Letter from Belgium (B-Side)

January 487 I.C., Odin

Duke Braunschweig did not keep his military staff as pets in his estate. He had a three story brownstone not far from the Ministry of War, where most of his staff officers had desks. It was a pleasant building, for all that it was filled with people Yang did not much care to associate with.

Duke Braunschweig technically held the rank of admiral in the Imperial fleet, but this was more of an inherited or honorary title than a mark of experienced command. As far as Yang was aware, the duke had never engaged in active combat, nor had he been trained for it in any meaningful way. His paper rank came from the fact that he had exercised his noble right to command the troops who originated from his territories.

The vast majority of nobles, especially minor nobility, pledged their soldiers directly to the crown. They lacked either the desire to command, the raw numbers of pledged troops to make it worthwhile, or the courage to flaunt the rights that they technically possessed. It also spared them a financial burden of supporting their own army. These conscripted troops from minor holdings made up the majority of the actual fighting force of the Empire— all of those who served in fleets under career soldiers appointed by the Kaiser, like Fleet Admiral Muckenburger. Troops from nobles like Duke Braunschweig could technically be called into service by the crown, either commanded by their lord, or loaned to the crown to be commanded by a more experienced officer. Duke Braunschweig’s troops, since they were so great in number, were occasionally used in this way, but as Kaiser Friedrich’s health declined, there were fewer and fewer large military dispatches planned that required these extra forces.

It had actually been a little troublesome for Duke Braunschweig to arrange for Yang (and, with him, Kircheis) to be transferred to his staff, since both were registered citizens of Odin, and therefore the crown directly. Fleet Admiral Muckenburger had apparently protested the transfer, which had surprised Yang when he learned about it through the grapevine. But Duke Braunschweig had managed it, through sheer force of will, or through petitioning the Kaiser— it was unclear to Yang. One thing was certain: Yang was worth far more than his salary, as Duke Braunschweig was paying some hefty fee to have him “on loan” from the crown. This made any and all of his wasted time while in his office at work feel all the sweeter.

Yang had now been working for Duke Braunschweig for more than half a year, and it certainly showed in the state of his tiny office. The neatest part of it were the maps on the wall, displaying every inhabited planet of the Empire, every space fortress, every critical mining zone, vague navigable routes— all the information that could be crammed onto a map at a glance. Every time he looked at the maps, Yang was tempted to cover them with pins and notes, but then sighed at what a frightful breach of security that would be, since he knew he would invariably forget to take them down, and then didn’t. This left the maps as pristine as the day that they had been unrolled from their poster tubes.

Everywhere else, though, was a different story. The bookshelves behind Yang’s desk were crammed with volumes, some of them turned on their sides with the page-side out, so that bookmarks with descriptions of what the relevant passages were could be read with a simple flip of fingers down the stack. The desk was covered half in scattered incomprehensible papers of supreme importance only to Yang, and half in random garbage: empty bowls from microwave meals, candy wrappers, a plate full of used teabags that had formed into a solid dry mountain.

Amidst all of this, Yang sat with his computer in front of him, a single useable spot carved in the chaos. He often pulled his feet up onto his plush chair, his knees resting against the edge of his heavy desk, and leaned forward so that he could look sideways out his office window, catching glimpses of the passers-by on the street below, or the birds that were nesting in the eaves of the roof across the way.

Yang was rarely disturbed in his office, except on occasion by Kircheis. No one else in the building seemed to know what to make of him. While most of Duke Braunschweig’s staff officers were concerned with the provisioning and maintenance of his fleet and the interfacing of it with the larger Imperial military, Yang had his own special tasks, the results of which were reported directly to Duke Braunschweig.

It was hilarious that Duke Braunschweig had pinned the task of planning an entire war on one man. What was even funnier was that he had managed to find one of the few people in the Imperial military remotely qualified to do it. Yang knew he had plenty of shortcomings: he lacked the years of experience that someone like Fleet Admiral Muckenburger had; he was less of a strategist than he was a tactician; he did not have access to many important resources and pieces of information; he suspected that when time came to put his plans into action, he would be unable to convince Duke Braunschweig to follow them; and, perhaps most importantly, he didn’t know if he truly wanted to succeed. But even with all of that, Yang’s time in the PI unit under Rear Admiral Bronner had given him a clear understanding of the talents and tactics of most relevant commanders in the Imperial fleet, and his thousands of hours playing war games had prepared him to grasp the scope of a conflict writ large.

It was still a fantasy story that he was weaving, another false battle, and it made Yang nostalgic for years ago, at the IOA. He would sometimes stare into space, thinking of a particularly elegant solution to a problem, and be seized by the urge to tell Reuenthal about it. Or he would laugh to himself when he jotted down a note that he knew, if he had still been a student, would have made Staden put a gigantic red question mark on one of his strats postmortems. Sometimes, he’d flip through the list of commanders that he suspected that Littenheim was going to be able to recruit to his side, and he would hear Bronner’s voice in his ear, saying something like, “He’s miscast for the role you’re having him play.”

If Yang hadn’t had the sense that in a few short years (or even months) this would all become terrifyingly real, he might have enjoyed it. But as it was, he lost sleep over it, and that only grew worse the more pieces came into play, the more resources he encouraged Braunschweig to gather, the more allies he pointed out that he should encourage to come to his side.

Yang had begun his planning with the goal of ending the civil war as quickly as possible, to prevent as much collateral damage to the citizens of the Empire as he could. If he kept that idea in mind, he could at least make himself move forward. But the more he shuffled the pieces around before him, the more complex it seemed by the moment. He was haunted by knowing that there was no perfect strategy, but he was compelled to search for one regardless. He thought if he kept at this long enough, he would go slightly insane.

It was almost a relief, then, when a new and different problem landed in his lap, (or really, his email inbox) completely out of the blue.

The message was innocuous enough on its surface.

Dear Captain von Leigh,

I doubt you remember me, but I took your class on Ancient Earth History a few years back. It’s probably very strange for me to be contacting you, but I’ve been working in the Embassy on Phezzan since I graduated, and I’ve had the pleasure of hearing your name mentioned a few times.

In particular, I met this man at a party who said that he had once been aboard Rear Admiral von Reuenthal’s flagship, and knew you, or knew of you, in any event. He asked me to tell you that he sends his regards to your favorite student. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch his name, but I’m hoping that you understand more of what he was talking about than I did.

I hear that you’ve left the IOA. I’m surprised— I thought you were a good teacher, at least. How is working for Duke Braunschweig? If I’m honest with you, that is not a staff posting that I would have chosen for myself haha. Congratulations on your promotion, though.

I hope you are doing well.

Very respectfully,

Lt. Cmdr. Neidhart Muller

IOA Class of 482, Strategic Warfare Division

Although it had been several years, Yang did remember Muller. He had been a senior when Yang had taught him, his very first year of teaching at the IOA. Muller had been fresh faced, with sandy-light hair and an enthusiasm for everything. Yang couldn’t remember where in his class he had graduated— Yang wasn’t teaching the SW class at the time, so it hadn’t been relevant to him. Muller must have been near the top, because being assigned the embassy on Phezzan was a coveted position, and Muller had been promoted quite quickly since he graduated. In Yang’s class, he had done well, despite Yang grading his first crop of students unduly harshly. (He had tempered his expectations for student performance after his first semester of classes.)

All of that was well and good: Yang liked Muller, and Muller had respected him as a teacher, even if they had never spoken outside of class.

The problem was, Yang knew exactly what Muller was trying to communicate to him with this vague ramble about someone he met on Phezzan, and it was sure to be nothing but trouble.

Of course, what the unwitting messenger Muller couldn’t have known was that all of Yang’s mail was read by his insatiably nosy former superior, Rear Admiral Deitrich Bronner. He had been a commodore when Yang had worked for him, but he had recently gotten a long overdue promotion, and an accordingly larger role at the Ministry of War. That had not stopped him from spying on Yang, whom he considered his personal project. Usually, Yang didn’t mind it that much; he knew better than to write most things down. Muller had definitely stumbled into a minefield with this message, though.

So, Yang held off on talking to the actual intended recipient of the message, waiting for Bronner to mosey up to Braunschweig’s admiralty offices and knock primly on Yang’s door, which he did.

“Come in,” Yang called, hastily flipping shut the notebook at his right hand.

Bronner strode in, looking with an owlish disdain at the mess in Yang’s office. Yang stood and saluted to greet him. “I figured you’d get around to visiting me,” he said.

“And what made you so sure of that?” Bronner asked, taking a seat in front of Yang’s desk, in the chair that only Kircheis ever used.

“This isn’t a visit to congratulate me on my engagement to Baroness Westpfale?” Yang asked, smiling. “The formal engagement announcement and banns were in the newspaper last week.”

“I’ll congratulate you when the curtain finally closes on the whole affair,” Bronner said. “I notice that you didn’t put a date for the wedding in the announcement.”

“It hasn’t been chosen yet.”

“I suggest you choose one,” Bronner said, voice dry. “And make it soon.”

“I don’t think there’s any need to rush.”

“This isn’t politics, Leigh. This is personal advice: an overly long engagement only leads to trouble.” Yang remembered that the reason Merkatz had sent him to work for Bronner was that Bronner had once had a two-year-long engagement to Merkatz’s daughter, though the whole thing had been broken off before it could turn into a marriage.

“The personal is political,” Yang said. “But I’ll stop pretending that I don’t know what you’re here for.”

“Too bad. I was hoping to see if your acting skills had improved.”

“I’m still working from a second-rate script,” Yang said. “And you would know, since you’re still reading my mail.”

Bronner’s lips curled in a thin but amused smile. “It’s not every day that a former ‘Phezzani’ starts getting strangely vague mail from the embassy on Phezzan. Especially mail that talks about another person who requires a watching eye.”

“You won’t have any eyes left to do your actual job if you’re using one to spy on me and the other on Sub-lieutenant Kircheis.”

“Spying?” Bronner said. “Hardly. It’s simply that I have orchestra seats to your performance, right near the stage.” He trailed his fingers through the air, like he was conducting some music. “Watching all the players come and go.”

“Of course,” Yang said.

“So, explain it to me, if you would, Captain.”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“And why is that?”

“I’m going to tell you that this is completely harmless.”

Bronner didn’t react. “Leigh, let me tell you something.”

“What?”

“You are just a little too valuable to be let out of my sight at the moment. I wouldn’t want to see you dragged out of your post and sent to a work camp on the frontier.”

“I’m flattered,” Yang said in as deadpan of a voice as he could muster.

“So, it’s probably not your skin on the line here if you don’t convince me of this all being harmless. It’s— what was his name again?” Bronner prompted. Yang was sure he knew the name, but wanted to annoy Yang, or see if Yang had any reaction to saying Muller’s name.

“Lieutenant Commander Muller,” Yang said.

“That’s right. You seem to remember his name well enough.”

“I remember him as a student,” Yang said. “But nothing much more than that.” He shrugged. “He wasn’t a special project of mine, anyway.”

“Pity. They’re always so interesting.”

Yang just rolled his eyes. “Muller wasn’t that interesting. If he was, you and I both know he wouldn’t have gotten posted to Phezzan. Interesting is not a thing you want in people working at the embassy.”

“Very true.” Bronner smiled again. “And I did check up on his family. His lovely parents are still comfortably at home, with the same check that he sends them every month to help pay off their house— nothing more and nothing less.”

“I hope you didn’t bother them,” Yang said.

“Of course not.” Yang couldn’t tell if Bronner was lying.

“I suspect that if there had been any other recent IOA graduate there in Muller’s place who had me as a teacher, they would have gotten the same request to pass along the message. Muller’s just the pigeon carrying it home.”

“About as intelligent as one, too,” Bronner intoned. “He should know better than to put any of this on paper.”

“This is only suspicious because you’re already suspicious of me.”

“Suspicious? I wouldn’t describe it that way. Merely curious.”

“That’s much better.”

Bronner just smiled thinly. “So, convince me that this is harmless, Leigh. What’s this all about?”

“Do you know who the person Muller is talking about is, or do I have to explain it to you?” Yang asked.

As Muller had said in his letter, the person who had once been aboard Reuenthal’s ship was sure to be Reinhard von Müsel, formerly a cadet at the Alliance’s equivalent of the IOA. While Reinhard had been working in a summer posting at a starship facility called Condor Base, he and one of his coworkers, another cadet named Fredrica Greenhill (notably, the daughter of one of the Alliance’s most respected admirals) had survived an attack by Reuenthal on the base. Somehow, they then proceeded to sneak aboard Reuenthal’s flagship, free a swathe of prisoners of war, commandeer one of the other ships in the fleet, and escape. It had been a major personal embarrassment for Reuenthal, since Reinhard even had the gall to impersonate an Imperial lieutenant, and went into Reuenthal’s office to speak to him personally.

Although he would have never admitted it to Reuenthal, who was like a ruffled cat whenever the subject was brought up, Yang found the whole thing very funny.

What Reinhard was doing on Phezzan, or why he had occasion to talk to Muller, Yang didn’t know. He also had no idea if Bronner had been following the news on Phezzan closely enough to put all these pieces together.

“You take all the fun out of things.” Bronner reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. He looked like he was about to slide it across the desk to Yang, but the clutter on Yang’s desk made that impossible, so he just held it out with a look of disdain. Yang took it and unfolded it, revealing a photocopy of an intelligence report from the Phezzani embassy: a rote description of one of the Alliance’s staff at their own High Commissioner’s office on Phezzan. It was accompanied, of course, by a picture of Reinhard von Müsel. His long golden hair was done in twin french braids, and he was wearing a lieutenant commander’s pin on his collar and a frown on his face. The photograph had been taken with a long zoom lens: he appeared to be walking down the street, lost in thought.

“Is this your man?” Bronner asked

“He is. I didn’t know that was where he was working, or that he had gotten promoted so quickly. He just graduated from their school last year, as far as I’m aware,” Yang said, putting down the paper, though he didn’t give it back to Bronner. “I suppose the rebel fleet doesn't subscribe to the idea of not letting interesting people work at their embassy.”

That actually made Bronner chuckle. “I get the impression that they enjoy having interesting people work there. It’s some sort of public relations scheme.”

“Shame that we gave up on public relations sometime under Rudolph the Great.” He was tempted to add a more scathing criticism of the Empire’s handling of the public, but decided against it, considering who he was talking to.

Bronner was too used to Yang to react to what he had said, at least. “What I would like to know, Leigh, is what this interesting man wants with your little protégé.”

“They used to be friends,” Yang said. “Müsel there is an expat; he and Kircheis were next door neighbors, years ago.”

Yang couldn’t help but feel distantly fond of Reinhard, despite the fact that they were on opposite sides of a war and had never met. Anyone that Kircheis liked, Yang was sure he would like also. And did feel a solidarity with refugees, even though Reinhard had fled in the opposite direction.

It was funny, the strings of fate that connected them across the universe. It was only by staggering coincidence that Reinhard knew who Yang was, or how to contact him. Reinhard happened to eavesdrop on an ansible conversation that Yang had with Reuenthal, where they discussed sending Kircheis to join Reuenthal’s fleet upon his graduation.

For a coded message passed hand to hand across the galaxy, it really was simple and sincere. At heart, it was, “Hello, old friend, I’ve missed you.” All Yang had to do was convince Bronner of that.

“That strains the limits of my imagination,” Bronner said.

Yang shrugged. “It’s true enough. I can prove it to you, if you’d like.”

“I would very much like,” Bronner said. “But before you prove it, tell me why this neighbor went to all this trouble to contact Sub-lieutenant Kircheis.”

“I’m fairly sure that Müsel really was just saying hello. There’s not much information in that letter, is there?”

“There could be some sort of code.”

“The day you break it, let me know. I think that the only reason that this greeting has gone through such a winding route is because Müsel genuinely had no other way to contact Kircheis, after having lost touch with him years ago.” Yang said. He tilted his head and looked at Bronner. “I recall during that incident with Rear Admiral Mittermeyer, you seemed very sure that Kircheis would be able to speak to anyone, on any planet he liked.”

“Did I?” Bronner asked, voice dry. “I don’t recall.”

Yang just stared him down, but Bronner refused to admit anything.

“In any event,” Yang said, “This is harmless. And, even if it wasn’t, you’re keeping so close of an eye on Kircheis that I’m sure he couldn’t even sneeze in Phezzan’s direction without you making note of it somewhere.”

Bronner smiled. “The question remains, Leigh: what are you going to do about this?”

“Do?” Yang asked, then sighed. Bronner wasn’t stupid. He leaned his chin on his hands, elbows on his desk. “I’ve been told that Müsel has a particular desire to destroy the Goldenbaum dynasty. I suppose I should keep an eye on him.”

“And are you going to pass along this message to your favorite student?”

“I haven’t yet.”

“Answer my question.”

“Yes,” Yang said. He might have elaborated, but he had no desire to give Bronner much more than was necessary.

Bronner looked at him for a long second. Yang wanted to squirm, but he didn’t. “You keep an eye, then, Leigh.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“A more sensible person would ignore this message, and not respond.”

“You think I’m going to write Muller back?”

“Of course you will.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because neither one of us can resist peeking behind the curtain whenever we get the chance,” Bronner said finally. It sounded like an admission, and it made Yang smile.

“You know, sir, there could be worse things for us to have in common.”

Bronner shook his head. “Not for all the money on Phezzan would I want to have more in common with you, Leigh.” He leaned forward. “But before I let this drop for now— you mentioned you had proof?

“I do.” He checked the time— it was just after noon, and Kircheis was almost certainly at lunch right now. Yang stood, and stretched, though the motion caused a few papers to fall to the floor. He looked at them with an annoyed frown, then left them where they lay. He went to the door. “Come on,” he said.

“Where are we going?” Bronner asked, suspicions.

“Kircheis’s desk.”

“Is he here?”

“I’m sure he’s gone off to lunch,” Yang said, leading Bronner through the hallway and then down the back stairs. The second floor was different in layout than the third. The rooms off the hallway were larger, and were filled with cubicles for the more junior staff. Yang was glad he had an office. Most of the junior officers were off at lunch, though there were a few still at their desks, and they stood, alarmed, when they saw the rear admiral stripes on Bronner’s shoulders. Bronner waved them back down and then ignored them, as Yang led him to the back of the room to Kircheis’s desk, tucked up against one frosty window. Kircheis, as Yang had anticipated, was not there.

“There’s your man,” Yang said, pointing at the single framed photograph on Kircheis’s desk. It showed a fifteen year old girl and two ten year old boys. The striking red hair of one of the boys marked him as Kircheis, while the girl and the boy were both blonde and angelic. There was a lock of that hair tucked in between the photograph and the frame.

Bronner reached to pick it up, but Yang said, “Leave it alone,” and Bronner complied.

“They were close, it seems,” he said, looking at the hair.

Across the room, the heavy door swung open. Yang and Bronner’s heads both snapped up, and Yang was quite embarrassed to see that it was Kircheis walking in.

He was good at keeping his face placid. “Were you looking for me, Rear Admiral, Captain?”

“It’s good that you’re here, actually, Sub-lieutenant—” Bronner began, but Yang cut him off.

“ I was looking for you. Rear Admiral Bronner was just leaving,” Yang said.

Bronner took Yang’s interruption in stride. “Of course. I’ll see myself out. Have an excellent day, Sub-lieutenant.” He nodded to Yang, then pushed past him and Kircheis to head to the door. Yang was grateful that this was all it took to get Bronner to leave. If he had chosen to cause a scene about Kircheis’s relationship— current or former— with Reinhard there in the office, it would have been deeply unpleasant. As it was, Yang was sure that Bronner would be writing everything he knew or suspected down in his endless notes, but there was nothing Yang could do to stop him from doing that.

After Bronner left, Kircheis asked, with a more honest note of concern in his voice, “What can I do for you, Captain Leigh?”

“Come up to my office, for one thing,” Yang said. “I have something to give to you.” He scratched the back of his head, then said, “It’s funny— I’m not sure if you’ll appreciate having it or not.”

“You’re making me nervous, sir,” Kircheis said. They walked out of the junior officers’ cubicle room and back upstairs.

“What are you doing back early from lunch?” Yang asked.

“Martin’s exam ran late, so he couldn’t meet me,” he said. “So I came back early.”

“I see.”

They climbed the creaking back stairs, and Yang unlocked his office door and let Kircheis in. When the door closed behind them, Kircheis relaxed, just a little. He always held his hands so stiffly when he was nervous, like he was resisting with all his strength the temptation to curl them into fists. When he sat down in the chair in front of Yang’s desk, his hands now draped loosely over the armrests, though one finger picked at some of the chipped varnish on the wood.

“What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?” Kircheis asked.

“I was going to wait until later this afternoon, but it might as well be now,” Yang said. He sat down in his own chair, pulling his legs up to sit as cross legged as possible, though his knees were bent upwards by the armrests. “I received a letter the other day,” Yang said.

“About what, sir?”

“About nothing, really.” He pulled at his hair again. There was no easy way to deliver this information. “Your childhood friend, Reinhard von Müsel—”

Kircheis immediately stiffened in his seat.

“—says hello,” Yang finished.

“How?” Kircheis asked.

The paper that Bronner had handed Yang was still on his desk, and he handed it to Kircheis, who read it over, his eyes wide. The edge of the paper shook; he wasn’t holding it steady.

As Kircheis read, Yang said, “He met a former student of mine, Lieutenant Commander Muller, who’s stationed at the embassy on Phezzan, and convinced him to pass along a message. He’s lucky I knew how to interpret it.” Yang opened his computer and pulled up the message, then spun it around so that Kircheis could read it. “It really is just ‘hello.’”

“This is what Rear Admiral Bronner was here for?” Kircheis asked. He was trying very hard to be professional. His mask was firmly in place, but Yang knew he was wearing a mask.

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“The question is, Kircheis, what would you like me to do?”

“I—” There was so much strange emotion wrapped up in that single syllable. Kircheis stifled it and tried again. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Bronner expects me to send a reply to Muller.”

“Why would he let you do that?”

“Do you want the truth, Kircheis?”

Kircheis thought about this for a second too long for comfort. “Yes.”

“Bronner would let me do it because, as a soldier in His Majesty’s fleet, I should try to use this opening to see if there is a weakness that can be exploited. To see if Reinhard von Müsel’s desire to speak with you might lead to him giving something valuable away.”

“He won’t, sir,” Kircheis said.

“Maybe not. Bronner, I’m sure, also thinks that there’s a possibility that Müsel is fishing for weaknesses in our fleet, trying to find someone he could turn to his side.”

Kircheis looked down at the paper in his hands. “I don’t think Reinhard would do that to me.”

“You trust him very much, for a man you haven’t seen in a decade.”

“I know him,” Kircheis said. “And…”

“And what?”

“He made me a promise, a long time ago. I think he’s still keeping it.”

“I won’t ask what it was.”

“Thank you.”

“Well,” Yang said, “think on this. I don’t think there’s any hurry to respond, if you want me to respond.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Yang let his feet fall back down to the floor with a final thump. “That’s all I really have for you,” he said. “I’ve just been a messenger for a messenger.”

“Thank you for telling me, sir,” Kircheis said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” Yang said. “I would like to think that you and I can be honest with each other, at least.” Even as he said that, he offered Kircheis a somewhat apologetic smile, because even that wasn’t true. “I trust you, even if Rear Admiral Bronner doesn’t.”

Kircheis met his eyes. Yang wasn’t sure what he saw in them, but it was earnest, whatever it was. “Thank you, sir.”

“Just be careful,” Yang said. “Bronner is keeping tabs on you.”

“I will.” And then Kircheis stood, and with a nodded goodbye, headed out of Yang’s office. Yang noticed belatedly that he had taken the intelligence report on Reinhard with him.