Lebello was done trying to justify himself. Clearly, submitting to dishonor was nothing more than the hubris of a man in power.
“And what do you intend to do now, Vice Admiral von Schönkopf?”
“Only what’s most sensible in this situation,” said the retired vice admiral calmly. “Yang Wen-li was never suited to play the part of the tragic hero. As an audience member, I have a mind to finagle the script. I’m not averse to using violence, as the situation demands. And the situation,” von Schönkopf added with another smile, “indeed demands it.”
Lebello sensed no compromise or conciliation in that smile. He had never signed up to be a tool for others.
II
Until he had been seated as the Free Planets Alliance High Council chairman following Job Trünicht’s resignation, the value of João Lebello’s ability and character had been far from low. By SE 799, at the exact age of fifty, he’d already served under two cabinet ministers, showing a rare talent for administration and policy making in the fields of finance and economy. He’d always been opposed to reckless foreign campaigns, had kept the military from overgrowing, and had striven to improve diplomatic relations with the empire. His political opponent Job Trünicht often cursed Lebello’s “honeyed words,” but never his character.
On this night, he’d become a target of intense criticism for buckling under the pressure of imperial high commissioner Lennenkamp and attempting to take out Yang Wen-li. Now he saw truth in the saying, “A capable man in times of peace reveals his true colors in times of crisis.”
But this kind of worldview was more apt to consider a “profitable man in times of crisis” versus a “capable man in times of peace.” Had Yang and Lebello been born half a century earlier, the latter would have served the Free Planets Alliance as a capable and noble statesman, while Yang would have been a second-rate historian scolded by the PTA for not taking teaching seriously enough and making students learn everything on their own. And that’s probably just what Yang would have preferred.
In any event, there was no doubt that Lebello was a most capable hostage. For now, nothing else mattered to von Schönkopf and Attenborough.
From his landcar, von Schönkopf cut in on a channel reserved exclusively for military use. On the cloudy portable visiphone screen, chromatic and neutral colors resolved themselves into the shocked expression of a middle-aged man with thick eyebrows and an angular jaw. Incredibly, they’d managed to connect to Admiral Rockwell’s office at Joint Operational Headquarters.
“This is the lawless, villainous rebel force. It is with the utmost sincerity and courtesy that we present you with our demands, Your Excellency. Listen carefully.”
One of von Schönkopf’s special skills was adopting an attitude and tone of voice that sent his opponents flying into a genuine rage. This time, too, Rockwell felt every fiber of his being creaking with anger at the arrogance of this unexpected talking head. Rockwell was in his midfifties and in perfect health, a slightly elevated blood pressure his sole cause for concern.
“I take it that you’re von Schönkopf, head of the Rosen Ritter regiment. Don’t go recklessly wagging your tongue, you damned rebel.”
“I don’t know much about ventriloquism, so I’ll wag it as I please. May I proceed with the particulars of our demands?”
Having uttered this affected request for approval, von Schönkopf waited for no answer before going on.
“The honorable alliance prime minister, His Excellency João Lebello, is currently being put up in our luxury prison. In the event that our demands aren’t met, we’ll be forced to banish His Excellency Lebello to heaven and put an end to this despair by attacking the Imperial Navy in the name of the alliance, starting a magnificent war in the streets, civilians and all.”
A war in the streets between the Imperial Navy’s armed grenadiers and the Rosen Ritter regiment! Just the thought of it made Admiral Rockwell shudder. Part of him relished the prospect of engaging his romantic bloodlust, a fault common to all military men, while most of him fell under the influence of fear and uneasiness.
“You’d involve innocent civilians in your pointless showdown just to save yourselves?”
“And what about you? You’d kill an innocent man just to save yourselves?”
“I have no idea what you mean. Don’t slander us without anything to go on.”
“Then let’s get back to our demands. Assuming you don’t feel like attending Chairman Lebello’s state funeral, you are to release Admiral Yang, unharmed. Oh, and a hundred cases of the finest wine you can get your hands on.”
“It’s beyond my station to make that call.”
“Hurry up, then. If no one in the alliance government has the proper qualifications, then we might as well negotiate directly with the imperial high commissioner.”
“Don’t be rash. I’ll get back to you ASAP. You are to negotiate only with the alliance government and the military. At least that’s what I hope you’ll do.”
Von Schönkopf threw a vicious smile at the HQ director and cut the call. Rockwell turned his fuming gaze from the screen to his aide, who threw up his hands in exasperation. He’d been unable to trace the source of the call. Rockwell clicked his tongue loudly, throwing his voice at the screen like a stone.
“Traitors! Unpatriotic bastards! That’s why we can never trust anyone who defects from the empire. Merkatz, von Schönkopf, the whole lot of them.”
And now Yang Wen-li, the very man who’d appointed them to their posts. He should never have counted on that disloyal, unpatriotic bunch for their talents alone. Those who fought to live were useless, nothing more than brainwashed livestock who spent their days happily, embracing neither doubt nor rebellion as capable men for the nation and the military. This wasn’t about safeguarding democracy. It was, however, about safeguarding a democratic nation.
Rockwell’s eyes flashed. An unfair yet proper solution to the situation tempted him with irresistible sweetness. It would be difficult to extricate Chairman Lebello from imprisonment. But if they ignored his capture, couldn’t they just leave it up to the alliance government to deal with the rebel force? Yes, protecting the nation was paramount. And no sacrifice, no matter what kind or how large, would be spared to achieve it.
While Rockwell’s mental temperature was busy rising and falling, the empire’s high commissioner Lennenkamp, clad in his formal military uniform, was just settling into his luxurious box seat at the National Opera House.
Although he hadn’t even an ounce of his colleague Mecklinger’s affection for the arts, he knew when to be polite and had therefore arrived at the Opera House just five seconds before the appointed time. Nevertheless, Mecklinger’s natural anger was aroused when their host appeared to be late.
“Why has the chairman not shown up yet? Is he too proud to sit with us uniformed barbarians?”
“No, I’m sure he has already left the council building and is on his way as we speak.”
Lebello’s chief secretary servilely rubbed his hands. If there was one bad attribute of bureaucrats, it was that they could only grab on to human relationships as rungs for going up or down. Lebello stood on Lennenkamp, and Lennenkamp on Lebello. To whoever was in the higher position at any given time, the other could bow and scrape without even the slightest injury to his pride.
Just as Lennenkamp’s displeasure was reaching a breaking point, he received a visiphone call. Everyone looking after the high commissioner went out into the hallway reverently like manservants as Lennenkamp heard out a report from Vice Admiral Zahm, a chief officer in the commissioner’s office. Chairman Lebello, he now learned, had been taken captive by Yang’s subordinates.
The lips half-hidden by Lennenkamp’s mustache curved upward. It was a better excuse than he ever could have hoped for. The chance to openly blame the alliance government for its lack of ability to handle things, get rid of Yang, and compromise the
alliance’s autonomy on the home front had jumped right into his pocket.
Lennenkamp shot up from his overly soft chair, having no need to cover up his disinterest in the performance. Arrogantly ignoring anyone connected with the flustered alliance government and the theater, Lennenkamp took his leave. He was about to star in an even more magnificent opera of bloodshed.
III
At some point in the future, Dusty Attenborough would wax poetically about what happened thereafter, as if he’d been a witness to history:
“At the time, I didn’t know which side had the upper hand. The people of Heinessen were blind for all the smoke, running around in a panic and crashing into each other at every turn.”
Then again, it was Attenborough and his comrade von Schönkopf who’d been throwing oil into the flames of that confusion from the start. The side on which said oil was being poured was in a total frenzy. And while both the galactic imperial high commissioner’s office and alliance government were spinning their own webs of conspiracy, they were unable to grasp the full picture of the chaos, trying as they were to find and exploit a weak point in their opponents. Above all, the alliance government objected to any obvious movements on the part of the Imperial Navy. In the chairman’s absence, Secretary of State Shannon became his representative.
“This is a problem that should be resolved within the alliance. The Imperial Navy had better not stick its nose into this one.”
The Imperial Navy’s response was high-handed.
“But the alliance government can’t seem to maintain its own public order. It’s therefore in the empire’s interest to defend the council’s well-being by mobilizing our own forces. I can assure you that anyone who interferes will be treated as an enemy of the empire, no questions asked.”
“If the situation does get out of hand, we’ll ask for your assistance. I hope you’ll wait until then.”
“Then I’d like to negotiate directly with the highest person in charge of the alliance government: His Excellency the council chairman. And just where is the chairman?”
There was no point in dignifying such mockery with an answer.
Under provision of the Bharat Treaty, viz the “Insurrection Law,” government surveillance had kept Yang in check for allegedly disturbing the amity between the alliance and the empire. But no provision in the treaty stated that any criminals who violated the Insurrection Law had to be handed over to the empire. So long as no harm came to the empire and those affiliated with the high commissioner’s office, there was no reason for them to interfere. The defeated alliance government had never abused this treaty, which had been forced upon them, and had necessarily, yet with utmost courtesy, rejected the Imperial Navy’s offer to help. Lennenkamp, too, had forcibly ignored the treaty to the point where his hands were tied.
In any event, the view on both sides was extremely narrow, and their myopia was only worsening. From where Yang sat, he’d all but succeeded. If the chaos and confusion escalated any further, both the alliance government’s ability to maintain public order and the imperial high commissioner’s office’s ability to cope with crisis would be called into question. Another solution was to call a draw before the situation escalated beyond Heinessen, clap their hands, and be done with it. But both Lebello and Lennenkamp had no such audacity, and so they swam desperately on, tumbling down a waterfall into catastrophe.
Yang couldn’t help but sympathize, at the same time discerning one contributing factor in all of this: namely, that von Schönkopf was fanning the flames.
“Some people just can’t leave well enough alone,” Yang said to himself, ruffling his dark hair in his holding cell at the Public Prosecutor’s
Office.
The steel door opened, and in walked a man that had “military poster child” written all over him. Crew cut, sharp gaze, stubborn mouth. The lieutenant was slightly younger than Yang.
“It’s time, Admiral Yang.”
The officer’s voice and expression were more gloomy than pensive. Yang felt his heart do an unskilled dance. His worst fear had dressed itself up and manifested, ready to lead Yang to the coldest place imaginable.
“I’m still not hungry.”
“It’s not time to eat. From this point, you’ll never have to worry about food or nourishment ever again.”
Seeing that the officer had pulled out a blaster, Yang took a breath. This was one prediction he was most unhappy to see come true.
“Do you have any last requests, Your Excellency?”
“I do, actually. I’ve always wanted to try a vintage white wine from SE 870 before I die.”
The lieutenant took a full five seconds trying to process the meaning of Yang’s words. When at last he understood, his expression grew angry. It was only the year 799.
“I cannot grant any impossible requests.”
Yang changed tactics by voicing a fundamental doubt.
“Why do I have to die in the first place?”
The lieutenant straightened his posture.
“So long as you’re still alive, you’ll always be the alliance’s Achilles’ heel. Please, give up your life for your country. It’s a death worthy of the hero that you are.”
“But the Achilles’ heel is an indispensable part of the human body. There’s no point in singling it out.”
“Save it for the afterlife, Admiral Yang. Just take it like a man. I can assure you that dying like this will not bring shame to your renown. I know I’m unworthy, but I’m here to help you.”
The one saying those words trembled with extreme narcissism, while the one being forced into an undesirable death felt neither joy nor deep emotion. As he looked at the muzzle with a feeling more transparent than fear, he told himself he was ready. The lieutenant posed for effect, took a deep breath, and stretched out his right arm. He aimed at the center of Yang’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
But the beam of light shot through empty space, exploding off the opposite wall and scattering in particles of light. Shocked at his failure, the lieutenant’s gaze tore up the room in search of a prey that should’ve been cornered. Yang had, one fraction of a second before being killed, fallen to the floor, chair and all, as he evaded the blaster ray.
As those in the know would later say, even Yang was impressed with his own performance. But he’d only run into a blind alley. Once he fell to the floor, he made no attempt to move. Seeing the cruelty flickering across his executioner’s face, it seemed he’d only succeeded in moving the spot where he was going to die a meter downward.
“You’re pathetic, Your Excellency. And they have the nerve to call you ‘Miracle Yang’?”
Looking down into the abyss of death, Yang was furious. And just when he was about to say something back to his assassin, the glint of the steel door as it opened behind the lieutenant caught his eye. A moment later, a ray of light sprouted from the man’s thick chest. The lieutenant’s scream hit the ceiling as he threw his head back, his hefty body doing a half turn and falling headfirst onto the floor. Yang pulled himself onto the shore of life to see golden-brown hair, hazel eyes brimming with tears, and lips repeatedly calling out his name. Yang stretched out his arms and embraced the slender body of the one who saved him.
“I owe you my life. Thank you,” he said at last.
Frederica just nodded, barely able to comprehend her husband’s words. A veritable explosion of emotions had liquefied into tears. He wiped away her tears, but she went on crying like that child he had briefly met eleven years ago.
“Wait, you’ll spoil that beautiful face of yours. Hey, don’t cry…”
Yang stroked his wife’s face, feeling even more bewildered than when he was being attacked by a fleet of ten thousand ships from the rear, when a boorish intruder appeared to take control of the situation.
“Our dearest marshal, we have come for you.”
With refined boldn
ess, the former Rosen Ritter regimental commander saluted. Yang held Frederica with his right arm, only now saluting back unabashedly.
“My apologies for all the overtime I’ve put you through.”
“It was my pleasure. Even a long life has little meaning if one doesn’t live it fully. That’s why I’m here to save you.”
Von Schönkopf had taken his tactical actions to the extreme. He’d informed the military he’d taken the chairman hostage and given them some time to answer, all the while rescuing Yang by force. Rockwell had been duped. By stalling, he’d accommodated von Schönkopf’s actions to fruition. But not even von Schönkopf could have predicted that Rockwell would go so far as he did to seize this rare opportunity to “deal with” Yang. In theory, he’d had more than enough time to quietly rescue Yang, when in reality he’d gotten there in the nick of time.
“Well, maybe it won’t be of much use to you, but please, take this blaster just in case,” said Commander Reiner Blumhardt, handing over his weapon.
Technically speaking, Commander Blumhardt was now official
commander of the Rosen Ritter. While it was only natural that a thirteenth-generation regimental commander like von Schönkopf should ascend to admiral, he was unable to become a commander of one regiment. Fourteenth-generation regimental commander Kasper Rinz had led half of his troops and thrown himself into Merkatz’s fleet, officially MIA during the war. Upon returning to the capital, Blumhardt had received notice that he was to be acting regimental commander, but since the alliance had surrendered to the empire, the chances of keeping an organization composed of young refugees going were slim. It was probably better to just dissolve the regiment altogether than to be targets of vengeful punishment. In the same way that Yang was liable for Merkatz and the others, von Schönkopf was responsible for his men, and on this day he’d bound his future to theirs. There was no turning
back now.
Outside the door, there were signs of guards on the move.
“We are the Rosen Ritter regiment,” said Blumhardt proudly through a megaphone. “If you still wish to fight us, then write your wills and come at us. Or we can write your wills for you, in your own blood.”
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 6 Page 20