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Yang sat down somewhat awkwardly, pulled the tab on his beer, gulped down a lump of foam and liquid, and took a breath.

  “Look, Julian.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “I’m only sending you to Phezzan because I was ordered to. But, if you ask me, having someone on the inside that I can rely on might not be such a bad thing. Either way, I’m sure you’d rather not go.”

  “With the way things are going, Iserlohn is headed for the front lines again. I think I’d be of greater use here.”

  “I honestly wouldn’t see the point, Julian.”

  Yang tossed back another swig of his beer and looked at the boy.

  “Everyone is expecting the Imperial Navy to invade by way of the Iserlohn Corr
idor, although neither protocol nor law demands it.”

  “But if that’s the case, then where would they invade from? Will they make some grand detour beyond the solar system? The Phezzan Corridor is all that’s left.”

  “You’re right.”

  Julian gasped at Yang’s easy response and waited for an explanation.

  “For Duke von Lohengramm, no tactic could be more effective than laying siege to Iserlohn with one fleet while breaking through the Phezzan Corridor with another. Odin knows he has the resources to pull it off. Iserlohn would be isolated, reduced to little more than a pebble on the side of the road.”

  “But then wouldn’t the empire make an enemy of Phezzan?”

  “Good question, but I wouldn’t count on it. The way I see it, Duke von Lohengramm has two options if he’s going to pass through the Phezzan Corridor. One would be to eliminate both Phezzan’s overt and covert resistance by force. The other would be to bypass Phezzan’s resistance altogether.”

  Yang explained no further, but Julian knew what the black-haired commander was hinting at.

  “Are you saying Duke von Lohengramm and Phezzan are secretly working together?”

  “Precisely.”

  Yang raised his beer to eye level, commending the boy’s acumen.

  Julian couldn’t afford to feel glad about being praised in this case. Collusion between Duke von Lohengramm and Phezzan meant the unification of the greatest military and economic powers in their galactic system, and their spears were sure to be aimed at the Free Planets Alliance. Julian had grown used to the prevailing political and military conditions, but now he was drastically revising his mental diagram of an opposing empire and alliance with Phezzan equidistant between them. It was a lot to take in in one sitting.

  “Julian, we humans are hardwired to fall into these kinds of misunderstandings. But think about it for a moment. The Galactic Empire didn’t exist five hundred years ago. The history of the Free Planets Alliance is half that length, and Phezzan is barely a century old.”