Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 5

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Your Excellency, don’t say such rash things, which might invite useless misunderstandings. No, more than misunderstandings—they might be taken for slander. Please restrain yourself. As one of the Imperial Navy’s most renowned generals, any mistake Your Excellency makes will have a major impact on others.”

  “Your advice is sound. I’ll try to be a little more careful with my words.”

  Von Reuentahl spoke frankly and expressed gratitude for his chief of staff’s advice. Von Reuentahl knew such a man was hard to come by.

  “I’m glad you take my advice to heart. Even if we’re not going after them, we should prepare to occupy Iserlohn Fortress.”

  “Yes, get right on it.”

  And with that, von Reuentahl set in motion a bloodless recapture of Iserlohn.

  As Yang Wen-li had once said to his ward, Julian Mintz:

  “When it comes to both strategy and tactics, it’s best to lay a trap while giving the enemy what it wants.”

  He’d also said:

  “There’s nothing better than waking up after a sound sleep to find that the seeds you’ve sown have produced a towering beanstalk.”

  And now, Yang was trying to put those very stratagems into effect. His escape from Iserlohn Fortress—what Lieutenant Commander Poplin called a “night flight”—had hardly been clever, but rather a necessary measure by which to capitalize on the strength of his garrisoned fleet. Otherwise, he’d have been wasting the power at his disposal, not to mention the many lives depending on it. When it came to protecting the safety of Iserlohn’s civilian population, abandoning Iserlohn Fortress like so much hardware was like taking off a heavy coat in springtime: a mere change of season.

  Because Rear Admiral Caselnes, administratively in charge of evacuating five million people, had never been one for creativity, Yang felt his heart sink when he gave the operation the code name “Project Ark.” Although he didn’t think it was enough to blow wind into their sails, rather than worry themselves over such trifling things, said Caselnes, he thought they should be concerned about the fact of having wasted five hundred already-decrepit transport ships in Yang’s scuffle with Attenborough.

  It was safe to say the effect on the capacity of their transport ships and hospital ships had been detrimental, and so a fair number of civilians were distributed aboard ships normally reserved for combat.

  Six hundred newborns and their mothers, along with doctors and nurses, were placed aboard the battleship Ulysses. The Ulysses had a flawless track record, having survived numerous battles unscathed, and was therefore considered the most secure means of transporting infants, whose safety was of the utmost priority. A growing cynicism on board, however, left the crewmen feeling ill prepared for such a task. Even the captain, Commander Nilson, was disheartened by the prospect of seeing thousands of diapers hanging out to dry on his ship’s bridge. Although chief navigations officer Sublieutenant Fields tried his best to boost morale by insisting that women were at their most alluring after giving birth and that three companies of them would be coming along for the ride, his men’s imaginations were stimulated less by the thought of legions of beautiful Madonnas than by a choir of wailing babies, and so the sublieutenant’s encouragement fell on deaf ears.

  Accommodating a grand total of five million people—5,068,224, to be exact, a mixture of soldiers and civilians, men and women—was no small feat. Caselnes saw that the situation wasn’t being handled with enough empathy. Even his own family—a wife and two daughters—was upset over leaving Iserlohn. The work proceeded swiftly.

  The corps of engineers under Engineering Captain Links’s command had set extremely low-frequency bombs everywhere in the fortress, including in its hydrogen-powered reactors and control centers. Those ranking higher than field officers were aware of this, but only a select few knew the duties being carried out by Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill on Yang’s strictly secret orders. Yang was laying the groundwork for Iserlohn’s future recapture. When briefed on the details, Frederica held back her surprise and excitement.

  “Ideally, we have to make sure the enemy discovers our explosives, but not without some effort. Otherwise, they’ll see through to the real trap. Do I have that right?”

  “That’s it exactly. In other words, Lieutenant, I’ve set up a diversion to lure the eyes of the Imperial Navy away from the real trap.”

  The trap in question was ridiculously simple, and therein lay its effectiveness. Yang explained it to Frederica again.

  “If the fortress and its operation systems are left as is, our subterfuge has no value whatsoever. We’ll just have to throw them off before they notice.”

  Frederica turned the contents of the order over in her mind and couldn’t help but admire their simplicity and the grandiosity of their outcome.

  “It’s nothing ingenious or first-rate. Cunning is all it is, although I’m sure they’ll be livid once it’s over,” answered Yang by way of deflecting her compliments. “Besides, we don’t know whether it will even have the desired effect. It’s possible we’ll no longer need Iserlohn.”

  For a moment, Frederica gazed at the young commander’s profile with her hazel eyes as if he were receiving divine revelation or spouting prophecy, although such was not at all the case.

  “I suspect it’ll come of use someday. Iserlohn Fortress is our home … the home of the entire Yang fleet. We’ll be back. And when that happens, Your Excellency’s plan will bear its fruit for all to see.”

  Yang stroked his face with one hand, as was his habit when he didn’t know how to express himself. As he lowered his arm, the young, dark-haired commander spoke like a boy of little experience.

  “In any case, Lieutenant, best of luck as we move forward.”

  It was just the kind of thing Frederica expected Yang to say.

  VI

  Reports of ships commencing their departure en masse from Iserlohn Fortress converged on von Reuentahl from multiple sources. Half of them expected an order to retaliate. The heterochromatic fleet commander strictly prohibited the opening of hostilities without his express order. He’d been too quick to pull the trigger last time, and his tendency toward action was known throughout the navy.

  “It’s useless going after them,” assured von Reuentahl. “It’s not like the alliance can take Iserlohn Fortress with them. Total occupation of the fortress is our top priority.”

  Soon thereafter, Admiral Lennenkamp inquired directly about the advisability of an attack, but the commander’s answer was a definite no.

  “It would only incur another counterattack. Let them go for now. I’d rather not go down in history as someone who brought harm to fleeing civilians.”

  Lennenkamp obediently withdrew, his belligerence dampened by the other day’s defeat. Von Reuentahl gave a curt nod of satisfaction. Good, now things will go more smoothly, one way or another.

  “Bergengrün, you’re to go after Yang Wen-li—but only after you’ve secured the fortress. It won’t be necessary to catch up with him or engage him in combat. We’ll save that for another day,” he said to his chief of staff. “Just keep on his tail. Admiral Yang will lead the way. Shall we make fall at Iserlohn, which they’ve so diligently prepared for our arrival?”

  On the matter of who should go first, Kornelias Lutz offered his thorough opinion. Although Yang Wen-li had evacuated Iserlohn Fortress, they had to watch out for any “parting gifts” the alliance might’ve left behind. As far as Lutz was concerned, it wasn’t paranoid to assume the alliance had planted bombs in the fortress’s power centers to massacre imperial forces at a single stroke when they came to occupy. Given the speed at which the alliance fleets were hastening away, the degree of risk in approaching the fortress was extremely high. The best thing for them to do now was to dispatch bomb experts to investigate and, once that was done, occupy only after the all clear had been given.

  “Admiral Lutz has a point
that’s not to be taken lightly.”

  Von Reuentahl ordered all fleets to retreat from the vicinity while a group of experts led by Engineering Captain Schmude was escorted to the fortress.

  Having received this unexpected honor, Captain Schmude was in high spirits but nervous as he entered the former enemy camp. Lutz’s suspicions were confirmed when a careful sweep revealed a series of low-frequency bombs. These were successfully dismantled.

  “We got there in the nick of time. The bombs were quite cleverly hidden. Five minutes later, and Iserlohn Fortress would’ve gone up in a ball of flame, inflicting considerable damage on our forces.”

  Captain Schmude couldn’t suppress his excitement as he delivered his report. Oskar von Reuentahl nodded, a waterwheel of consideration turning in the current behind his mismatched eyes. Was it possible that Yang had arranged this for his own benefit? Then again, the fortress’s explosion would’ve forced a counterattack he might not have been able to sustain. All the same, were they supposed to be satisfied with their success? And were these the only parting gifts that Yang Wen-li had left behind? The heterochromatic admiral was gripped by doubt. He wondered whether Yang hadn’t hidden something more sinister.

  “He’s a cunning man. I wonder what he’s planning now …”

  Meanwhile, Yang Wen-li, riding the success of his night flight, was on the bridge of his fleet battleship, Hyperion, unable to tear his anxious gaze away from the orb of Iserlohn Fortress hanging in the center of his main screen. He didn’t think it would happen in a million years, but on the infinitesimal chance that the Imperial Navy failed to detect the bombs, not only would Yang have destroyed the fortress, but he would also have uselessly compromised many human lives. The appointed time of the explosion passed, and once he confirmed that no cracks had appeared in Iserlohn’s beautiful surface, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thank goodness, it looks like they found them.”

  Yang put a hand to his chest in relief, tearing himself away from the screen, and left the bridge to take a nap in his private room, bowing to the silver-white globe as he did so. It was, for him, a way of showing gratitude where it was due.

  “Farewell, Iserlohn. Don’t cheat on me while I’m gone. You truly are the queen of space. No woman comes close to you,” said Lieutenant Commander Olivier Poplin, bidding his reluctant farewell with characteristic chivalry.

  Next to him, Rear Admiral von Schönkopf silently raised a pocket flask of whisky to eye level. Murai stood upright and performed a salute. Frederica and Rear Admiral Caselnes followed suit. They each had their own thoughts as they said their goodbyes to the space fortress where they’d spent the last two years. Several among them would step foot once more on Iserlohn’s artificial surface.

  Back at Iserlohn Fortress, now reoccupied by the Imperial Navy, a modest interlude was under way. It was discovered that a long-serving managing officer had misappropriated some of the alliance’s abandoned supplies without noting them in the public record. When the military police investigated the matter, it was revealed he’d done this many times in the past. Von Reuentahl had no tolerance for this kind of insubordination. In compliance with martial law, he sentenced the man to death at a summary hearing and carried out the act himself. The officer screamed hysterically up until the moment he was dragged to the execution ground, where he sobbed for mercy. But upon finally realizing it was futile, he resorted to outright accusations.

  “The world is unfair. It doesn’t matter if you destroy cities or kill tens of thousands of people in the name of war. So long as you win, you admirals and commanders are given fancy titles and medals. And yet you treat me as a criminal just for stealing a negligible amount of material resources.”

  “What’s the point of crying foul now? Just listening to you hurts my ears.”

  “This goes beyond reason. You may call Duke von Lohengramm a hero or a genius, but at the end of the day, is he not a villain trying to conquer the galaxy? My crimes are nothing compared to his.”

  “Then why don’t you try taking over the galaxy?”

  Von Reuentahl’s shapely eyebrows quivered slightly as he pulled the trigger and sent the officer’s brains flying. His comrades held solemn silence.

  After von Reuentahl had installed himself in Yang Wen-li’s executive office, the engineering officer came to deliver his written report. Until the Imperial Navy’s own software could be installed, mountains of written reports would accumulate on his desk. According to this one, all data in the tactical computer had been wiped, meaning the Imperial Navy would need to input its own from scratch. This was to be expected. All practical matters following the fortress’s recapture were outside the scope of von Reuentahl’s duties, as his concerns would be purely strategic from now on.

  The future was beyond deliberation. Regardless of whatever strange tactical trick Yang Wen-li had used to force Iserlohn Fortress’s recapture, as long as he, Oskar von Reuentahl, managed to avoid being the comic relief in all of this, he would be content in his position. Von Reuentahl saw it all. First and foremost, Yang Wen-li had essentially handed Iserlohn Fortress to them on a platter. Which meant the likelihood was high of something brewing further beyond his reach than he could possibly imagine.

  The fortress is ours in any case. I’ll take whatever is offered to me in good faith, he thought, and sent word through his communications officer.

  “Contact Odin. Tell them I’ve captured Iserlohn Fortress.”

  And so, on January 9, Iserlohn Fortress was returned to the hands of the Imperial Navy for the first time in almost two years.

  I

  This year, SE 799, Julian Mintz would be seventeen, and for the second time he welcomed the new year not without worry.

  The first time had been when he’d become Yang Wen-li’s ward under Travers’s Law. Yang, then a captain, had become an admiral, and Julian himself had gone from being a civilian in military employ to a full-fledged soldier, advancing to ensign. His compensation came in the form of reassignment to Phezzan as Yang’s resident officer, but his itinerary had detoured him from Iserlohn Fortress to the capital, Heinessen, and only then to Phezzan, nearly ten thousand light-years away.

  It hadn’t even been six months since he’d bid farewell to those he loved and begun a busy new life on Phezzanese soil. What kept Julian’s heart in check was the fact that here it was as if he didn’t exist at all.

  “Be sure to find yourself a beautiful girl and bring her back.”

  Lieutenant Commander Poplin had spurred him on with this kind of talk, but Julian couldn’t have taken on a lover even if he wanted to. Had he even 10 percent of Poplin’s passion, he might’ve at least entertained the notion, but …

  “And so, our hero dies alone and in obscurity,” Julian muttered to himself.

  On his way to seventeen, Julian’s height had reached 176 centimeters, at last approaching that of his guardian, Yang. But only in physical stature, thought Julian. The flaxen-haired boy was very much aware that in all other respects, he could barely keep a foot in Yang’s shadow. He still had much to learn and had yet to step out from under Admiral Yang’s wing. Until he could strike out on his own path using the strategies, tactics, and histories he’d learned, he would always be less than Admiral Yang.

  In his hideout nestled in a back alley of imperial-occupied Phezzan, Julian brushed away the flaxen hair stubbornly falling across his forehead. The features this gesture revealed, graceful yet vivacious, were almost feminine. Not that he cared. His only point of pride, at present, was how much he’d leveled up since gaining tactical knowledge from Yang, marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat skills from Water von Schönkopf, and air-combat techniques from Olivier Poplin.

  “Are we still grounded?” Julian asked Marinesk, who’d come to the hideout at his invitation.

  Marinesk, who by his good offices had arranged a spaceship and astrogator, was the administrative officer for
Beryozka, an independent merchant ship. Marinesk was also a trusted friend of Boris Konev, who was getting anxious about his compulsory idleness on the alliance capital of Heinessen. Although still in his thirties, his hair was thin and his body slack. Only his eyes were abundant in youthful vitality.

  “Not just yet. Please, don’t get impatient. Oh, I said the same thing yesterday, didn’t I?”

  Marinesk’s smile was devoid of cynicism or sarcasm, but Julian, cognizant of his own impatience and unease, couldn’t help but blush. For the moment, the Imperial Navy wasn’t admitting civilian ships through the Phezzan Corridor. No matter how well-planned their escape from Phezzan was, they’d surely be captured if they left now. The Imperial Navy was likely to allow passage of civilian ships once military activities had died down, if only to appease the Phezzanese public. And when that happened, spontaneous inspections of every single ship would be impossible. This, assured Marinesk, would make their escape much easier.

  Although his predictions and conclusions persuaded Julian, it was all he could do to endure the nervous wingbeats of his heart, which compelled the boy with all the power of a homing instinct.

  “Be that as it may, how long must we wait?”

  These words, thick with discontent, tumbled out of Commissioner Henslow’s mouth. Henslow, owner of a certain large company, had been abandoned by high executives for his lack of business acumen and talent, after which he had been given an honorary position in the alliance government and discreetly exiled to a foreign planet. Had the alliance been sincere about the importance of diplomacy, a man of his position would never have been sent to Phezzan, a modest symbol for a broken democracy.

  “How long? Until we can depart safely, obviously.”

  Marinesk gave respect to Julian where it was due but to Henslow showed not the least bit of deference.

  “We’ve already paid for a ship.”