It was under these circumstances that Yang permitted himself to be observed by Ratzel. Even in a democratic regime like the Alliance Armed Forces, let alone the Imperial Navy, commands from on high could be unfairly harsh. Of course, Yang couldn’t help but feel a certain level of discomfort with Ratzel’s boss.
“Lennenkamp holds rules and regulations to be self-evident. Even if going against them were justified, I doubt he’d even consider it. He’d do his worst, so long as it meant following the rules.”
Even if Yang was right, he didn’t care about rules. He simply hadn’t revealed how he felt, because he knew when and where to shout, “The king has donkey ears!” In any case, he’d somehow carved out a status for himself worthy of a pension. Then again, he’d also been denounced in a pointless court hearing like a meek lamb in a round of rulers and their lapdogs, as Caselnes and friends watched critically from the sidelines. But so long as the Galactic Empire existed, Yang’s military genius was indispensable. Removing him from the equation over questionable behavior was unthinkable. Despite being taunted mercilessly in court, he’d emerged from the discomfort of that memory having come to grips with Lennenkamp’s way of doing things.
“Then you don’t like Lennenkamp?”
To his wife’s intentionally reductive question, Yang answered:
“It’s not that I don’t like him. He just gets on my nerves is all.”
That was more than enough for Yang.
Yang wasn’t fond of scheming. He hated to look at himself when working out a plot to deceive others. But if Lennenkamp crossed the line and meddled in Yang’s personal affairs, he would resort to underhanded methods to drive him away. Yang’s nerves were still on edge. If push came to shove, he’d retaliate with another shove for good measure. He was fully prepared to meet any consequence of his return head-on.
Nevertheless, even if Yang outwitted Lennenkamp’s fastidiousness, it wasn’t likely that anyone more tolerant would be appointed in his place. He couldn’t afford the mistake of driving out a dog, only to then invite in a wolf. If someone like the coolheaded, astute Marshal von Oberstein, for example, were to come into the picture, Yang would feel mentally suffocated.
“That bastard Lennenkamp! I could…”
Realizing the indecency of what he was about to say, Yang acted the gentleman and redressed himself.
“Sure, it’d be ideal if Mr. Lennenkamp left us alone, but the problem is who would replace him. I’d gladly take advantage of a traitorous type who took pleasure in doing as he pleased behind the emperor’s back. But Emperor Reinhard has yet to appoint someone like that.”
“We can assume Emperor Reinhard would only appoint such a person if he himself were a corrupt ruler, right?”
“Ah, you’ve hit the mark there. That’s it exactly.” Yang exhaled through a bitter expression. “It behooves us not only to welcome the enemy’s corruption, but also to encourage it. Isn’t this a depressing topic? Whether in politics or the military, I know very well under whose jurisdiction evil lies. I bet God is enjoying every moment of this.”
Meanwhile, in the high commissioner’s office, Senior Admiral Lennenkamp was again giving orders to Captain Ratzel.
“Stay vigilant in your surveillance. That man is up to something—I can feel it. We must eliminate anything that could bring harm to the empire or His Majesty the Emperor before it becomes a reality.”
Ratzel was silent.
“Have you nothing to say?!”
“Yes. As you command, from now on I’ll keep an extra-close eye on Marshal Yang.” It was the answer of a talentless actor.
Seeing the way Lennenkamp’s mustache quivered, Ratzel knew his behavior was not at all to his superior’s liking.
“Captain,” said Lennenkamp, raising his voice. “Let me ask you something. Do we need to be obeyed, or do we need to be welcomed?”
Ratzel knew what his superior wanted to hear but hesitated to answer right away. He looked away again, his tone passionless.
“To be obeyed, of course, Your Excellency.”
“Exactly.”
Nodding gravely, Lennenkamp continued his tirade.
“We’re both victors and rulers. Building a new order is our responsibility. At this point, I no longer care about being ostracized by the losers. If we’re ever going to fulfill our grander duty here, then we must be steadfast in our determination and faith.”
Ernest Mecklinger likewise took down the following memo:
Most likely, the emperor will take the heat for this personnel selection failure. I don’t agree with that. The only reason the emperor hasn’t noticed Lennenkamp’s fixation with Yang Wen-li is because the emperor himself has none. Fixation with someone who has defeated oneself towers over the mind like an enormous mountain range. And while it’s possible for a bird with strong wings to fly over those mountains, to a bird who can’t, they are the very essence of hardship. In my opinion, Lennenkamp needs to strengthen his wings a bit more. The emperor didn’t appoint him to be Yang Wen-li’s jailor. Certainly, the emperor isn’t omnipotent. But it’s unacceptable to blame an astronomical telescope for not also functioning as a microscope.
III
Yang Wen-li wasn’t the only one under imperial surveillance. Most other high-level officers, at least those whose whereabouts were known, were being subjected to the same treatment. The Free Planets Alliance, after barely avoiding total domination by the Imperial Navy, was like a criminal on death row, waiting for the inevitable while authority figures rattled the cage with their sticks.
As an authorized staff member of the alliance government, Commissioner Lennenkamp was allowed the privilege of attending all official meetings. His presence was somewhere between nuisance and token member. Although barred from giving orders and expressing opinions, neither could the alliance debate freely for fear of what he might think.
João Lebello, who was both the alliance’s prime minister and chief executive officer as chairman of the High Council, had succeeded Job Trünicht after the latter had relinquished his political authority. Since nibbling on the sweet fruit of power, he’d been cultivating a withered orchard.
Lebello was determined not to give the empire any excuses. He would maintain the independence, if only nominally, of the Free Planets Alliance, which had two and a half centuries of history to show for itself. Sooner or later, the Free Planets Alliance would need to restore total independence. The Galactic Empire had enough military power to annex the Free Planets Alliance at any time it wished. That it hadn’t already done so didn’t mean it wouldn’t in the future. Emperor Reinhard was just waiting for a more opportune moment to fit that last piece into the puzzle of his rule.
The Bharat Peace Treaty was an invisible chain holding down the Free Planets Alliance’s limbs. Under Article 4, the alliance was required to pay an annual security tax of one trillion five hundred billion imperial reichsmark to the empire, thereby putting enormous financial pressure on the alliance. In accordance with Article 6, the Free Planets Alliance had dutifully enacted a national law against any activities that would hinder friendship with the empire. Lebello, along with proposing this Insurrection Act to congress, had to ban Article 7 of the Charter of the Alliance, which guaranteed freedom of speech and assembly, to which the principlists cried foul over this self-denial of a democratic government.
Lebello knew as much. But the world was in crisis mode, and wasn’t it worth amputating its necrosis-ridden arms to save the entire organism? In addition, Lebello was worried about the alliance’s greatest military hero, Yang Wen-li. Lebello had been deceived by the conservatives and could only shudder at the image of revolutionary banners unfurling on both the imperial and alliance sides.
Lebello knew full well that Yang Wen-li wasn’t the type of person to gain power by brute military force, as the last three years could attest. But just because Yang had acted one way in the past didn’t gu
arantee he would act predictably in the future. Former admiral Dwight Greenhill, the father of Yang’s new bride, had been a man of good sense, but had not political and diplomatic pressures compelled even him to side with the die-hards, driving him to instigate a coup d’état? And when Yang had suppressed the coup and rescued the democratic government, he had briefly been in a position to become a dictator himself. But immediately after liberating the occupied capital, he’d returned to the front lines, content in his position as commander of frontier defenses. Although Lebello thought that a praiseworthy action, people were malleable creatures. If a man like Yang, no longer able to withstand the monotonous life of retirement, were to have his dormant ambitions awakened, there was no telling what he might be capable of and to what lengths he’d be willing to go to protect the integrity of his ideals.
And so, the very government from which Yang Wen-li was receiving his pension was also keeping a close eye on him. The reality of the situation might go over Yang’s head, but it was only a matter of time before he connected all the dots. For all Lebello knew, maybe Yang already had. Yang was no masochist, and found no joy whatsoever in being the target of constant surveillance. Still, he had no desire to make a show of his objections, if only because he knew that the present government was in a tough spot. He couldn’t help but sympathize, to a point. Besides, no manner of protest would stop visitors from showing up at his door unannounced. For now, he could only play things by ear and see where it led him.
Whatever others expected of him, however they presumed to interfere, Yang intended to enjoy the rest of his life, relaxed and paid for. That is, until something unexpected took place the next day that changed his mind forever.
His new wife, Frederica, like her slothful husband, did little else other than eat and sleep. Aside from scribbling down his randomly dictated flashes of historical insight, she spent her time relaxing. That didn’t mean, however, that she enjoyed this unproductive, ordinary life. Had she followed her husband’s example, the home she’d just made would have become a weed-infested garden soon enough. At the very least, she wanted to maintain it as their sanctuary.
Their newlywed home had become a training ground for her role as housewife, and she took to it with wavering commitment. As a girl, she’d managed the house in place of her ailing mother, but in retrospect, her father had done much to ease her burdens until she’d entered the Officers’ Academy and left the house at sixteen. Food was rarely a focus of curriculum at the academy, where she learned which plants were okay to eat should she ever find herself lost in the wilderness, but never how to make a home-cooked meal. Although she’d planned to teach herself one day, and despite a superior memory that had earned her the nickname of “Walking Computer” at the academy, she felt inadequate when it came to domestic life. Maybe she just needed practice.
In the file of her memory, five thousand years’ worth of human history and the exploits of Yang’s combat experience and commendations had been perfectly catalogued, yet no amount of scholarship or lofty philosophy came in handy when brewing her husband’s favorite black tea or planning a menu that would stimulate his appetite in the summer months.
Yang had never once complained about the meals Frederica prepared. Whether because he truly liked her cooking, because he didn’t like it but was being considerate of her feelings, or because he just didn’t even care, was beyond her. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t long before she’d exhausted her culinary repertoire and found herself wanting to learn more.
“Darling,” she asked timidly, “are you at all dissatisfied with my cooking or the way I keep house?”
“Not at all. Especially that thing you made…Well, whatever it was called, it was delicious.”
Frederica hardly felt comforted by this enthusiastic yet vague response.
“I just wish I could give you more variety. Cooking has never been my strong suit.”
“Your cooking is fine, honest. Oh yes, remember that sandwich you made for me when we were fleeing El Facil? That was really tasty.”
Even Yang wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or just paying lip service. After all, that was eleven years ago. Frederica appreciated that he was trying to put his wife at ease, but she hoped he would be more forthcoming about these things without her having to ask.
“Sandwiches are all I’m good at making. Actually, that’s not true. I can also make crepes, hamburgers…”
“So, basically, you’re an expert when it comes to anything with layers, right?”
But Yang’s attempts at being impressed, whether generous or thickheaded, made Frederica call her abilities into question. Was “Breakfast: Egg Sandwich, Lunch: Ham Sandwich, Dinner: Sardine Sandwich” the only kind of menu she knew how to devise? Did the full extent of her abilities in the kitchen fit only between two layers of dough?
Four years of dorm life at the Officers’ Academy and five years of military life had left her ill prepared for her new role as housewife.
Julian Mintz, before leaving for Earth, had given her instruction on brewing a strong black tea to Yang’s liking. With masterful care, he’d demonstrated the perfect temperature of the water and the exact timing involved, but when he’d complimented Frederica’s attempts to replicate the process, she’d wondered if he was being genuine, because it never came out the same whenever she tried making it for Yang. Clearly, her husband looked at the world very differently than she did. She wanted them to be on the same page, but it seemed Yang was already skipping ahead to the end without caring much for the events leading them there.
IV
Alex Caselnes, known as the cubicle king of the Alliance Armed Forces for aiding Yang with countless administrative tasks, also couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched by the Imperial Navy. Convinced his house had been bugged, he avoided speaking with Yang on the visiphone. One day, while sipping coffee next to his knitting wife, he tutted at the five surveillance guards outside his window.
“Look at them, working so hard day after day. And for what?”
“At least we don’t need to worry about getting robbed, dear. Public funds are paying for our protection. Shouldn’t we be grateful for that? Maybe I could offer them some tea or dessert?”
“Have it your way,” her husband said, only half-listening.
Mrs. Caselnes made coffee for five, then told their daughter, Charlotte Phyllis, to call in the most arrogant-looking guard she could find. Soon after, the nine-year-old led a young, freckled noncommissioned officer inside, his arm linked doubtfully with hers. The officer was visibly uncomfortable and regretfully declined the coffee offered to him, saying he wasn’t allowed to engage in any activities that might distract him from his work while on duty. After the officer apologized and returned to his watch, it fell upon Caselnes to figure out how to conserve those five cups of coffee. But his wife’s gesture had its desired effect, as from that point on the guards softened up whenever they saw the couple’s two children running about.
A few days later, Mrs. Caselnes made a raspberry pie and told her daughters to bring it to the Yang house. Charlotte Phyllis held the pie box in one hand and her younger sister’s hand in the other, prompting forced smiles from the imperial surveillance team as they approached the door and rang the intercom.
“Hello, Uncle Yang, Big Sister Frederica.”
To these innocent, if unwittingly demeaning, forms of address, the master of the Yang household felt a twinge of wounded pride, but his new wife cordially invited the two small messengers inside all the same and rewarded them, as Julian Mintz once had, for their labor with a honeyed milkshake. To soothe her deflated husband, Frederica cheerfully cut the pie, only to discover a water-resistant bag inside containing several carefully folded clandestine messages.
Thus, Marshal Yang and Vice Admiral Caselnes hit upon an underhanded, if pedestrian, way to communicate with each other. And while the sheer audacity of i
t was enough to fly under the surveillance guards’ radar, they were careful not to abuse it. In any event, it didn’t take long before Frederica had exhausted her repertoire of cakes and pies, which were already hard enough to make. This gave her the perfect excuse to visit Mrs. Caselnes on a more regular basis in order to learn more recipes. It wasn’t a total lie, because she did want a reliable teacher to school her in not only the ways of the kitchen, but also domestic life in general.
It was on this pretext that the young couple brought a gift to the Caselnes household. When she went out onto the street, Frederica was met with scornful glares from the locals. This was more than understandable, given that the cause of their oppression was standing right before them. It was in moments like these that, despite her best efforts to ignore the surveillance guards, Frederica was glad for their presence.
Two fully armed imperial soldiers turned idly in her direction. That they shed not a single bead of sweat, despite being drenched in the summer sun, was just one of many indications of their rigorous training and combat experience. Such burliness lent them a rather inorganic, unworldly countenance that was at once comforting and unsettling. Still, they trembled once they locked Yang in their sights. They all knew his face from their solivisions, but to them a marshal wasn’t supposed to lead so simple a life as to walk around unguarded in broad daylight in a faded cotton shirt. Clearly, he’d lost his mind, and it was the first time they’d seen an expression that was even remotely human on his face.
Seeing that the young newlyweds were standing outside their gate on the monitor, Caselnes called out to his wife.
“Hey, Mrs. Yang is here.”
“Really? By herself?”
“No, hubby’s with her, too. Although if you ask me, I’m not sure a commander and his aide make for the most compatible match.”
“I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Caselnes, offering her calm assessment. “They’re much too big for the civilian life. I think settling down would be a mistake for them. I’m sure they’ll take off to wherever it is they belong soon enough. Their destiny is out there somewhere.”
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 6 Page 8