The Future is a Foreign Country

(They Do Things Differently There)

April, 783 UC, Phezzan Corridor

Yang Wen-li was in his father's office, having a rather uncomfortable talk about the future. His father sat behind his desk, cross legged in his chair, polishing an antique brass sculpture. Wen-li leaned against the wall, holding the polishing cream and spare rags loosely in his hands, offering them to his father on occasion.

"It's not that I'm opposed to the study of history," Tai-long said. "It's just not a particularly useful subject."

"You know I have no interest in business administration," Wen-li said. "If that's all you're willing to send me to school for."

"It's not that I'm unwilling." He scrubbed the sculpture gently, despite the tension in the conversation.

Wen-li knew that his mother’s family often criticized Tai-long for caring more about his collections than he did about his own son, but he was sure that wasn't true.

"I just don't want you to get unreasonable expectations about the future," Tai-long continued.

"Like what?"

"You're going to inherit this ship, Wen-li. Maybe when you've done that, and you've made enough money from it that you can safely retire, you can go study history at your leisure. But until then, money is the only thing that will stop you from having to do things you don't like."

"If I get a scholarship to Heinessen Memorial—"

"I don't recall them giving scholarships to merchant families."

The conversation seemed to come to a dead stop. Yang let the cloths and polishing cream hang loosely at his side. "You'd pay for me if I wanted to study art, though?"

"Well, art feeds the soul, doesn't it? Just like money feeds the stomach."

Wen-li shook his head. "It's four years," he said. "Can I have four years of history? Then I'll come back here and work with you."

"Wen-li, if I give you up, I know you'll find some way to worm yourself into a doctoral program, and I'll never see you again." He put the sculpture down on his desk and turned to his son, who looked rather deflated. "Is this really what you want? Is it the only thing that will make you happy?"

"I—" Wen-li began. "Yes."

Tai-long nodded. "Alright."

"What?"

"You can study history. Do what you need to to be happy." Tai-long picked up a different sculpture and began polishing it with renewed vigor, as though nothing had happened between the two of them. Wen-li was frozen in place, a smile breaking out on his face. He was torn between hugging his father, and his father's clear desire to do nothing other than polish sculptures. So he just awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, getting polishing cream in his hair.

"Thank you," Wen-li said. "I'll try to make you proud."

"I am proud of you," Tai-long said, as though that were the most obvious thing in the world.

It was at that moment that the ship's alarm began blaring. Tai-long sighed and put down his sculpture gently before standing and leisurely stretching. This was a regular occurrence aboard their ship.

"Engine trouble again?" Wen-li asked.

"When it's not engine trouble, it's something else. You know the drill. Shoo."

"I could help—"

Tai-long laughed. "And I could tell you all the Kaisers of the Goldenbaum dynasty. Go. To the shuttle. I'm sure this won't take that long to deal with."

So the father and son trooped off in different directions aboard the ship, Wen-li and all the rest of the non-essential personnel rousing themselves and heading towards the little shuttle, the safest area on the ship in case of emergencies, and Tai-long and the few people qualified to work on the engine heading for the engine room.

That was the last time that Wen-li ever saw his father. While he waited in the shuttle with his usual patience for the situation to resolve, the whole ship was rocked with a sickening crack. The rear section of the ship exploded in a blinding flash of light. Everyone inside the shuttle was protected from the blast and from the vacuum of space that rushed in to the now-destroyed main body of the ship; everyone in the engine room was killed instantly.

This information trickled into Yang's brain bit by bit as the overwhelmed sensors of the shuttle kicked back in, and he closed his eyes in pain for a long moment.

"What are we going to do, Mr. Yang?" one of the other staff asked, looking to him for instructions for some reason. It wasn't as though Yang Wen-li had any title aboard the ship aside from being his father's son.

The words and instructions came out of him almost unbidden, coming from a calm and collected place inside of himself that was able to put aside the horror of the destruction of the only life he had ever known. "We're still in the Phezzan corridor. There's plenty of ships around we can call for help."

His hands shook as he activated the shuttle's radio and began sending out his distress call.

April, 783 UC, Phezzan Dominion

Yang stayed at Konev's house on Phezzan for a few days, which was maybe the reason why the debt collectors weren't able to track him down until he appeared in public for the funeral.

It was a small affair, and there wasn't any body to put in the grave, so it was really just the few people who knew Yang's father coming to lay flowers at a sad little headstone. Yang didn't cry, though he wanted to. He felt stiff and restricted in his suit, and he wished that he could go lay down and sleep for the next thousand years. Konev understood this and kept his comments to a minimum.

When all the other mourners had left, and thick grey clouds were hovering in the sky, Yang and Konev got ready to leave the graveyard together. As they headed out down the path, they were approached by a tall man in a grey suit.

"Yang Wen-li?" the man asked, looking Yang over.

"Yes," Yang said, rather reluctantly. "You missed the funeral."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," the man said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "My name is Mark Jamai, with Phezzani Mercantile Consolidated. I'm here about your father's debts."

"Debts?" The words weren't really processing in Yang's brain.

"Yes, Mr. Yang. Your father owed my firm a significant amount of money, much of it tied up in the value of his ship. I have come to collect—"

"The ship is gone."

"We are well aware of that, Mr. Yang. Unfortunately, the debt must still be paid. I—"

Yang ignored the man and began to walk back down the path. He didn't have any money. His father's business had never had anything to do with him.

"Mr. Yang, if you would like to discuss a payment plan—"

"Can't you see that he's mourning? You couldn't wait until the body was cold, could you, you leech?" Konev was unexpectedly angry, getting in between Yang and the debt collector.

"There was no body," the man said mildly. "As I was saying, if you would like to discuss a payment plan, we can show you—"

"Can't you just take his artwork? Won't that cover it?" Yang was referring to the vast collection of art that Tai-long had accumulated over the years; he was a dedicated collector.

"We have had your father's collection assessed," the debt collector said. "Its value is minimal, especially when compared to the loss of the ship."

"I don't know how you expect me to pay you, then," Yang said. "I don't have any assets."

"Your public record and scores on the Heinessen Memorial entrance exam indicate that you are a very bright young man. A fifteen-year indentureship would pay off the outstanding balance, provided that you don't incur—"

"Fuck you," Konev said, taking Yang by the arm and dragging him away.

"Mr. Yang, I warn you that there are grave consequences for failure to repay—"

But Yang and Konev were already gone, Konev dragging Yang into a run down the cobblestone cemetery path and out into the streets of Phezzan.

Konev brought him back to his own empty house. Konev's parents couldn't stay on Phezzan because they had their own ship to run, but when Konev had heard what had happened to Yang's father, he had decided to stay on the planet for his friend. It was a very sweet thing for him to do, but Yang was so consumed with his own thoughts that he was not really registering it. They sat at Konev's kitchen table. Konev made some tea, then picked the lock on his parents’ alcohol cabinet and poured a generous helping of brandy into Yang's beverage.

They sat in silence for a long time, the rain beginning to fall outside, streaking down the windowpanes and filling the kitchen with a muted light.

"I'm sorry," Konev said.

"For what?"

"Well, for your dad. But I shouldn't have lost my temper at that guy. He..." Konev trailed off.

"Thank you," Yang said. "I don't know what I'd do without you around."

"You might be better off without me shouting at important people. The PMC can make your life a living hell."

Yang didn't say anything.

"What are you going to do?" Konev asked.

"I don't have a choice. If I have to pay the debt..." Yang sloshed the dregs of his tea around in his cup, and Konev got up to pour him some more.

"I don't want you to have to slave away with them for twenty years."

"They said fifteen."

Konev shook his head. "I've known some guys who got taken in with them. They always find ways to stretch you out, like you're not being productive enough, so they add time onto your sentence, stuff like that."

Yang shrugged miserably. "I guess I look forward to that."

"They don't let you have a life. Don't let you go anywhere, see anyone, can't get married, can't get an education, nothing. You'll be an old man by the time you're out." Konev's hands were shaking as he poured the tea, splashing a little of it on the table. Yang reached over and wiped it up with the sleeve of his suit.

"And if I don't go with them?"

Konev sat down and studied the table.

"What, Konev?" Yang asked. "What do they do if you refuse?"

"They don't let you refuse. They'll hunt you down."

Yang stared out the window, at the rain dripping down. He cradled his teacup in his hands. "Then I don't have a choice."

They were silent for a long time. Yang felt like he was laying bricks in the wall called 'resignation', trying to block any hopes and sadnesses away where they couldn't get through. He could be a machine for fifteen years, and then he could be free. It was funny, in a bleak sort of way, that his father had just been telling him that money was the secret to being able to live life free of other people telling him what to do. The converse was more pressing, right at this moment. A distinct lack of money meant that he was going to be forced to give himself up completely.

"There is one thing," Konev said, an unexpected tinge of hope in his voice.

"What?" Yang couldn't even muster that tiny level of excitement.

"Be right back," Konev said. He got up from his chair and dashed upstairs, feet pounding on the wooden floors above Yang. "Found it," he said when he returned, holding up a ripped envelope.

"What's that?" Yang asked.

"You don't remember? It's yours." He slid it across the table to Yang, who picked it up as though it were a dead thing. The address on the front of the envelope was his home address on Phezzan, but the name on the envelope was wrong, addressed to 'Hank von Leigh'. Abruptly, Yang remembered. This was his result from the Imperial Officers' Academy entrance exam. He had handed it to Konev without opening it as soon as it had arrived, since it was Konev's whole plan to trick his mother into letting him get out of school (it hadn't worked, at least partially because the letter had arrived long after summer was already over.) He hadn't known what the letter contained, or that Konev had kept it, for some reason.

Herr von Leigh,

We are pleased to announce that your scores on the Imperial Officers' Academy Entrance Examination have qualified you for admission to our institution. Please report to Odin for the term that begins 1 August 475.

Entrance to the IOA is extremely competitive. For your reference, we provide the ranking of new admissions. Your score on the entrance exam has placed you at rank

2/1500

Yang didn't bother reading the rest of the letter, and tossed it down on the table, where the corner of it landed in a few drops of tea that he had failed to wipe up, getting it soggy.

"What?" Konev asked. "For the record, you crushed me. I didn't even get in."

"I can't join the Imperial Fleet," Yang said.

"Why not?" Konev asked, leaning forward on his elbows.

"The Goldenbaums go against everything I believe in. Besides..." He gestured to his whole self. "You know I don't look like 'Hank von Leigh.'"

Konev grinned. "I still think I did a great job picking out that name."

"I won't do it," Yang said. "I can't."

Konev frowned. "Look— get a free education on the Imperials' money, then you can just, like, do a shitty job as an officer for a couple years, and then you'll be free. New life, new identity— you won't be a slave. You have to. I'll kill you myself if you don't."

Yang shook his head. "I can't be a soldier for them."

Konev glared at him. "You'd rather throw the rest of your life completely away? For the PMC of all companies? They're not exactly angels, either."

Yang shrugged, wishing he could escape this conversation and just go to sleep. His head was beginning to throb. Konev wasn't relenting, though.

"What would your dad say?" Konev asked. That was a low blow, and Yang frowned and leaned forward.

"You don't know anything about what he would say."

"I do too. It's not like you didn't tell me exactly what you talked about in your last conversation."

Yang was losing this argument. He picked up the envelope that his admissions letter had come in and slowly began to twist and rip it to shreds.

"He told you that, well, first of all, he wanted you to be happy, and second, he wanted you to have enough money that you can live your life the way you want to. The only way either of those things are going to happen is if you don't let your life get taken over by the PMC. You've got one chance to escape. I think you should take it."

Yang leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, head tilted to the ceiling. Konev was making a rather ironclad argument, if one took out the fact that cooperating with the Empire would put blood on Yang's hands. He had felt vaguely dirty even just getting that letter, which was why he had tossed it to Konev as quickly as he could.

"I was born on Heinessen. I'm an Alliance citizen. How can I go to Odin and learn how to fight against the 'rebel fleet'?" He said those last two words in the imperial language. Rebel fleet was the term that the Empire used to refer to the Free Planets Alliance's military.

"Yang Wen-li is an Alliance citizen, sure. Yang Wen-li is also a person saddled with a lifetime of debt that he'll never be able to repay. Hank von Leigh, on the other hand, is a nobody Phezzani citizen, who has the distinction of having done extremely well academically and scored himself admission to one of the best schools in the galaxy. Hank von Leigh could even study military history, if he wanted. Think of it as a new beginning."

"Any history that happens at that school is pure propaganda."

"Sure. But you're smart," Konev said, as though that changed the situation at all.

After a long moment, Yang asked, "How would I even get to Odin?"

Konev grinned in triumph. "I'm sure my mother can find someone to give you a ride."

August, 475 IC, Odin

That summer, a very out of place looking young man arrived on Odin, marched himself up to the Imperial Officers' Academy, presented himself, and received a room and a uniform and a class schedule. Considering that a home, things more than the clothes on his back, and some regularity in his life were all things that Yang Wen-li had been missing since he had fled Phezzan, he found himself uncomfortably grateful to the Imperials.

The room he had been assigned was small, barely room for a bed and a desk and a closet, but that was plenty. He had been given a little brass plaque to slide into the doorframe, with his new fake name engraved on it. Just another weird little thing to get used to. He laid on his bed and closed his eyes, simply waiting for time to pass. There was going to be a freshman convocation dinner later that day where he was sure to meet all of his new classmates, something he was not looking forward to.

Although Yang wanted to sleep, he couldn't, so he pulled out his computer and signed on to the IOA intranet, checking to see if there was any news he should pay attention to. To his dismay, alongside announcements about the convocation dinner, start of classes, general campus updates, and messages from alums, there was a large banner displaying "Welcome to the Class of 479!" and then a button below it that read "View current class ranks." Yang clicked on it with some trepidation, though he already knew the worst that it would contain.

Note: Incoming ranks are based solely on performance during the IOA entrance exam. Recalculation occurs at the end of each marking period.

Oskar von Reuenthal Hank von Leigh Franz Gautier August Samuel Wahlen Peter von Deitch Cartier Ansbach Jon von Strum Fritz-Joseph Bittenfeld Arnot Messier Walter von Stuben

The list went on, showing the rank for all 1500 incoming freshmen. Yang wished that recalculation would occur immediately, so that he could slide down into a much more comfortable low zone. He had no desire to do well, and being in second place painted a target on his back. Whoever this Reuenthal was would probably think he was aiming for first, and all the people below him would be trying desperately to steal his rank. Yang could only assume that the culture here was fiercely competitive.

A message flashed up on his computer screen then, and he clicked it. It was from someone named Ernst von Eisenach.

Von Leigh,

Incoming freshmen are assigned an upperclassman mentor of their same class rank. We apparently have the great joy of being assigned to each other.

This has nothing to do with you, but I have no desire to meet in person, unless you are eager to lose at chess against me. Though I do not wish to meet face to face, I also am prepared to fulfil a certain measure of mentorship duties. If you have questions, TEXT ME (do not call me; I will not answer; I will be annoyed) at the number in my signature. I will answer them.

Please do not do anything stupid that would reflect badly upon me. Try to keep your rank. It would be shameful for me to have my mentee plummet from the very comfortable number two spot immediately. (Though perhaps I am a hypocrite here: my intent is fully to stay number two until the month before graduation, then purposefully tank my rank in order to slip into number three, thus allowing me to avoid speaking at graduation. I play the long game, as I must.)

If you would be so kind as to attach a picture of yourself to the reply of this message, it would help me greatly in my quest to avoid encountering you on campus.

Your mentor,

Ernst von Eisenach

Strategic Warfare Dept., Class of 478

That was perhaps the most confusing message that Yang had ever read. He typed out a reply, trying to be as diplomatic as possible.

Von Eisenach,

I'm terrible at chess. If you did challenge me, I'm sure it would be a complete disaster on my end. Unfortunately, I can make no promises about not disappointing you with my rank.

Picture attached. I trust you will have an easy time avoiding me.

Very respectfully,

Hank von Leigh

Military History Dept., Class of 479

He felt extremely weird, typing out his fake name and sending the message, but what else was he going to do? He didn't get a reply, so he could only assume that Eisenach was having a good laugh at his expense after seeing his photo.

Yang did manage to doze off after a while, and was woken by his blaring alarm that he had set to remind him of dinner. He changed into his formal cadet uniform (black and made of nicer fabric than the utilitarian grey-blue daily wear outfit for cadets) and tried to slick his hair back, not entirely successfully. The sun was setting already when he began walking towards the large, formal dining hall on the other end of campus. Luckily, it was dark and no one seemed to look closely at him or know who he was.

His luck ran out when he entered the dining hall and discovered that seating, at least for this meal, was assigned. One of the Academy staff at the door asked his name, gave him the look that Yang was coming to call in his head that look , and then pointed him to the very front of the room. Though in reality everyone around him was chatting and sizing up the people at their own tables, probably paying no attention to him, Yang couldn't help but feel observed.

The front table seemed to seat about thirty people, and only a few had shown up by the time that Yang sat down, fidgeting uncomfortably in his stiff-backed chair, watching the candles burning on the table dance.

The next student to take his place at Yang's table sat directly across from him, in the number one spot. Oskar von Reuenthal, according to the ranking list and folded nametag in front of his plate. Reuenthal was a tall, dark haired man. He had a thin, handsome face, but wore a closed off expression, and he openly stared at Yang (though not with hostility), giving Yang a chance to see his mismatched eyes: one black, one blue. There was certainly something about him that interested Yang-- he wasn’t what he had expected, though he couldn’t have said why-- maybe it was the graceful way he moved-- but Yang didn’t want to study Reuenthal the way Reuenthal was studying him.

Facing his silent scrutiny, Yang leaned back in his chair and tilted his head towards the ornate ceiling, as though there were something there of interest. Let Reuenthal look, if he wanted to stare so badly.

Yang couldn't ignore the rest of the high-ranking freshmen as they came in after a few minutes, not least because one of them, Bittenfeld, immediately caused a scene. Though it seemed like the number one and number two spots had been set across from each other intentionally, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason why the others had been placed down. Perhaps there had been a mixup in the order the nametags were printed in.

Bittenfeld was broad shouldered, with a flaming shock of red hair swept back from his face. He sat down two seats down from Reuenthal with a thump, then pointed at the man sitting next to Yang. "Hey, Ansbach," Bittenfeld said.

Ansbach, a dark haired and plain looking man, looked over at him. "What?"

"You might be worried that I'm aiming for your place," Bittenfeld said. "But you shouldn't be. I'm aiming for his."

Bittenfeld pointed down the table at Reuenthal, who simply said, "Oh?"

The man in between Bittenfeld and Reuenthal, a kind faced man with auburn hair, Wahlen, turned to Bittenfeld and said, "You know that's not how ranks work, right?"

Bittenfeld looked flustered at this rebuttal, and crossed his arms over his chest, giving Wahlen a nasty look. To diffuse some of the tension, Wahlen asked, "What departments are you all in? I'm strategic warfare."

"Strategic warfare," said Bittenfeld immediately.

"Strategic warfare." Ansbach.

Everyone looked at Yang, who shrugged. "Military history."

Then Reuenthal. "Strategic warfare."

"How are you number two?" Bittenfeld blurted out. "My cousin said that military history is for people who can't hack it in strats, but are too bad at math to go into engineering."

"You could stand to be more polite to people who outrank you," Wahlen said, though even his voice contained an edge of curiosity, and his look at Yang was one of appraisal.

"I like history."

"You're going to be eaten alive," Ansbach said. His voice held none of the mellow curiosity of Wahlen's, nor the easy bluster of Bittenfeld’s. Ansbach had pure malice in his tone.

Yang was saved from having to reply by music beginning to play at the front of the room. All of the students stood in a wave, coming to attention and looking at the head table. Yang felt like he was half a second behind everyone else, just mimicking their motions, but it seemed good enough for now. The staff filed into the room, standing in front of their chairs at the head table, and then the Academy chancellor, von Steger, gestured for everyone to be seated and for the music to end.

"Welcome, class of 479! As it is every year, it is an honor to be standing before you, the next great group of leaders in our Empire. Though you are young, you are the best our great nation has to offer. You should know that every year, over fifty thousand test takers from around the Empire apply for spots at the IOA. Your class of merely 1500 represents the most select number of them. You have a great deal to live up to..."

Yang tuned the speech out and looked around the room. There was only so much self aggrandizing Imperial talk he could bear at once. Waiters were walking around the tables, bearing huge trays covered in wine glasses, slipping them in front of each student. So, there would be a toast.

As Yang looked around, he felt observed once again, and turned slightly. He made eye contact with Reuenthal, who was watching him rather than the speech. Yang couldn't blame him for not paying attention, but he felt rather uncomfortable with the attention from the other man.

A waiter slipped a glass of wine in front of Yang. He resisted the urge to fiddle with it, keeping his hands in his lap, trying to relax.

The speech continued, seeming to stretch out until all the motion in the hall ceased. Finally, Chancellor von Steger said, "And now, to your future as students and soldiers, and to the Empire. Sieg Kaiser! Prosit!" He raised his own wine glass from the table.

"Prosit!" shouted the massed student body.

Yang raised his glass half-heartedly, mumbled, "Prosit," under his breath.

Across from him, Reuenthal had a tiny smirk on his face. "Prosit!" he said to no one in particular, then drank.