Stratagem

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  The glory of a bygone, legendary age. Yang held up an invisible champagne glass with one hand. Glorifying the past, someone once said, was like looking at the distant profile of a woman from behind as she walked out and deciding she was beautiful without ever seeing her face firsthand. Setting aside the truth of that simile, the past was nothing one could lasso back to the present. For Yang, dealing with this situation was just another facet of reality.

  IV

  Julian was likewise busy preparing for his departure, but because his daily management skills far exceeded those of his superior, he was ahead of schedule. Heavier on his mind was Yang’s drinking, about which Julian urged caution.

  “Alcohol is man’s best friend. Can I abandon a friend?” said Yang amiably.

  “That’s what people say, but what about the alcohol?”

  “Alcohol wants nothing more than to be drunk. People were drinking it five thousand years ago. And they’re still drinking it now.”

  “I can see that.”

  “And five thousand years from now, you can be sure they’ll be drinking it still. Assuming there’s anyone left to drink it.”

  “I’m not worried about five thousand years from now, I’m worried about next month and thereafter.”

  Despite his attempts at blocking the rebuttal, Julian didn’t press the young commander any further, not wanting to leave on a sour note. Yang’s alcohol consumption had increased dramatically over the years, and it was beginning to affect his health. Julian changed topics.

  “And then there’s the matter of you waking up in the morning, or lack thereof. Can you even get yourself up promptly at 7:00 a.m. without me dragging you out of bed?”

  “Sure I can,” Yang declared, reflexively bluffing without confidence.

  “Can you really? I wonder.”

  “Now look here, Julian. If anyone else heard this conversation, they’d think Yang Wen-li couldn’t even take care of himself, wouldn’t you say?”

  Yang was clearly ribbing him, but Julian shrugged his shoulders in anticipation of Yang’s self-examination.

  “Before you came into my life, I took care of myself just fine. I did a splendid job managing the house and grounds without anyone’s help.”

  “Made friends with mildew and dust, did we?”

  Julian chuckled. Yang made to answer with a look of displeasure but failed, responding instead with a nervous laugh. He remembered the first time they had met face-to-face, one early spring day four years before. The morning sun had shown the stubbornness of winter’s traces, the air thick and lifeless.

  A pajama-clad Yang had lain stretched out on the sofa, wondering how to spend what promised to be a long day off.

  Yang’s rule was that days off were for catching up on his work—not that he had anyone to go on a date with anyway. Noticing his kettle was empty, he’d gone to pour himself a cup of black tea when a knock came at the door.

  After being called on his door phone for the third time, he opened the front door, only to find standing on his porch a dark-brown-eyed boy of around twelve, holding a suitcase with both hands like some oversized accessory. From beneath his flaxen hair, stuck to his forehead with diluted sweat, Julian looked squarely at the young head of the Yang household.

  “Captain Yang Wen-li, I presume?”

  Yang wondered whether answering was necessary, since the boy’s question had answered itself. All the same, Yang stopped himself from irresponsibly sending the boy next door, nodding instead.

  “How do you do? My name is Julian Mintz. I’ve been assigned to take care of your house. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  When Julian was fourteen or fifteen, Yang asked himself whether having his ward take on additional duties would interfere with Julian’s love life. His doubt disappeared like the frost in spring sunlight when he heard one name:

  “I’m here by introduction of His Excellency Commodore Caselnes.”

  At that time, Yang was a captain and Caselnes was a commodore. Per the so-called Travers’s Law, orphans of those killed in action were fostered by other military families.

  “Back then, you’d come out onto the porch with a toothbrush in your mouth,” said Julian.

  But Yang had no memory of his crude appearance. He assumed the boy was imagining things, but when left to others’ judgment, the scales of faith always tilted in favor of Julian’s claims. Once, Caselnes had turned to Yang and said that whenever he wanted any kind of information or data about him, he would go ask Frederica Greenhill for anything related to government business and go ask Julian for personal matters. And why didn’t they just come to him? The answer was resolute.

  “Everybody wants accurate information. But can someone who mistakes left and right in a mirror draw an accurate self-portrait?”

  Yang objected to the metaphor, but couldn’t help thinking it was his personal duty to take to heart the harder-to-swallow assessments of friends and subordinates. Then again, it could also have been Caselnes’s way of mocking his junior classmate.

  Julian wasn’t the only one preparing for departure. Merkatz, who’d responded to his inaugural appointment to be secretary of defense for the galactic legitimate imperial government, and his aide, Commodore von Schneider, were likewise indisposed. In the end, Merkatz had to accept the position, after which Yang had no choice but to see him off. Von Schneider, for his part, would be standing in Merkatz’s shadow wherever he went.

  When Julian expressly visited Caselnes to say his goodbyes, the man responsible for introducing the boy to Yang said, “Don’t go sleeping around. You’ll make Charlotte cry.”

  It was hard to tell whether he was joking.

  Julian smiled uncomfortably, making a mental note of his own reaction.

  Julian’s expert dogfighting instructor, Lieutenant Commander Olivier Poplin, went against Caselnes’s grain.

  “If only you’d stayed on here at Iserlohn another year. There’s so much left for you to do.”

  “Yes, I wish I could’ve learned more from you.”

  “Yeah. And not just about spartanian piloting. I would rather have taught you more enjoyable things,” said the young ace pilot, knowing Yang would have had a hard time holding his tongue during this conversation.

  “When I was seventeen, I took down my first enemy plane and my first woman. I’ve been racking up victories ever since. Both are now in the triple digits.”

  Julian voiced his dry amazement and made no signs of wanting to say more. Had von Schönkopf been there, he would have offered some cynical comment—“It’s always been quantity over quality with you”—but the sixteen-year-old Julian didn’t have the wherewithal to voice it. By no influence of Yang’s, sometimes Julian blushed just being in the presence of Frederica Greenhill. He was still that way. Poplin felt like he was losing a protégé.

  Poplin’s comrade, Lieutenant Ivan Konev, first answered Julian’s farewell with a “Take care of yourself out there,” adding, “I think I’ve got a cousin on Phezzan. I’ve never met him, though. Phezzan is enormous.” He shook Julian’s hand and wished him well one last time.

  Chief of staff and rear admiral Murai, a meticulous man endowed with a fine intellect and meticulousness, as well as noble management skills, was in a league of his own. He rather had the air of a bureaucrat, and Julian had never gotten close to him, but Julian couldn’t afford not to give him parting regards. Welcoming the ceremonious boy into his room, Murai changed his tone after giving the usual formal encouragement.

  “Well, I guess I can say it now. It was my job to make Admiral Yang look better. Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m not trying to complain or be self-deprecating here.”

  Even as Murai was smiling, Julian realized he’d probably accused him with his eyes of being unfair to Yang.

  “Admiral Yang is that rare individual who combines both the temperament of a commander and the talent
of a staff officer. If such a person needed a staff officer, what would other people think? Knowing that, I just consulted with him about tactical operations.”

  Isn’t that the truth, thought Julian, but this time buried that thought behind a neutral expression. Murai smiled again.

  “When I aspired to serve as staff officer to the hero of El Facil, I asked myself, what is the role I must carry out? I didn’t have an answer until after the fall of Iserlohn. Only then did I understand my role. I deliberately recited commonsense arguments and went against Admiral Merkatz. It was a tough time. You understand what I’m getting at?”

  “Yes, I understand. But why tell me this now?” Julian couldn’t help but ask, shedding the skin of his surprise.

  “Why, indeed. It may not make much sense to talk like this, but it means there’s something in you that makes others trust you. I suppose both Admiral Yang and the rest of the gang tell you all sorts of things. Don’t ever lose that. It might just be your greatest asset down the line.”

  Although that last bit had come off as a stale sermon, Julian knew it was given in good faith. He gave his thanks, thinking he knew one possible reason why Murai had made such a good staff officer for Yang. Yang had justifiable reasons for choosing Murai as his chief of staff. But until hearing it from Murai himself, Julian had never thought he needed such insight into Yang.

  Julian said his goodbyes to Rear Admiral Fischer, Commodore Patrichev, and Rear Admiral Attenborough in turn. Each expressed regret in his own way. Fischer clasped Julian on the shoulder in silence, as did Patrichev, if a little too forcefully, and offered a few token words of encouragement. Attenborough gave him a rusty old copper key, saying it was a good-luck charm. When Julian asked what kind of luck it had brought him, Iserlohn’s youngest admiral gave him a broad smile.

  “Well, back when I was in my first year at the academy, whenever I used to break curfew and climb the fence, a certain on-duty upperclassman by the name of Yang Wen-li looked the other way.”

  And now that same insolent upperclassman was worried about Julian’s safety and was making von Schönkopf laugh.

  “That’s why Machungo’s going with him. You won’t find a more reliable bodyguard.”

  “But not even Machungo can be with Julian twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Don’t worry—Julian’s combat skills, with or without a sidearm, are better than yours, Your Excellency.”

  “When you talk about me like that…”

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  “No, just confused. Should I admire him or be worried that it doesn’t take much to be better than me?”

  “Let’s go with the former.”

  Yang gave up on the matter and took his leave.

  That evening, at dinner, Yang had a gift for Julian.

  “Take this with you when you go. It may be of some use.”

  Yang held out a debit card from Polaris, one of Phezzan’s five banks. The moment he took it, Julian was shocked to see that a new account had been opened in his name and that it contained an amount equivalent to half of Yang’s yearly salary. He tried to give it back, but the young black-haired admiral held up his hands in gentle refusal.

  “Really, I insist. Just take it with you. At least you’ll never have to worry about how to spend your money.”

  Yang, of course, made a good living for himself. Not only because he earned a high salary for his age, but also because he had a sense of economy that Julian himself had never developed. When Julian became a civil servant, Yang had expressed his doubts over, and dissatisfaction with, the wage system when his taxes suddenly spiked. Julian, in his own carelessness, had never realized he was no longer a dependent. It was only Yang’s frugality that saved him from bankruptcy. When it came to household supplies and attire, Yang was content with cheap goods and faded cotton shirts, so long as they weren’t in bad taste. When shopping for sunglasses, after listening to his employees rattle on for half an hour about niche brands, he had bought the most common mass-produced ones he could find. As far as he was concerned, sunglasses and other like accessories were fine so long as they had a little color. Neither did he care about first editions when buying books, and as far as alcohol was concerned, he didn’t have the palate to distinguish between a vintage wine from 760 years ago and one from 762 years ago. He had a weak attachment to material things. When it came to food, he did eat often at restaurants designated for high-ranking officers, but this was only so he could enjoy a certain freedom of conversation.

  Yang had gotten the idea for this sensible gift by borrowing from Frederica’s wisdom, and wasn’t so narrow-minded as to feel ashamed at having done so. One could, however, trace this motivation back to his father. “Having as much money as you can control,” he used to say, “guarantees uninterrupted freedom.”

  “Thank you very much. I won’t waste a cent of it, Admiral.”

  Acceptance of Yang’s good favor was the best way to reward it.

  “I don’t doubt it. Use it whenever you feel it’s necessary. One more thing. Would you deliver this letter to Admiral Bucock for me?”

  Yang gave Julian a handwritten letter.

  The letter would later become recognized proof that Yang Wen-li was no run-of-the-mill strategist, but an unimaginably significant one. It was, of course, impossible for Julian to see that far into the future. Its importance didn’t need to be stressed either way.

  “I’ll be sure to deliver it to him personally.”

  “See that you do.”

  Yang smiled before his expression changed.

  “Listen, Julian, this isn’t just anybody’s life we’re talking about here. It’s your life. Always remember to live for your own sake first. Beyond that…”

  Yang seemed poised to say more, but the well of his words ran temporarily dry. When he spoke again, it was impersonal.

  “Don’t catch cold. Stay healthy.”

  “And you as well, Admiral,” said Julian, shoring up the waves of his emotion. “Please try to cut down on the drinking if you can, all right? And eat more vegetables.”

  “Man, you never quit, do you?”

  Yang winked twice and took Julian’s hand. Yang’s was warm, dry, and soft to the touch. Julian would vividly remember that sensation for a long time to come.

  At noon on September 1, Julian Mintz left for Iserlohn Fortress aboard Thanatos III, along with Guest Admiral Merkatz, Lieutenant von Schneider, and Warrant Officer Machungo.

  Neither Julian nor Merkatz, nor even the fortress’s so-called master, Yang, were fond of ceremony, but the send-off was conducted on a scale some might have called grand. Admiral Yang, known for his “two-second speeches,” broke precedent by giving one a hundred times as long. Within what common sense still deemed a very short time, his innermost, if somewhat childish, thoughts became transparent to everyone in attendance.

  The departing received bouquets from ladies, but Julian Mintz, youngest ensign in history to become a resident officer on Phezzan, had the honor of a bouquet from Caselnes’s daughter, Charlotte Phyllis. This gesture garnered enthusiastic applause.

  The uniquely Iserlohnian event was not advertised to the public. Yang and Caselnes were at first opposed to the tradition of giving flowers. “You can’t eat bouquets,” they’d said.

  What settled it once and for all was something the commander’s aide, Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill, said after hearing out numerous irresponsible ideas from the other men.

  “For this kind of thing, a ceremony is necessary, but formality not so much.”

  Against this calmly delivered assertion, they had no objection.

  “And so, I ask you, my comrades, who is the wisest man in our lofty fortress of Iserlohn?”

  The story that ended with this very rude question made those who heard it laugh; those who brought up the subject barely tittered.

  Caselne
s and the others decided that either Rear Admiral von Schönkopf or Lieutenant Commander Poplin, if not both, were guilty of spreading the rumor throughout the fortress, although there was no way to prove it. The episode itself was not entirely believed to have taken place. In any case, Yang and, oddly enough, Caselnes felt increasingly useless. They were so impressed by the efficiency with which Frederica Greenhill managed everything, inspiring Poplin and the others to get their acts together.

  After the ceremony, when Frederica was called to Yang’s private room, the black-haired commander sat rudely with his feet stretched out on his desk and, with a brandy glass in one hand, gazed at the great ocean of stars outside his observation window in a funk. The brandy bottle, now two-thirds empty, sat proudly on his desk.

  “Admiral,” said Frederica softly, after a moment’s hesitation.

  Yang turned around with the expression of a boy caught misbehaving, but Frederica wasn’t in the mood for games today.

  “He’s gone now.”

  “Yeah.”

  Yang nodded, placed his empty glass on the desk, and started to pour another before putting it back. Frederica couldn’t tell whether his restraint was for her sake or for that of someone who was no longer there.

  “I suppose he’ll be a bit taller the next time we meet,” he said to himself.

  Little did he know how true that would turn out to be.

  I

  “Order of one hundred million people and one million ships.”

  Those words were being whispered throughout the halls of Imperial Military Command Headquarters after the stern declaration of war on the Free Planets Alliance and the legitimate imperial government by the fleet’s supreme commander, Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm. After “discipline by military force” was declared, those young commoners not on the military roll came running in droves from their jobs and schools to the navy’s recruitment offices. Among them were many who’d quit the service and returned temporarily to their hometowns and were now throwing their tranquil lives away to resume their place in the ranks.