Ambition

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Brainwash him, you mean?” Reinhard could not muster favorable feelings toward chemical or neuro-electrical brainwashing.

  His chief of staff only smiled and for a moment said not a word. “I’ll do nothing so uncouth as that,” von Oberstein said at last. “Please, just leave everything to me. Then you can watch as I sow a seed of mutual distrust among the nobles …”

  “Very well, then, I leave it in your hands.”

  As Reinhard spoke, a report came in from a communications officer.

  Ofresser, the officer said, had appeared on the comm screen. At the news that he was triumphantly shouting something, Reinhard had him patch the feed through to his viewscreen.

  “Is the golden brat brave enough to look me in the eye—even through a viewscreen?”

  Ofresser was still wearing the helmet and took up the whole of the screen with his huge frame. His armor was darkly stained with human blood, and there were even bits of flesh stuck to it here and there. Around Reinhard, there were growls of anger and gasps of fear.

  That was how the bestial giant looked as he began hurling insults at Reinhard through his armor’s comm system. After calling him a traitor who had trampled on the favor of the imperial family, a coward, an immoral monster, and an inexperienced whelp who had just gotten lucky, he added, “And you and your sister both used sex to deceive our prior emperor—”

  It was in that instant that the cool reason in Reinhard’s graceful features went flying to the wayside, yielding its seat to an explosive anger. Lightning flashed in those ice-blue eyes, and the sound of grinding teeth slipped from between his finely shaped lips.

  “Von Reuentahl! Mittermeier!”

  “Sir!”

  “Drag that obscene oaf before me. Alive. Even if you have to rip off his arms and his legs, do not kill him. I am going to tear his filthy mouth to shreds with my own two hands!”

  The two admirals exchanged a glance. That was going to be a tall order. Too late, they realized for certain that Reinhard was just another creature of emotion.

  V

  The grenadiers of Reinhard’s force were about to assay their tenth charge. A barricade of corpses had been erected in their way, and Ofresser’s squadron, tipsy under the influence of the drugs and the bloodshed, glared at the enemy with glistening eyes.

  “If you’re gonna come, you cowardly mice, then hurry up and come!”

  His ferocious cries tore through the air.

  “I’m gonna throw your bodies in a pot and make me a big mess of fricassee! Though I can imagine how bad the meat from the lowly birthed will taste. Still, you can’t be picky on the battlefield.”

  “Barbarian,” von Reuentahl spat. “Like the supreme commander said, he’s a hero from the Stone Age. He was just born twenty thousand years too late.”

  “And that means we’re going to have a pretty rough time of it twenty thousand years later,” Mittermeier added bitterly. He summoned his aide and ordered him to bring two suits of power armor.

  “Admiral, you’re not both thinking of facing him yourselves?!”

  “We’re going to be the bait,” said von Reuentahl. “That makes a certain trap more complete … How are preparations coming for your charge?”

  “I think we’re just about ready, sir. But there’s nothing Your Excellencies need do yourselves.”

  “The two of us are both full admirals,” said von Reuentahl. “That beast Ofresser’s a senior admiral. It would be nice if that made things even.”

  How would Ofresser react when Mittermeier and von Reuentahl appeared together before him? Judging by his apparent state of mind, there should be no way he would let anyone else have such valuable prey. It was clear he would come running forward eager for single combat—a part of humanity’s heritage handed down since the Stone Age.

  For their trick to succeed, bait was essential, and that bait had to be delicious.

  If it were Reinhard himself, the conditions would be perfect, but as that might actually end up making the mechanism a little too obvious, it was the two of them who were most appropriate.

  They got into their power armor, and as soon as they stepped into the corridor, excited whispers escaped from among Ofresser’s men. As the bravery of von Reuentahl and Mittermeier was widely known, there would be great honor for the man who took their lives. After silencing them, the giant glared at the two admirals.

  “He thinks you can win by coming at me together? Is that the extent of the brat’s wit?”

  “We won’t ever know unless we try,” Mittermeier shot back. Taking that as a disrespectful challenge, Ofresser stepped over the barricade of dead bodies and came out to approach them. He walked with large strides. Even through his armor, the energy of his ferocious desire to kill overwhelmed the place. Eyes shining with bloodthirstiness, he sprung toward the two men—

  And in that instant, Ofresser’s towering form grew shorter. Although his stature came to nearly 200 centimeters, his head was suddenly far lower than that of the 184-centimeter von Reuentahl or the 172-centimeter Mittermeier. Enemy and ally alike swallowed their breath as if they had just witnessed magic. Could what they had seen have really just happened?

  The floor had subsided beneath him. Ofresser had sunk into the floor up to his chest, and his arms had just barely stopped him from sinking farther. The two-handed tomahawk that was his other self had fallen to the floor about one meter away.

  It was a pitfall, a hole gouged out of a floor made from compound crystalline fibers. Or more precisely, irradiation by inverted populations of hydrogen and fluoride had been carried out over a period of three hours from the level underneath the sixth corridor, weakening the fibers’ molecular bonds so they could not withstand the shock of Ofresser’s weight and actions.

  Mittermeier leapt forward and kicked the tomahawk out of Ofresser’s reach. Ofresser’s face, stunned at this unexpected reversal, turned a reddish purple inside his helmet as he realized his circumstances.

  “We have Ofresser!” shouted von Reuentahl. “And we’ve no use for the rest of them. All armored grenadiers: charge!”

  Von Reuentahl picked up the tomahawk that his colleague had kicked away and favored his prey with a cold smile.

  “I thought we’d need a trap to catch a wild beast, and you’ve fallen into it splendidly. A cheap trap that no one but you would get caught in.”

  “Coward!”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  A stream of charging soldiers brushed against his side as they

  passed.

  Having lost their commander, Ofresser’s men drew back from the charge of Reinhard’s invigorated forces. Perhaps when they lost their daring commander their fighting spirit had dried up like a puddle under the blazing sun.

  Reinhard’s vengefully rampaging forces closed in on Ofresser’s men and, with swings of their tomahawk battle-axes, set to the slaughter. Twice, waves of a counterattack rolled against them, and twice, they crushed them.

  Corridor Six had been secured—and painted red.

  Bound with two sets of handcuffs, wearing an electric helmet used in executions, and with as many as a dozen guns pointed at him, Ofresser was dragged in front of the comm screen.

  Faced with the gleaming flames of Reinhard’s fury and hatred, as well as nearly certain death, Ofresser kept his head raised haughtily. Whatever the man’s shortcomings, it was certain that he was no coward.

  However, the comm screen was shut down right away. On the flagship Brünhild, the chief of staff was trying to change his commander’s mind.

  “Killing him is easy, but Ofresser has no fear of death. Not only that, killing him now would elevate his reputation, make him an indomitable hero—a martyr for the Goldenbaum Dynasty. Surely that’s not what you wish.”

  Reinhard didn’t answer.

  The storm that was raging inside him was clear to see
in his ice-blue eyes. At last, his tightly clenched lips parted as he pushed out a brief question.

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Send him back to the nobles’ home base. Unharmed, of course.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  It was Mittermeier who had shouted. His young countenance was flushed with anger and alarm.

  “After all that hard work … after letting all those soldiers die, we finally caught that wild animal! And you say you’re going to set him free? No matter how generously he might be treated, that tomahawk of his will still spill a lot of our people’s blood on the next battlefield. You can bet on it—not that there’s anything to be gained even if you win that bet. I acknowledge no reason to keep him alive. We should execute him immediately.”

  “Agreed,” said von Reuentahl, succinctly but in a strong tone of voice. What was von Oberstein doing, turning an untamable beast loose in the field? He demanded that very answer, but the chief of staff remained unmoved.

  “When the nobles see Ofresser returned unharmed, what do you think they’ll believe?” he said. “They’ve always been a suspicious lot—and we have executed sixteen of the top leaders among Ofresser’s subordinates, scenes of which even the nobles have been made aware of by FTL. If Ofresser returns, alone and unharmed, after that …”

  “All right,” Reinhard said, cutting off von Oberstein. The light in his eyes was changing to that of fierce but suppressed emotion. He looked at his two hardworking and dissatisfied subordinates. “You have to recognize that, too. I want to let von Oberstein handle this. Any objections?”

  “None, milord. As Your Excellency wishes.”

  Von Reuentahl and Mittermeier answered as one. They, too, had realized what von Oberstein intended. The slight bitterness in their expressions was probably because it wasn’t to their tastes.

  Ofresser was released, and even given a shuttle with FTL capability. Modest words of gratitude were not exactly forthcoming from his lips, but it was a fact that he was dumbfounded. Head tilted in bewilderment, he boarded the shuttle and departed the fortress.

  Sixteen of Ofresser’s colleagues and subordinates had been publicly disposed of by firing squad. Staden had been taken prisoner still lying in his hospital bed. The young imperial marshal had seen no need to meet with him.

  VI

  While Ofresser had not set his hopes so high as to expect a hero’s welcome and cheers of adulation, the circumstances that greeted him upon his arrival at the confederated military’s home base of Gaiesburg were nonetheless outside his expectations.

  When he sent the transmission telling of his safe return, the comm officer had reacted with utter shock, and when the shuttle put into port, it was immediately surrounded—not by beautiful women carrying bouquets of flowers, but by heavily armed soldiers.

  “And you would be Senior Admiral Ofresser, who fought so valiantly at Rentenberg?” The man speaking in these affected tones was Commodore Ansbach, architect of the plan to escape Odin and said to be Duke von Braunschweig’s right-hand man.

  “Can’t you tell by looking?” Ofresser said, irritated.

  “I’m only making sure. Our leader awaits, so please, come this way.”

  From there, the hero of Rentenberg was conducted to a wide and spacious auditorium. Rows of officers and soldiers who were seated there turned their gazes toward him, but there was no warmth to be found in any of their eyes.

  At the top of the steps leading up to the stage was a gorgeously fashioned chair, in which Duke von Braunschweig was sitting. He wore a haughty demeanor, although there was also something awkward about it, as though he were some sort of emperor in training.

  “It’s good to see you’ve returned alive and well, Ofresser.” The tone was clearly one reserved for interrogations. “Those who were chief among your subordinates have, to the last man, been publicly executed. So why have you alone returned here alive?”

  “Executed?”

  Ofresser’s mouth fell open wide. His jaws were filled with false teeth; just like the scar on his cheek, they were proof of a fighter who had lived through the purgatory of hand-to-hand combat. Angry shouts mingled with mocking sarcasm hit the face of the dumbfounded, slack-jawed senior admiral.

  “You boneheaded oaf! Take a look at this!”

  Video footage began to play on a screen on the wall. Ofresser gave a low growl. Familiar faces were lined up in a row. This was the scene of their public execution by Reinhard’s forces at Rentenberg Fortress. Overwhelming emotions of terror and defeat showed in those faces—faces that one by one became empty holes in the instant the laser beams pierced their brains.

  “How about it, Ofresser? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  But Ofresser was still speechless.

  “I think that you alone have returned to us alive because you’ve betrayed us and sold your conscience to the golden brat. Shameless dog! What did you promise him? To bring him my head?”

  Across Ofresser’s craggy countenance, there suddenly spread an expression of fury and understanding, and he opened his mouth once again.

  “A trap! This is a trap! You idiots! Can’t you see that?”

  It was less a cry that a roar. The officers and soldiers who had been forming a human wall around him jumped backward as though pressed by some unseen energy. Several hands reflexively reached for the blasters on their belts.

  “Shoot him!” cried von Braunschweig. “Shoot him dead!”

  That order summoned chaos instead of calm. Although blasters were quickly drawn, everyone knew the danger of firing in the middle of a crowd.

  The flash of a monstrous fist caught one of the soldiers on the jaw. With a grotesque sound, his lower jaw broke, and the soldier went flying through the air.

  The rampaging giant roared the words “This is a trap!” again and again as he charged toward Duke von Braunschweig, who was seated at the top of the stairs. Even if he had only meant to get the man to listen, it certainly didn’t look that way to others. Commodore Ansbach’s orders rang out, and a few dozen soldiers moved to stand between the duke and Ofresser. Blocking his way forward, they swung the barrels of their laser rifles down on the bare-handed giant. It was a literal beatdown. Skin split, blood splattered, and the sounds of new depression fractures rang out. A normal man would have collapsed, or possibly even died on the spot. But Ofresser’s charge wasn’t even slowed. Knocked off their feet, crying out in pain, soldiers tumbled down the stairs in an avalanche.

  Spitting saliva mixed with blood onto the floor, Commodore Ansbach got back to his feet. He had been one of the ones knocked down. Smoothing his disheveled hair with one hand, he drew his blaster with the other.

  The commodore approached Ofresser, steadying his breathing, though there was no unsteadiness in his footsteps. The senior admiral-turned-blood-splattered colossus leveled the dull light of his gaze upon this new enemy, and then, with a growl, reached out for him with thick, massive arms. With a light backstep, the commodore dodged out of the way, then quickly pressed the barrel of his sidearm against his opponent’s ear. He pulled the trigger.

  Accompanied by a flash of light, blood burst out from the ear on the other side of Ofresser’s head.

  Rippling convulsions ran through Ofresser’s huge form. When they subsided, that huge, lifeless mass of muscle stood unmoving for a few seconds, as though supported by the hands of some unseen god, but at last fell forward onto the stairs. When his forehead struck the corner of a step, a hollow sound rang out, the final chord of a gruesome capriccio. As they surrounded the body, no one said a word for a time.

  “That traitor!”

  At last Duke von Braunschweig began slinging invective in a loud voice, though a thin veil of terror yet clung to his face.

  “He gave himself away in the end—how dare that rabid dog try to harm me …”

  Commodore Ansbach cleared hi
s throat. “So you say, but did he really intend to betray us?”

  “It’s a little late to be asking that. If that’s what you think, why did you shoot him?”

  Ansbach shook his head, again messing up his just-straightened hair.

  “That was to protect the life of Your Excellency the Duke. Still, it’s possible, isn’t it, that he rampaged out of shock at finding himself under suspicion and because he realized—as he himself said—that he was caught in a trap.”

  “Possibly. But what of it if he did? He’s dead now, and will never carry a tomahawk again. Even if he did it because he’d betrayed us, even if he was trying to do me harm, drawing distinctions at this point is meaningless.”

  “Understood. In that case, then, how do you wish to explain this incident? I mean, we’re talking about Senior Admiral Ofresser’s cause of death …”

  A series of riots would, to the order and discipline of the confederated noble military, have been highly ignominious, and so Ansbach, wondering aloud, asked indirectly if it might be best to smooth things over with a story about him dying of illness.

  Duke von Braunschweig rose from his chair. Displeasure was plain to see in his face and in his movements. His nerves had always had little elasticity, and now it looked like they were ready to snap at any moment.

  “Even if we did ‘smooth things over,’ that doesn’t mean we could get away with hiding this. Ofresser was executed for the crime of betraying his comrades. Transmit that to all forces.”

  Their leader departed, his every step a kick against the floor, and when he was gone, Ansbach shrugged one shoulder and ordered the soldiers to carry away the body of that giant who in life had been praised for his daring and feared for his brutality. The vacant eyes of the dead man seemed to glare at Ansbach. In a tired-sounding voice, he murmured, “Don’t give me that resentful look … I don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow, either. It may well be you will give thanks in Valhalla that you could die before today was over.”

  The commodore shuddered. He himself had heard an oddly prophetic ring in those words.