Lebello nodded but could think of no better plan to rescue their nation from danger.
If asked to personify the questionable existence of fate, Lebello was convinced its limbs would flail around as its central nervous system struggled to control itself. In any case, the situation was quickly escalating.
The next day, on the twenty-first, the chairman was paid a visit by Enrique Martino Borges de Arantes e Oliveira, who oversaw the central think tank of the alliance government as president of Central Autonomous Governance University, a training school for government bureaucrats. They met for three hours for a closed-door discussion. When they came out of the chairman’s office, several guards observed that Lebello’s lips were pursed in an expression of defeat, while Oliveira wore a thin, insincere smile. In that meeting, a proposition was made that was even more radical than Lebello’s original decision.
On the following day, the twenty-second, morning dawned peacefully on the Yang household. Frederica’s hard work and effort had paid off. Her cheese omelets were now to both of their liking, and her black tea–brewing skills were improving. Although it was summer, Heinessenpolis was spared the heat and humidity of the tropical zones. The wind passing through the trees layered their skin with the fragrances of chlorophyll and sunlight. Yang had carried his desk and chair to the terrace so that he could try his hand at writing out some of his thoughts, basking in the waltz of light and wind composed by summer. He had a distinct feeling that he was setting down what would one day become a famous literary composition. Or maybe he was just deluded.
Ninety percent of the reasons for war will be shocking to posterity. As for the other 10 percent, how much more shocking to those of us in the here and now…
When he’d written that far, rustic sounds echoed from all directions, and the pleasant summer waltz faded in a flourishing cadence. Yang looked toward the entranceway and knitted his brow when he saw a tense Frederica leading half a dozen men in dark suits toward the terrace. The men introduced themselves gruffly. Their leader shot a glance at Yang.
“Your Excellency Marshal Yang, by authority of the Central Public Prosecutor’s Office, you are hereby detained on charges of violating the Insurrection Act. You will come with me at once, unless you’d like to contact your lawyer first?”
“Sadly, I don’t know any lawyers,” said Yang, discouraged. He then politely asked to see some identification.
Frederica examined it for him. After determining its veracity, she visiphoned the Public Prosecutor’s Office to confirm. Frederica’s uneasiness was palpable. The nation and government weren’t always right, as she well knew, and Yang knew better than to resist arrest.
“Don’t you worry,” he said to his wife. “I’m not sure what crime I’ve committed, but there’s no way they’ll execute me without a trial. This is still a democracy. Or so our politicians say.”
He was, of course, speaking also to his uninvited messengers. Yang gave Frederica a kiss, a skill in which he’d made no improvement since getting married. With that, the youngest marshal in the history of the Alliance Armed Forces, in his off-white safari jacket and T-shirt, was forced to bid farewell to his beautiful wife.
After watching her husband go, Frederica rushed back into the house. She threw her apron onto the sofa, opened a drawer in her computer desk, and took out a blaster. Grabbing half a dozen energy capsules in her palm, she walked upstairs to the bedroom.
She came back down ten minutes later, clad in her active-duty uniform. Her beret, jumper, and half boots were all black, the scarf and slacks ivory white. In mind, body, and attire, Frederica was armed to the teeth.
She stood before the body-length mirror at the bottom of the stairs, adjusted the beret sitting on her golden-brown hair, and checked the position of the holster at her hip. Unlike her husband, she’d graduated from Officers’ Academy with full honors and was an excellent markswoman. Even when devoting herself to desk work as Yang’s aide at HQ, she never parted with her blaster and wore the same uniform as her male counterparts, always prepared to fight back in the unlikely event that enemy soldiers ever stormed the premises.
With everything in order, she spoke to her reflection in the mirror.
“If you think for one second we’re going to let you run our lives, you’re sorely mistaken. The more you beat us, the more your hands will hurt. Just you wait and see.”
This was Frederica’s declaration of war.
IV
Despite not being handcuffed, Yang Wen-li was dragged into one of the low-rise buildings of the Central Public Prosecutor’s Office, dubbed “the Oubliette.” It was a place where suspected high-level criminals were detained and interrogated. The detention room was comparable in size and amenities to a high-ranking officer’s private suite on a spaceship. It was, he thought, far preferable to the room he had been thrown into at the time of his hearing two years before, although the comparison did little to console him.
The public prosecutor was a dignified man past middle age, but the daggers in his eyes cut against the grain of his gentlemanly good looks. To him, there were only two types of people: those who’d committed crimes and those who’d yet to try. After dispensing with a customary greeting, the prosecutor looked at the young black-haired marshal like a chef eyeing his ingredients.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Admiral. Recently some odd rumors have come our way.”
“Is that so?”
It seemed the prosecutor hadn’t been expecting that answer. He’d rather expected Yang to deny it.
“Do you even want to know the nature of the rumor?”
“Not really.”
The prosecutor flung needles of hatred from his squinted eyes, but Yang ignored them with characteristic nonchalance. Even under the unilateral prosecution of his trial, he’d never deferred to intimidation. The prosecutor, for his part, stumbled over Yang’s renown and status, and decided it was better to dial down on the bad-cop routine.
“People are saying that Admiral Merkatz, supposedly killed in action during the Vermillion War, is, in fact, still alive.”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh, is it now? The world must always be so full of surprises for you, eh?”
“Indeed. I live every day as if it were the first.”
The prosecutor’s cheek muscles twitched. He wasn’t used to being mocked. Usually the ones who came before him were in a much weaker position.
“Then it should be the first time you’re hearing of this as well. There’s a rumor going around that the one who faked Admiral Merkatz’s death and aided in his escape is none other than you, Admiral Yang.”
“Oh, so I’ve been arrested on nothing more than a passing rumor without a shred of evidence to support it?”
Yang was raising his voice, half-earnest in his anger. He’d relented when presented with an arrest warrant and had succumbed to being questioned, but if the warrant was founded on nothing, then who in the government had sanctioned it? As if to underscore Yang’s uneasiness, the prosecutor went silent.
Around the time of Yang’s arrest, an official notice was sent out to the following effect:
“Regarding the arrest of retired marshal Yang, there is a possibility that his old subordinates will transgress our lawful order and resort to taking matters into their own hands. Regardless of whether they are active or retired, you are to keep a close eye on the Yang fleet’s old leaders and put a stop to any potential danger before it develops.”
This notice was a double-edged sword. Vice Admirals Walter von Schönkopf and Dusty Attenborough, who’d retired from service to become ordinary civilians, had already guessed as much by the sudden appearance of surveillance guards. But von Schönkopf’s feelers were much longer and more sensitive than the government could imagine. He had, more boldly and more meticulously than Yang, been carrying out underground activities of his own as a conspirator.
On that day, at eight o’clock in the evening, Attenborough was called by von Schönkopf, whereupon he headed for the restaurant known as March Hare. On the way, he turned to look behind him several times, bothered as he was by the guards tailing him. Upon entering the restaurant, a gentlemanly mustached waiter led him to a corner seat. Wine and meals were waiting for him at the table, as was von Schönkopf.
“Vice Admiral Attenborough,” he said, smiling. “I see you brought an entourage with you.”
“Retirement does have its perks.”
They noticed that both surveillance teams had come together along a wall not ten meters from their table.
It wasn’t as if the alliance government had the wherewithal to surveil every retired military leader, and neither did the Imperial Navy. The lenses of prejudice and caution, mused Attenborough, were focused solely on the Yang fleet’s staff officers.
“Is it true that Admiral Yang has been arrested, Vice Admiral von Schönkopf?”
“I heard it directly from Lieutenant Commander Greenhill—Mrs. Yang, that is. It has to be true.”
“But they have no right. What excuse could they possibly have to…”
Attenborough broke off there. He couldn’t stop the powerful from doing whatever they wanted when they believed in their right to monopolize interpretations of “justice” and to alter the dictionary as it suited their needs.
“Even so, to execute Admiral Yang at this point would give those aimless, smoldering anti-imperial tendencies a symbol around which to rally, then erupt. Then again, knowing them, I’m sure they’re aware of that already.”
“If you ask me, that’s exactly what the Imperial Navy is hoping for.”
Attenborough caught his breath at von Schönkopf’s answer, letting out a sound like a whistle that ended before it began.
“You mean they’ll use this as a reason to round up the entire anti-imperial faction?”
“And Admiral Yang will be their bait.”
“How very cunning.”
Attenborough clicked his tongue loudly. The empire, he thought, wouldn’t be satisfied until it had gained total domination over the alliance, and the very thought of the underhanded methods they’d used to deceive their commanders made his skin crawl.
“Will the alliance government allow itself to be taken for that ride?”
“About that…Cunning as the trap may be, I can’t believe anyone in the alliance government won’t see right through it. The kicker is that everyone will have to go along with it, knowing it’s a trap all the while.”
Attenborough agreed with what von Schönkopf left unsaid.
“I see. So, if the alliance government refuses to execute Admiral Yang, that’s an automatic violation of the Bharat Treaty?”
And an ideal excuse for the empire to conquer the alliance once and for all. The alliance government couldn’t afford another war. According to their logic, the unfair death of a hundred people was preferable to the unfair death of a hundred million. Attenborough frowned.
“Of course, now I get it! The alliance government has only one choice, and that is to prevent the Imperial Navy from sticking its nose into this and to dispose of Admiral Yang by their own hands.”
Von Schönkopf praised this colleague five years his junior for his acumen. Since receiving Frederica G. Yang’s transmission, which had likely been tapped, the alliance government had been trying to read through a hastily cobbled script to deal with the situation. In his head, a completed crossword would look something like this:
“Here we have a group called the anti-imperial extremists,” explained von Schönkopf, lowering his voice. “Without knowing what the alliance government has done to stave off total subjugation on the part of the empire, all they can do is shout their democratic principles from the rooftops. They put Admiral Yang on a pedestal as national hero and try to bring down the current alliance government as a challenge to the empire, regardless of the consequences.”
Von Schönkopf went on:
“And yet, as an apostle of democracy, Admiral Yang refuses to bring down the government through violent means. Enraged, the extremists denounce Admiral Yang as a traitor and ultimately kill him. The Alliance Armed Forces rush in but are too late to rescue Admiral Yang, even if they are successful in annihilating the extremists. Admiral Yang becomes an invaluable human sacrifice toward protecting the democratic principles of his motherland. It’s pretty seamless, don’t you think?”
Von Schönkopf smiled bitterly. Attenborough lightly brushed his brow, transferring cold beads of sweat to his fingertips.
“But does the alliance government have the guts to pull it off?”
Von Schönkopf turned to someone who wasn’t there with a look of contempt.
“A despotic government and a democratic government may wear different clothes, but people in power never change. They feign innocence for the wars they started, claiming only the achievements of bringing those wars to an end. They sacrifice anyone outside their circle, shedding their crocodile tears. Such performances are their forte.”
Attenborough nodded and brought the whisky glass to his lips, but his hand stopped in midair and he lowered his voice further.
“Then whatever are those of us shouldering the honor of being extremist military leaders supposed to do?”
Von Schönkopf seemed pleased with his young colleague’s discernment.
“Then you also think we have a part to play in their little scenario?”
“It’s pretty obvious. They’d even use Admiral Yang and throw him away like unwanted trash, so you can be sure they’ll use us as well to the best of their advantage.”
Von Schönkopf nodded and smiled, throwing a cold stare at the plainclothes guards still eyeing them from across the room.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if those bastards thought we were discussing a rebellion against the government at this very moment. In fact, they’re hoping for it. In which case, it’s our duty as actors to play our parts to the fullest.”
Attenborough was riding in von Schönkopf’s landcar, heading down the highway at night toward his house in the suburbs. Because both were full of alcohol, naturally they’d engaged the automatic driver. Von Schönkopf asked Attenborough what was weighing on his mind.
“I’m a man without attachments. I’ve got nothing to live for, nothing to hold me back. Is that true in your case, too?”
“I have a daughter.”
The shock Attenborough felt from this casually delivered remark was probably the biggest of the night.
“You have a daughter?!”
“Going on fifteen…ish.”
Attenborough was about to stress the fact that he wasn’t married but quickly realized how impolite that would be and chided himself for getting so riled up. For while von Schönkopf may not have boasted of having “a lover on every planet” like Olivier Poplin, it would empty an artist’s paint box to depict his varicolored history with women.
“Do you know her name?”
“She has her mother’s maiden name: Katerose von Kreutzer. I hear she goes by Karin.”
“Judging by that name, I gather her mother must’ve been a refugee from the empire, like you.”
“Could be.”
When Attenborough asked, in a somewhat suspicious tone, whether he didn’t remember, von Schönkopf heartlessly told him that he couldn’t very well bring to mind every woman he’d slept with.
“Just thinking of the stupid things I did, back when I was nineteen or twenty…”
“Makes you break out in a cold sweat?”
“No, I just never want to go back to that time. The very existence of women seemed so fresh to me back then.”
“And how is it that you know you have a daughter?”
Attenborough couldn’t resist bringing the conversation back around to that topic.
<
br /> “Right before the Vermillion War, she told me in a letter that her mother had died. There was no return address. Although I’d been an irresponsible father, at least she’d taken the initiative to let me know that much.”
“You never met her?”
“And if I did, what would I do then? Tell her how beautiful her mother was?”
Von Schönkopf’s bitter smile was lit by flashes of light through the window.
“This is the police. Pull over your landcar immediately.”
The two of them checked the gauge to see if they were speeding and noticed several lights in the dark screen of the rear monitor. Attenborough let out a nervous whistle.
“They’re demanding we pull over. What should we do?”
“I like giving orders, but I hate taking them.”
“That’s a good philosophy.”
The police car, having been duly ignored, raised the shriek of its overbearing siren and closed in on them. From behind, several backup vehicles joined in the pursuit, and armed soldiers emerged from their reinforced glass windows.
V
Immediately after his tasteless, largely untouched meal was cleared away, Yang was told he had a visitor. For a moment, he thought it might be Frederica, but just as quickly, he abandoned that hope. The authorities would obviously have rejected Frederica’s request for a meeting. Maybe it’s him, Yang thought, none too happy about the prospect.
Chairman of the alliance council João Lebello appeared before the young imprisoned marshal. When the door opened, a dozen or so military police officers were right behind him.
“It’s truly a shame that we should be meeting in a place like this, Marshal Yang.”
His voice was well suited to the pensive mask he wore, but it made no impression on Yang either way.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I didn’t exactly ask to be here, either.”
“Of course you didn’t. Mind if I sit down?”
“Go right ahead.”
As he took a seat on the sofa opposite, much more uprightly than Yang, Lebello answered the unspoken question.
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 6 Page 16