Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 7

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Given five years’ free rein, Yang might have employed constructive planning and destructive plotting like a knife and fork, slicing and dicing the entire universe to his liking, and flavoring it with something approaching his ideal democratic republic. The hourglass grains that had actually fallen into his palm, however, had amounted to no more than sixty days. Lennenkamp’s arbitrary actions and Lebello’s overreaction to them had stopped up his hourglass’s passageway with the concrete of their obstinacy, and Yang had been driven from his humble nest of hibernation.

  The sweet lullaby of his long-dreamt-of pensioner’s life had broken off after a scant two months. Yang had been paying a portion of his salary into the pension system for the last twelve years. It was an outrage to get only two months’ worth of payments out of it, and he felt like screaming, “At least let me see some return on the investment!” As both a public figure and a private figure, this was the height of disappointment, in both the abstract and concrete reality.

  Still, it wasn’t as though he had tried to abandon the responsibility he had to participate in the creation of history.

  When El Facil had rather recklessly struck the colors of independence, Yang had for a brief time seriously considered rushing to their aid. Attenborough and von Schönkopf hadn’t needed to try tempting him. If he had done so, he would have secured both justification and a home base, and El Facil would have acquired able military specialists.

  However, Yang had foreseen that such a drama would soon lead to the entrance of a magnificent windstorm by the name of Reinhard von Lohengramm, and until he could determine what direction events would take, he didn’t want to drive any permanent wedges between himself and the Free Planets Alliance.

  If he were to throw in his lot with El Facil now, it was not inconceivable that a panicked Free Planets government might join hands fully with the Galactic Empire. Local governments in other systems would probably rise up in response to El Facil, but given the scale of Yang’s present forces, there was nothing that he could do for them. All he would be able to do was look on from far away as they were crushed beneath the empire’s gargantuan body.

  Kaiser Reinhard was sure to make a move. On that point, Yang harbored no doubt whatsoever. Within the year, he would come, leading his forces in person. The glittering stars of the Free Planets Alliance he would toss into his golden chalice, and then, like some immense deity out of ancient mythology, he would swallow them whole. In a sense, Yang had a better grasp of Reinhard’s true nature than Reinhard did himself. That handsome young man, in appearance like a figure fashioned from solidified crystal light, would never permit the fate of the universe to be decided by someone other than himself. “Sleep, and wait for luck,” some people say, but dozing lazily in his canopy bed waiting for good things to come his way did not become that young man in the slightest. On this point, Yang was in full agreement with von Schönkopf’s appraisal.

  When he turned that thought around and evaluated himself in light of it, Yang had trouble suppressing a wry smirk. His viewpoint differed from von Schönkopf’s—he believed he was walking a path he had never been meant for.

  In times to come, some would harshly criticize Yang’s actions during this period.

  “Yang Wen-li had no strategic calculation in mind when he broke away from the Free Planets Alliance. Faced with the threat against his life, he did nothing more than impulsively embark on a course of extremely simpleminded self-preservation. A disappointing move indeed for one so lauded for his brilliance as a commander…”

  “If Yang Wen-li had intended to live his life as an ambitious upstart bent on conquest, he should have ignored the government’s cease-fire order in the Vermillion War, and with a hail of laser fire put an end to Reinhard von Lohengramm. If, on the other hand, he intended to live his life as a loyal soldier of the Free Planets Alliance, should he not have obeyed the will of his government, even to the point of accepting his own unjust death? But Yang Wen-li was not a perfect example of either philosophy…”

  Yang knew very well that he was a far cry from perfection, so it is unlikely that he would have denied these one-sided criticisms. Not that he would have ever simply accepted them like a good little boy either.

  On the subject of imperfection, Miracle Yang’s newlywed wife Frederica Greenhill Yang had been made to realize in all sorts of ways her imperfections as a homemaker. When her umpteenth cooking disaster had transformed her Irish stew into a black mass of carbonized goo, Charlotte Phyllis, daughter of the Caselnes family, which was also on board the flagship, had spoken these words of encouragement: “It’s okay, Mrs. Frederica. If you keep trying, you’re sure to get good at it.”

  “Er…thank you, Charlotte.”

  Naturally, Charlotte Phyllis’s father, in charge of the Yang Independent Fleet’s resupply and accounting, could not be infinite in his generosity. Every meal Frederica ruined consumed one meal’s worth of the soldiers’ food stocks. No matter how great a master of desk work Alex Caselnes might have been, not even he could make something out of nothing. Employing a multitude of indirect expressions, he managed to convince her that there were more important things than giving her all to cooking practice.

  So, rather than fixating on her domestic position, Frederica decided to make the most of her strong points in the role of aide-de-camp to a young and famous admiral, electing to focus on desk work for a while instead. As to whether her husband and his former upperclassman relievedly toasted this development with paper cups of whiskey, no record remains. In either case, Yang had had no particular expectation that his seven-years-younger wife would be a master of housework.

  On the other hand, Frederica’s abilities as an aide-de-camp were far above average. Her sharp instinct for understanding exactly what her senior officers wanted, her powers of memory, her decisiveness, and her office skills were all worthy of the showered praise of millions. There was also the fact that in terms of her personal history, she had been Yang’s aide for far longer than she had been his wife. Yang as well somehow seemed to prefer talking about strategy with her.

  “When Kaiser Reinhard comes in force, there’s half a chance that the government will panic and send me a messenger. Yeah, they might even ask me to do double duty as director of joint ops HQ and commander in chief of the Space Armada, and hand me authority over the whole military.”

  “Would you accept that?”

  “Well, when you’ve got a gift in both of your hands, there’s no way to dodge when the knives come out.”

  Yang, for his part, couldn’t help speaking a bit mean-spiritedly. If he, after being feted with countless honors, were to cheerfully, shamelessly step outside for a walk and get assassinated, he would earn the grief of his ancestors and the scorn of future generations. There was also the possibility that the Free Planets’ government would seek to secure peace by offering him up as a sacrificial lamb. After all, they’d already tried to have him killed.

  Coupled with a considerable dose of melancholy, the solemn face of João Lebello, chairman of the High Council of the Free Planets Alliance, rose up in Yang’s mind. Lebello had plotted Yang’s murder, but not out of malice or ambition—he had sincerely been conflicted about it, seeking nothing more than the continued existence of the Free Planets Alliance, with its two and a half centuries of history since Ahle Heinessen. If the state could live on, he was even willing to murder Miracle Yang, and let his own name go down in infamy in the annals of history. Even supposing that this was nothing more than a psychological effect associated with narcissism, it wouldn’t be an easy thing for Yang to counter if Lebello had at least a subjectively thorough belief and determination.

  One other problem was that the wishes of the military and the government that Lebello represented were not necessarily the same, and the greatest factor determining their actions was likely impulse. No matter how superior Yang’s powers of insight might be, it was all but impossible to guess the conten
t of an impulse. Even so, he had made one particularly terrible prediction, although he hadn’t spoken of it yet even to his wife. If that prediction turned out to be correct, the course he would have to take was already decided. But in order to justify that course, Yang knew that, at least for now, he mustn’t go to El Facil.

  When Dusty Attenborough visited the fleet commander’s office bearing a juicy bit of intel, they were heading into the third week since their escape from Heinessen. He called it “intel,” although it had nothing to do with military or political matters, and was more along the lines of everyday gossip. Frederica started to get up to leave, but Attenborough motioned for her to stay, and lowered his voice with exaggerated drama.

  “Were you aware that Vice Admiral von Schönkopf has an illegitimate child in this fleet?”

  Attenborough looked straight into the faces of the Yangs, and a satisfied grin spread out over his face. To leave Miracle Yang dumbfounded was no easy task. This was neither earthshaking news nor anything constructive, and it certainly wasn’t lofty conversation, but he had succeeded in surprising Yang.

  At his core, Attenborough was a man who preferred the buzz of activity in conflict to the doldrums of peace, though he did understand in his own way when it was and wasn’t advisable to leak secrets. Regarding this fact, he had said nothing even to von Schönkopf.

  While reading over a list of all the crew in the Irregulars, his memory had tripped on the family name of one Katerose von Kreutzel. It had taken him quite a while to realize that she was the daughter of unknown whereabouts whom von Schönkopf himself had told him about.

  “So just now, I snuck down to the pilots’ lounge to behold the fair face of Vice Admiral von Schönkopf’s young fräulein.”

  “And? What was she like?” Yang’s voice was about to spill over with curiosity.

  “Probably fifteen, sixteen years old. Quite a beauty, and it looks like she’s still got potential to improve. Maybe just a little bit bossy looking, though.”

  “Thinking of recanting your bachelorism, Admiral Attenborough?”

  At Frederica’s question, Attenborough thought about it hard for a moment. To the Yangs, he was looking more than halfway serious, but in the end, he shook his head of tangled, wooly iron-gray hair.

  “Nah, not gonna go there. I can’t quite see how calling Vice Admiral von Schönkopf ‘Father’ would ever connect to the blissful future of my dreams.”

  Yang nodded with complete understanding, and Attenborough smirked.

  “In terms of age, she seems like a better match for Julian,” said Attenborough.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Yang said. “He’s got Charlotte Phyllis.”

  Neither Yang nor Attenborough were aware that Yang’s ward Julian Mintz had already met Katerose von Kreutzel six months ago, or that they were leaving his wishes entirely out of the conversation.

  “…Still, if the daughter of Caselnes and the daughter of von Schönkopf both started fighting over Julian, that’d be a sight to behold! I wonder how those blockhead dads of theirs would compete for the role of father-in-law?”

  Frederica, looking slightly aghast at her husband amusing himself so irresponsibly, calmly tossed a stone into the waters: “You’re right. No matter which of them won, the Yang family would gain a wonderful new relative.”

  Yang, when he heard that, fell into some very serious contemplation, and Frederica and Attenborough had to try hard to stifle their laughter.

  “Anyway,” said Attenborough, “how many months is it now since that kid took off for Earth? Wonder if he’s all right…”

  “Of course he is. He’s safe,” Yang said with a slight emphasis.

  Yang was thirty-one this year, but Julian Mintz, who had already lived for five years as his ward, was seventeen, and had been given the rank of sublieutenant. He had logged military accomplishments four years earlier than his guardian had, although that had of course been a one-off.

  Caselnes had predicted, “He might just end up a field officer at twenty, and His Excellency the Admiral at twenty-five. He’s a faster runner than you are.”

  “Do things ever really go that well?” Yang had replied in a grave tone, though his expression had betrayed his voice. “Don’t flatter him. He’ll get conceited.”

  Yang had had no intention of making a soldier of Julian, but given Julian’s own wishes, he had given the boy military training in both official and unofficial capacities. Strategy and tactics Yang had taught Julian himself, von Schönkopf had taken charge of hand-to-hand combat training, and Olivier Poplin had instructed him in aerial combat. Frederica and Caselnes had coached him on the ins and outs of bureaucracy. Yang’s intention had been to discover at the outset what kind of work the boy was naturally suited to. Some observed that the mental pressure this first-class team of instructors exerted on the boy seemed calculated to make him give up his dreams of military life, but those people were overthinking things, most likely.

  Julian was, however, blessed with an abundance of natural talent, and showed a wealth of ability in everything he put his hand to. His instructors were pleased, yet at the same time felt a slight hint of concern.

  One day Olivier Poplin sat the flaxen-haired youth down for a sermon.

  “Julian, you may be good at everything, but if you can’t rival Yang Wen-li when it comes to strategy and tactics, if you can’t hold your own against Walter von Schönkopf in hand-to-hand, and if your aerial combat skills can’t hold a candle to those of one Olivier Poplin, you’ll end up a textbook example of the jack-of-all-trades who is master of none.”

  Most of what he had to say was a fine representation of what Yang was feeling, but Poplin being Poplin, he had to go and tack something unnecessary on at the end of this most sensible sermon: “So, Julian, I want you to work hard so you can at least surpass me in the acquisition of nooky.”

  Of course, to hear Alex Caselnes tell it, neither Poplin’s sermon nor Yang’s worrying had much of an effect. After all, when he was better than Poplin at strategy and tactics, better than Yang at hand-to-hand combat, and better than von Schönkopf at aerial combat, what business did any of them have condescending to him?

  Still, no matter how they might evaluate Julian with the spoken word, they all held affection for him, and were hoping for his safety and success.

  One other reason why Yang wasn’t taking action was that he was waiting for the day when Julian would come back to him bearing vital intelligence from Earth. Though he bore little responsibility in the matter, he had been unable to defend the home that Julian was supposed to return to, and had ultimately been forced to flee Heinessen. For that, Yang did feel like he was to blame.

  III

  Following the escape of Yang Wen-li and his subordinates, pitiful flailing was on display in the Free Planets capital of Heinessen, like that of some herbivorous dinosaur that had wandered into a dried-up swamp.

  On the occasion of Yang’s escape, gunfire had been exchanged among three parties—Yang’s subordinates, the Free Planets’ governmental forces, and the imperial troops commanded by the late commissioner Lennenkamp. The people, of course, knew about it. Ever since that day, silent, intangible cracks had been forming in the land and sky of Heinessen.

  Though João Lebello, chairman of the High Council of the Free Planets Alliance, was hard at work even now trying to preserve the state’s suddenly crumbling contours and leadership, his efforts were producing almost no real effect.

  Lebello had concealed from the public the reluctant death of Commissioner Lennenkamp as well as what was, after all, the reluctant departure of Marshal Yang. He had done so because he believed it necessary to protect the honor and safety of the Free Planets’ government. The battle that had unfolded in the streets of the capital’s uptown area he had dismissed as “an accident not worthy of comment,” but by dodging the questions, he had only succeeded in amplifying the people’s unease
and distrust.

  As a later historian would put it, “There is no room for doubting João Lebello’s loyalty and sense of responsibility to the state. But there also exist in this world wasted efforts, and pointless devotion. And that describes perfectly what João Lebello, chairman of the High Council of the Free Planets Alliance, was doing…

  “Of course, João Lebello’s misfortunes began with his assuming the seat of head of state, following the ignominious flight of Job Trünicht. Had he been outside of government, he would have had no involvement with the shameful attempt made on Yang Wen-li’s life, and might well have taken the top seat in Yang’s planned Civilian Revolutionary Administration. All possibilities, however, had turned their backs on him…”

  Lebello had never been a heavy man, but day after day of hardship and overwork had greedily eaten away at his body until he was now no longer thin so much as pointy. His skin had lost its healthy sheen, and the redness of capillaries was now perceptible only in his eyes.

  Concerned, the chief civil cabinet secretary and ministerial secretary had urged him to take some time off, but without even answering, Lebello had rooted himself in his office, broken off personal friendships, and clung tightly to his official duties with only his shadow for company.

  “Won’t be around much longer…”

  That indiscreet but very serious prediction was being whispered back and forth in the office. The subject of that sentence had been rather daringly omitted—was it the name of a man, or the name of a nation?

  Job Trünicht, Lebello’s predecessor as chairman of the High Council, had been utterly detested by his opponents, who had called him a “silver-tongued, handsome-faced suck-up,” but when it came to playing on the emotions of supporters and undecided voters, he had been a master. One reason for that was that his good looks and eloquence stood out from the crowd, but when he had made the leap from Defense Committee chair to chairman of the High Council, he had invited four young boys and girls to his inauguration ceremony.