Ambition (9 page)

“In that case, answer me this: on what grounds has your sense of loyalty allowed you to abandon your lord of so many years?”

“A loyal heart is something you only render to someone who can comprehend its worth. To devote oneself to a master who can’t recognize his servants’ qualities would be like throwing a jewel into the mud. Wouldn’t you agree that that would be a loss for society?”

“Brazen fellow, aren’t you?”

Reinhard shook his head in disbelief, but acknowledging that there was nothing sinister in Ferner’s words and deeds, he took him on as a staff officer. If the man had this much nerve, it was unlikely to atrophy even under von Oberstein, whose cool head people likened to ice.

Von Oberstein wasn’t the type to intentionally bully his subordinates, but his demeanor was too severe and too calm, so there was a feeling among his young staff officers that they couldn’t even make a careless joke.

When Ferner joined their ranks, he was at first the object of cold stares, but he rapidly established his footing. He knew very well his own position and role. He was there to work as antivenom. And should the need and will be there, he was also a man who could become a powerful, fast-acting antidote to the problem of von Oberstein.

Reinhard added to his duties as commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada those of minister of military affairs and commander in chief of Imperial Military Command Headquarters, thus attaining complete dictatorial powers, at least insofar as the military was concerned.

Emperor Erwin Josef II gave Reinhard the title of Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military. Naturally, this was not the idea of the six-year-old child but that of the one receiving the title.

At the same time, an imperial edict was handed down to Reinhard. It read, “Bring into subjection Duke von Braunschweig and his cohorts, who, having joined in private confederacy to plot rebellion against the emperor, have become traitors to the nation.”

It was April 6. Reports had already reached Reinhard regarding the unusual series of happenings that were breaking out one by one within the Free Planets Alliance.

All the pieces were in place. Reinhard and Kircheis shook hands on the occasion of their temporary separation. Kircheis was leading one-third of the whole military as a separate force.

“Very soon, Kircheis. Very soon the universe will be ours.”

Reinhard’s expression was one of utter fearlessness. How precious had Kircheis esteemed that look, those eyes, since his days of boyhood!

The first blow against the
Free Planets Alliance was struck on March 30. Not many days had passed since Yang Wen-li had departed the capital of Heinessen.

As such, there had been little time for Admiral Bucock, commander in chief of the space armada, to make much progress in his investigation of a possible coup d’état scheme. There was also the fact that the command of vast fleets had always been where the old admiral’s heart was; he had never enjoyed the sort of work that military police do. Nevertheless, he had by this point already handpicked a team of investigators and had personally taken the first step in turning up the military’s dark underside.

What Yang had unveiled before Bucock had been a work of art in logical thinking, but that didn’t mean it came with clear-cut physical evidence. It was because Yang himself had been very much aware of this that he had taken his concerns to Bucock and no one else.

“I’m the only one that young man trusts to not get involved in that kind of foolishness. Which for me means I’ve got to make sure his confidence is rewarded.”

The old admiral had lost his son in battle during the course of the long war and, having no grandchildren, lived only with his wife. The flavor of the simple food-stall fare he had shared with Yang and Julian was a fond memory for him—not that he would have ever admitted that to anyone.

March was almost over.

It was Admiral Cubresly who met with the unexpected misfortune.

Cubresly, director of the Free Planets Alliance Military Joint Operational Headquarters, had assumed that seat at the end of last year. The position had been held by Marshal Sitolet for the five years prior; however, he had resigned from the post last year in acceptance of blame for the alliance’s historic defeat in the Amritsar Stellar Region.

Sitolet himself had been against that reckless invasion, but as the number one officer in uniform, liability had been inescapable. He was presently away from Heinessen, running an orchard on his homeworld of Cassina.

On the day that it happened, Director Cubresly, having completed an inspection tour of military facilities in the star district nearest Heinessen, had just returned from the military spaceport to Joint Operational Headquarters. He arrived flanked by his top aide and five guards.

When they entered the lobby, a figure rose from a seat in the visitors’ waiting area and approached them with slightly unbalanced steps. The guards stiffened, but then a smile—or really just the shape of one—rose up on the bloodless face of the man, not yet thirty, and he called out to the director.

“Admiral Cubresly, it’s me, sir—Andrew Fork.”

After a moment’s pause, recognition dawned on Cubresly’s face. “Oh, I thought you were still in rehab,” he said.

Commodore Fork, the man directly responsible for the reckless planning of the Battle of Amritsar, had suffered an attack of conversion hysteria just before the battle, had temporarily lost his sight, and after the defeat had been ordered off to reserve duty and mandatory hospitalization. It had been a hard setback for the young elite who had graduated at the top of his class from Officers’ Academy.

“I’ve been released from the hospital already. And I’ve come before Your Excellency today to request my return to active-duty service.”

“Active duty?” Cubresly tilted his head slightly in surprise. Ordinarily, it would have been a breach of decorum to stop the director in the lobby and attempt to speak with him on the spot, but Cubresly did know Fork personally and, not being the sort to take an arrogant attitude toward a subordinate, he decided on the spot to hear Fork out.

“Well, what does your doctor have to say?”

“That I’ve made a full recovery, of course. No objections to my returning to active duty.”

“Is that so? In that case, you need to go through the formal procedure. Get a medical certificate and statement of guarantee from your doctor, and turn those in to the Defense Committee’s HR division along with your Request for Return to Active Duty form. Then, if it’s formally accepted, your request will be granted.”

“That way will take too long, sir. If possible, I’d like to be serving my country on active duty again as soon as tomorrow.”

“Formal procedures take time, Commodore.”

“Which is why I thought that with Your Excellency’s assistance …”

The gleam in Admiral Cubresly’s eyes grew sharper.

“Reserve Commodore Fork, there seems to be something you don’t understand. I am authorized to ensure procedures are followed, not to break the rules. I’ve heard rumors about you on several occasions. They say you’ve got a tendency to give yourself special treatment, and from where I stand, it’s hard to say you’re completely recovered yet.”

Fork’s features went rigid, and his skin—pale to begin with—went practically white as a sheet.

“First, you need to start by following the procedures prescribed. Unless you do that, you won’t be able to get along with the other men even if you do come back. That would be bad for you and bad for those around you. I’m telling you this for your own good. Try again, and make a fresh start.”

Cubresly did not truly comprehend the name of Fork’s illness—conversion hysteria. It meant that the patient sought complete satisfaction of his ego, causing the neurological system to become unbalanced. No matter how much reason and sincerity there was in Cubresly’s warning, it was meaningless to Fork. Like some tyrant of the ancient world, all he was interested in was an unqualified yes.

“Excellency!”

Cubresly’s aide, Captain Witty, cried out a warning mingled with a scream, just as a white flash of light shone out from Fork’s hand, silently penetrating the right side of the director of Joint Operational Headquarters.

Admiral Cubresly stared back blankly and staggered as his firm, heavyset body lost its balance. Captain Witty caught him and kept him from falling.

Commodore Fork was already pinned beneath the piled bodies of several sturdy security guards. The miniature blaster he had concealed in his sleeve had also been wrested away.

“Call a doctor!” cried Witty. In the heat of his anger, he was even screaming at the guards. “You were slow! Why didn’t you grab him before he fired? You useless—! What do you think you’re here for!”

The guards apologized; the captive Fork they knocked around more than was really necessary.

Fork’s disheveled hair clung to his sweaty brow. Underneath it, he was staring fixedly into his own lost future, with eyes focused on nothing.

When he heard the report, Admiral Bucock literally jumped up from his chair. He had never imagined that the sneak attack might come in such a form. The old admiral, of course, didn’t believe for a second that this was a single, isolated incident.

“So, how is the director?”

“He’s going to pull through, sir. However, they say he needs three months to make a full recovery and undisturbed bed rest for the time being.”

“Oh well, I guess we should count our blessings,” Bucock murmured.

He felt something akin to a nasty aftertaste. At the time of the Battle of Amritsar, he had been the one who had torn into Fork for his incompetence and irresponsibility, triggering his episode. If Fork’s intention had been to get even, the victim might very well have been Bucock instead of Cubresly.

The news that Reserve Commodore Fork had assaulted and wounded Admiral Cubresly, director of Joint Operational Headquarters, sent a shock wave of horror across all of Planet Heinessen, then rode the FTL networks to every corner of the Free Planets Alliance.

The incident was so embarrassing to the military that some even gave wistful voice to this perilous thought:

“Were this the empire, we could ban coverage of this kind of thing.”

The most pressing matter now was the need for a leader at Joint Operational Headquarters. Either an acting director or a successor for Cubresly had to be appointed.

If the number one position among uniformed officers was director of Joint Operational Headquarters, then number two was commander in chief of the space armada.

When the Defense Committee sounded out Bucock about taking on the duties of temporary acting director as well, he refused on the spot. To give the organization’s number one and number two positions to the same person would be to open up a path toward dictatorial powers. This was sound reasoning on the part of the elderly admiral, but inwardly, he also thought it necessary to keep these two targets for terrorist attacks well apart from one another.

Bucock was not afraid of being targeted by terrorists. However, if he were to be assassinated after both offices had been unified in his person, then two huge organizations—the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada and Joint Operational Headquarters—would both lose their chief and become paralyzed. If even one of those two were not up and running, the FPA’s entire military might lose its ability to function.

In the end, the one chosen to be acting director was the eldest of the three deputy directors, one Admiral Dawson. When Bucock heard the news, he thought to himself:
Maybe I should’ve taken the job after all.

Dawson was not so much a serious man as a timid and nervous one. The positions he had held in his career included MP squad commander and Defense Committee Intelligence Bureau director, but back when he had served as the First Fleet’s Rear Service chief of staff, he had behaved like a petty bureaucrat, warning against the waste of foodstuffs, going around inspecting the dust chutes of every kitchen in every ship in the fleet, and driving the crews to distraction with announcements of things like how many dozen kilos of potatoes had been needlessly thrown away that week. He also had a reputation for holding on to personal grudges. One man who had excelled him at Officers’ Academy in terms of class ranking only had apparently been demoted for some kind of error and ended up under Dawson’s command—the story was he had tormented him endlessly over it.

In any case, however, the appointment was settled.

The next incident took place the following day.

There was an accident at a ground base under the auspices of Capital Defense Command Headquarters. An aging interplanetary missile suddenly exploded as it was being inspected in the maintenance center.

The cause had been inadequate insulation, which had allowed an electrical current from the propulsion system to flow into the fuse in the main body. This clearly implied a weakness in the weapons production system, but the thing that shocked the public was that the fourteen mechanics caught in the blast—all of whom died instantly—had been minors, all of them still in their teens.

Had the human resource pool gone that dry?

A chill ran through the citizenry. They understood the reason. It was because the war had gone on too long. Even within the armed forces, adults were disappearing from everywhere except the front line …

Jessica Edwards, representing the antiwar faction in the National Assembly, expressed condolences to the victims’ families and, after criticizing the military’s lack of management skills, took society as a whole to task for continuing to make war.

“What future can there be for a society that sacrifices on the altar of war the young men who should be shouldering its future? Can a society like that even be called sane? We must awaken from this mad dream and ask ourselves,
What is the best, most realistic course for us now?
And that question has only one answer. The answer is peace …”

Bucock was watching the broadcast inside his office at Space Armada Command Headquarters. His aide, Lieutenant Commander Pfeifer, tsked his displeasure.

“That woman just says anything she pleases, doesn’t she? She has no idea how hard we work. After all, if the empire were to invade, there’d be no antiwar peace activism and no freedom of speech either. She’s got a lot of nerve.”

“No, what she’s saying is right,” the old admiral said, putting a lid on his aide’s outburst of emotionally skewed logic. “A society where the oldest people are the ones who die first is one I’d say has its act together. It’s one where an old soldier like me lives on while the young boys die that’s screwed up somewhere. And if nobody’s there to point that out, the craziness’ll just keep getting worse and worse. Society needs people like her. Though I don’t think I’d want to marry a woman who was that good a speaker.”