Zugpflicht
The Doge of Durazzo, Isaac Tunnel, stood at the arched windows of his office. He gazed, woolgathering over concerning matters, a sulking glare over his urbanized domain below. Isaac held in one hand a wineglass of exquisite whiskey, aged forty years on a world rich with the exports. In the other, a tan folder with documents from this morning’s bulletin intelligence. It wasn’t good news, as was often the case.
Isaac took a gulp from the wineglass, shaking his head like a shaggy wet dog because of the bitter aftertaste. It was one bad news after another. Isaac shook the wineglass carefully. He mulled over his position as Durazzo’s Doge. As the alluring red liquid swirled and splashed against the curvy walls of the cup, Isaac navigated a uncertain future.
He rubbed his grand bald head—a price to play for his ascension as Doge of Durazzo, but what he made up for was a equally magnificent curly goatee past its blackened prime.
“Bzzt, bzzt,” the videophone behind him blared. Isaac’s bullet train of thoughts were paused, he enjoyed downing another shot of the aged stuff, then sat it down on the table. He reached to pressed a orange button on the videophone console.
At once the screen went from idleness to live feed profile Isaac recognized as his Landsknecht deputy commander Rolan. Beneath his caterpillar, bushy brows, Isaac inhaled deeply and only deflated with his thin lips pursed. He glanced at an unassuming segment of the pale cyan walls—in reality the front door of his office. Isaac snapped his fingers. Thus he asked: “What is it?”
“Intelligence Director Mitkof demanded your immediate attention,” Rolan said. Isaac sat down at his cushy peached sofa.
“Very well, let him in,” Isaac said. Roland nodded, the video feed cut to idleness. The Doge set down the whiskey on a square stripped coaster, and tossed the tan folder next to it. He swept his hand over the coach’s oaken panel with its strands of bronze hair sticking out. Instinctively he pressed a cherry red button which retracted the keyboard and small computer screen attached to the sofa, both instruments disappeared into the panel. At once, the exposed viewing of Durazzo’s city was sealed off with the materialization of curtains resembling pearly white tiles. Isaac’s office was now in incognito mode.
There was the slow hiss of the wall section Isaac glanced at earlier. Steam dispersed from visible linings, then a brief mechanical whine as it protruded to the side. A man emerged from the disintegrating fog into the room.
Mitkof.
Isaac crossed his legs. His rough, leathery, hands were steepled. “What is it, Mitkof?”
“Pleasantries to you on this fine evening, my Serene Doge,” Mitkof answered with a curtly bow. The Intelligence Director knew his place, despite the intrusion. Isaac did not expect his lieutenant for a few hours more but he kept his thoughts inwardly. Mitkof took this as a prompt to proceed. “I take it you are aware of the reports I have sent to you last night as well as this mornings?”
“I was busy with other matters,” Isaac said. He reached for his wineglass and sipped from it.
“They require your immediate observation.”
Isaac took another sip, a smaller one, from his fine whiskey. Limey, but the aftertaste no different from nail polish. Isaac Decidedly set it down with a glance at the tan paper folder Mitkof deferred. “Is this about the acquisitions regarding our Venusian dummy Guild in the Confederacy?”
Mitkof shook his head. “Far more urgent matters.”
Isaac rolled his tongue around his mouth, his cheeks bulged from where they poked the insides. “The Imperium mobilization?”
Mitkof stepped closer to the Doge, he glared at him, studying him. Isaac considered he was playing dumb a little too much with Mitkof. He was merely testing him, and the man was maybe catching on. He needed to shift gears.
“Are you aware His Majesty, the Emperor has decreed for the release of House von Zähringer... from Helene?”
This revelation intrigued Isaac. He couldn’t help but feel greedy for a drink, and reached for the wineglass. He reclined in the peachy sofa char. It was cushy, like a oversized bean bag. He twirled the shiny crystal goblet in his thick, tanned hands. He didn’t factor in Achilles one bit, the exile of the Neo sapiens was suppose to be the end of it all.
Isaac’s bushy graying brows arched inward.
“Most unexpected indeed,” Isaac said.
“He was summoned three days ago, before the majordomo. I was informed of this just last night,” Mitkof said. “Your security detail told me you retired for the night.”
“I see,” Isaac said, “and what am I to make of this knowledge?”
Mitkof was bewildered by the question. He shook his head and said: “Should we not inform our agency in the Allied Coalition of such development?”
Isaac frowned. He scratched his shiny—more like a rub—his balded head and smiled. “There is no need as such.”
“My Doge!” Mitkof said. He was holding back the restraint in his tone.
Isaac simply raised his old, worn hands. “What use would that yield? It would merely cast suspicion on us. He has a reputation, sure. But he is no Churchill—no Black Prince. To the Confederacy he is a minor character . . . hardly a dark horse in this conflict.”
Mitkof merely stood there in silence, Isaac noticed he was bending his knees. He was standing at attention the whole time. Isaac needed to bring the topic back at hand. Isaac prompted the Director for more: “And the significance of his release?”
“The terms for the amnesty is he must join with the Arrière-ban, at Trebizond. He has no choice otherwise.”
“Well, is he?” Isaac said. “It is not like there is a counterpart of the man within the Confederacy navy.”
Mitkof did not appreciate these elementary probings, he straightened his jacket. “With Achilles present, it will be a crushing Imperium victory.”
“Achilles’s summoning won’t be a issue; the coalition will be crushed either way,” Isaac said. “It is of my specific design the outcome of this campaign.”
“My Lord,” Mitkof said. He clasped his sweaty hands together. “If he gains too much merit...”
“Achilles can still be controlled,” Isaac said. “Unlike Churchill.” He nodded as he took one last sip from his wineglass. He set it aside on the adjacent night stand, grunting as he got up.
Isaac navigated to the curtailed side of the office study. Gradually a segment of the tiled white curtain dissipated to give a scenic view of the sprawling metropolis below. Mitkof dared not interrupt him but accompanied him a few paces away.
“Do you truly believe that?” Mitkof asked. “A untamable lion like him!”
“I do,” Isaac lied. “It doesn’t matter to me if he participates in the incoming battle or not. It is, however, deeply troubling to me what will occur in the aftermath.”
Mitkof was merely silent. It indicated to Isaac he must satiate his deputy intelligence officer’s curiosity. Isaac said: “House Zähringer has generated men of interest even before my time.”
“He is a wild card in these schemes of yours?” Mitkof asked.
“To reiterate what I told you earlier, he is hardly a dark horse. But that is what is romantic about them. They are unknown,” Isaac paused in speech and his stroll. He turned to face Mitkof. Mitkof watched as his green, marble-like gaze jumped around. Calculating. Deliberating what to tell Mitkof. Was he uncertain himself?
“And . . . could steal the show?” Mitkof said, unprompted. He cleared his throat.
“Doubly so... he is to be monitored after this battle—if he survives.”
“You’re overconfident of imperial victory,” Mitkof said. Isaac sensed he was probing the Doge until now, to deliver the real reason his unannounced presence. Mitkof followed up with the question: “But what if the republicans secure victory?”
“The Republic may have the upper hand in numbers and formation,” Isaac said. “But they lack the crucial knowledge to make a defeat too strategic, too in-depth for the Emperor. Twenty-one thousand warships are at His Majesty’s disposal, currently, correct?” A quiet affirmation from the Mitkof prompted Isaac to continue: “then there is no need for concern.”
“I cannot strongly emphasis the importance of leaking to the republican alliance of the imperial counterattack,” Mitkof said.
Isaac breathed heavily through his nose at the million dinar question. He suppressed a smile. He’s finally out and uttered it, Isaac said inwardly.
Isaac craned his obtuse short neck to glare at Mitkof.
“You fail to see the grander schemes of my motives. I entrusted you to perform your duties as instructed and you far exceeded my expectations: this much I applaud you for,” Isaac wags a finger. “But you fail to see why this would work in the Imperium’s favor.”
“Nine million men to the Imperium’s five million...” Mitkof shook his head. “My apologizes, my Lord, but I can only see a slaughter. We can avoid this.”
“Why avoid?” Isaac asked. “In warfare there is chronic senseless killing regardless.”
“It could invite the Imperium to start a new chevauchée,” Mitkof said. “A fourth chevauchée!”
Isaac couldn’t help but chuckle. “Your reasoning is lackluster.” He couldn't help but take pleasure in seeing Mitkof get worked up.
“You do not reveal to me your... intricate grand designs!”
Mitkof tried to hide the attack on his character and likewise Isaac tried not to provoke him too much. He will need to learn, Isaac consoled inwardly. He expressed his thoughts: “if the Confederacy were to secure a victory here it would upset the balance in this war. If the alliance knew at this moment,” he shot a glance at the deputy intelligence chief. “I trust you did not go behind my back and relay any information as such through any legitimate or black market channels?”
Mitkof did not hesitate to acknowledge he wouldn’t. “Good,” Isaac said. “Let us keep the status quo.” Isaac knew Mitkof was damned to ask so he continued. “The Alliance has gained too much of an advantage in this war. Do you remember Churchill’s bold, daring assault on Fasnakyle? They knocked out Farragaig, sure. That much is certain. But Churchill lost not one,” Isaac wagged a finger, then gave Mitkof a peace sign, “but two Mobile Gears. And Zeta, and its fleet! And now the rebels have a battalion’s worth of Mobile Gears.
“If they were to win now—when they take Ishtar Fortress, which they very much could . . . it will cripple the empire. Nothing stands in their path to go further, size the Cilician heartland, dictate peace terms on Corinth, in the palace of Versailles itself. “ Isaac stepped closer to Mitkof. He put a hand on his shoulder. “The viability of Durazzo is at stake with this battle. Do you see now?”
“You mean to suggest the alliance won’t see much of a need for us?” Mitkof asked.
“It would be significantly harder to negotiate with both entities,” Isaac said. “If both sides were actively aware of a set-piece battle.” He pulled away from Mitkof and the arched window, and Mitkof followed suit. The tiled curtains shuttered tight and Isaac guided the two of them to the center of the office study, where a muted oval design interrupted the uniform grass green carpet. At once a humming buzzed, then the three dimensional projectory of Ishtar corridor flung out and occupied the room’s vacancy, basking the two men in a budding blue light.
Isaac whipped up two opposing t-blocs at one point in the Ishtar corridor. Like a child with his toys, he smashed the Imperium ones against the Confederate’s formation. Mitkof looked on, amused by the old man conducting this simulated war. The blue aura around Azincourt bled crimson red as Isaac gently pushed, like a toy car, the main formation of the Imperium camp into the nearest Confederate air space. The digital red afterglow followed the simulated path.
Mitkof finished gathering his thoughts. He spoke: “The empire would have no need for us if it finished off the Confederacy, and the Confederacy would see us as a roadblock to republican rule if the Imperium aristocracy fled here?”
“Both hold true: if the empire over-succeeded, they would see our existence as a rallying cry. A problematic sprout for democracy.” Isaac painted the most of the Confederate space red, the indication of Imperium occupied territory. The only white spot was Durazzo’s star zone in its own namesake corridor.
“And thus you suggest bloodshed?” Mitkof asked. Isaac noted his tone sounded of frustration. Isaac masked a grin.
“If both sides knew it would be a full-on engagement, it would be twice the bloodshed for no gain. In fact there would be so much blood shed there could be a peace declared. But that so far is speculation.” Isaac shook his head. “We cannot navigate a war through pure speculation.”
Mitkof found himself at a loss for words, but after several seconds of silence he said: “if the Imperium loses here...”
“No! They cannot. I can assure you there is no chance for a republican victory. There is no capable commandeer among the Confederacy who is equal to the Emperor,” a slight pause. “Or even Achilles.”
“I think you put too much faith in the Emperor,” Mitkof said, a stern defiance. “Let alone House Zähringer.”
Isaac spoke: “If there was such a officer in the Confederacy, such a man or woman’s profile would be documented and analyzed,” Isaac said. “Nothing slips by you and I.”
It appeared to Isaac something still bothered Mitkof about this impending operation. Indeed, curiosity infected Isaac:: what if the Confederacy did win this battle? No... it’s not possible. Yet the question lay nestled in the back of his mind.
“The only way those Confederate fellows could win is by deploying their juma devices, and the chances of that happening is nil,” Isaac said.
“I find your lack of faith in Confederate leadership peculiar,” Mitkof said. “Yet all the same a tactical officer among the Confederate ranks may suggest this very scenario happening.”
“The Confederacy admiralty is just as conservative and playing into arrogance as their imperial counterparts,” Isaac said. “The Confederacy leadership is totally inept. Thanks to your efforts, they still believe the Imperium is distracted by the crisis in the Bulakbashi system. They will be caught unprepared to anticipate the imperial counterattack, and will have no time to deploy such defensive measures.”
Isaac observes as Mitkof takes this information in. Slowly does the intelligence officer lean in. “So a imperial victory is all but guaranteed?”
“Without a doubt,” Isaac said. “It would provoke the Confederacy’s high commissioner here on Durazzo to come hat in hand and ask for more loans,” Isaac couldn’t help but reveal a ghastly grin. “Much needed money to compensate widows and their bereaved families. The government on Fasnakyle has no choice otherwise.”
“This is oddly sickening,” Mitkof said. The intelligence officer’s expressed opinion did little to make Isaac mask his hideous almost predatory grin. “But what if His Majesty went above beyond a mere chevauchée, a wicked fourth chevauchée, and invaded the Confederacy in earnest?”
“That’s where my designs come into play,” Isaac said. The snap of a finger as he pointed outwardly and as if by magic, his computing system focused on a specific star zone. “Here. This is where the battle will commence. Here, both sides would be too bloody blotted to even consider any sort of investment of the other’s territory.”
“Azincourt,” Mitkof whispered. He met eyes with Isaac.
Isaac observed Mitkof carefully as he absorbed this revelation. He hoped his deputy chief would see his way of reasoning. He wanted to express as such, but found entertainment in Mitkof’s morbid curiosity.
Isaac found himself surprised when Mitkof jumped back a few meters and said with furrowed brows. “My most Serene Doge, where does your loyalty lie?”
Isaac did not blink. He pretended to ease the tension with a soothing shrug accompanied by a submissive tone: “With His Majesty, the Emperor—to the Barbarossa dynasty,” he lied.
For just a second, as Mitkof considered the plans for the impending battlefield, Isaac shot a glance at a long bookshelf lining the walls, barely touched by the berry blue illumination. Just past that point was a discrete passageway to a FTL communications chamber. It’s far too soon for you to know of our Zensunni masters, Isaac said inwardly.
“We need to consider a contingency plan if the Confederacy wins here.” Mitkof spoke at last. He locked eyes with Isaac.
“They will not! There will be no need.”
“This is unlike you to—“
“My boy, you do not last this long as Serene Doge without taking certain gambles.”
“So you admit you are using imperial subjects in this disgusting . . . gambit of yours!”
“Watch it, boy!” With a wave of his hand Isaac turned away from Mitkof and reached for his wine goblet. He took a big swig from it and sunk onto his cozy, peachy sofa. He gestured for Mitkof to take a seat in the burgundy sofa couch opposite him. “Cool your head and let’s move on to the subject at hand.”
“Achilles von Zähringer?” Mitkof asked. He sat at Isaac’s invitation. From a small enclosing in the wall a silver little one-wheeled droid rolled up to Mitkof’s chair with a silver tray and offered him a drink. It beeped happily at him. Mitkof took the glass and poured himself a drink. Isaac watched as it let out a few more beeps and steered itself away back into its wall station.
Good, Isaac thought, a devious smile crept his saggy lips. He’s comfortable enough to not suspect poison or such.
“You are a deviant for retaining such... automaton,” Mitkof muttered, downing the drink without a second pause. “A fool to retain a relic of the Buterlian Jihad.”
“It is nothing more than a mindless mule,” Isaac said. He poured himself a drink, and took a generous sip. He smacked his lips. “But not let’s get distracted. Achilles concerns me now that you have brought it to my attention. Why majordomo Moneo would willingly drag that man out of exile is beyond me. I had hoped he would . . . wither away on Helene, quietly.”
“Do you suppose after Azincourt, the Emperor will send him away?” Mitkof took a big sip from his bottle. He made a face.
“Not to your tastes?” Isaac said. His smile widened.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” Mitkof said. He shook the cup gently in his hands. He reclined in his burgundy chair. There was a silence spell between the two men, then: “But back to the question. Do you suppose after Azincourt, the Emperor will send him away?”
Isaac pondered the question thoroughly. He drummed up all his accumulated knowledge and applying them to this situation. Achilles was—is a wild card.
“When the Emperor wins at Azincourt...” Isaac couldn’t find the thoughts to form. In his careful, intricate design he thinks of a carefully constructed river, it flowed wonderfully. Yet. Achilles was the driving force that resisted and eroded the grand schemes Isaac has so carefully crafted. He achieved so much to manipulate the Imperial Diet to vote unanimously to sentence the young Zähringer on Helene.
Churchill, his closet ally and likely mentor, is gone now too. And now, it’s as if Churchill haunted him from beyond the grave, taunting him with the likes of Achilles. That dreadful roadblock has appeared yet again in his schemes.
“Azincourt will make him a hero,” Isaac said at last. He stroked the strands of his brushy, snowy goatee. “Just the fact the Emperor decreed for his freedom is too damning.” He slams the arm of his sofa. “Too damning! The Emperor has made a fool of himself. He makes himself appear desperate. Weak!”
Mitkof leaped to his feet, the movement caught Isaac off-guard. He had a hidden laz gun in the peachy couch’s hallow inward compartment but calmed himself before he got too irrational. “My Doge! You dare insult our Emperor?!”
“Perish the thought!” Before I perish you! Isaac added inwardly. Does he call his guards? No.
Isaac seemingly ignored the accusation, or rather chose not to act on his wrath, even as he leaned back on the couch, arms outstretched on the couch backrest. He seems bewildered now—visibly awake as if alarmed by the weight of the Emperor’s weight. To Mitkof, it would even Isaac felt threatened. And it was a fact now which oddly fascinated Mitkof. In that window of opportunity which left Isaac exposed, Mitkof could only wish he could peer into what could trouble the Doge so deeply.
The moment lasted for only brief seconds before Isaac recovered his intense coolness. Isaac learned forward, slowly, licking his lips like a devious old fox still in the game.
“Interesting developments could be had in the aftermath of Azincourt,” Isaac said. The materialized silence from Mitkof obligated him to continue: “At the very least, the Emperor wouldn’t dare execute him once the rebel affair passes. No doubt Achilles will become a hero of the Imperium!”
“The other Houses will rally around him,” Mitkof whispered. He felt the intense pricking of the consequence tingling down his back. “The Imperial Diet will not stand for a retrial of the accomplished duke... the Emperor wouldn’t dare risk civil war,” Mitkof said. Nodding. His eyes searching for answers—all the answers. Any answers he could dig up. Isaac hid a smirk. “And if, somehow, the Imperium suffers anything less than a total victory at Azincourt...?”
Mitkof expected the usual dead-end answer, but found himself surprised when Isaac interlocked his sturdy, hardy hands, a serious brood swept over him. Briefly he held this pose before he pulled himself up and looked upon the morbidly curious Mitkof, snugly cross-crossed in his Burgundian sofa, head held upright by a hand obscuring half his face.
Isaac licked his drying lips to speak, but found nothing briefly. He had interrupted himself before he even got the chance to speak. How even some things bewilder this man! Mitkof thought, a grin hidden by his palm.
“It is still possible the Emperor could have him executed. A reasonable scapegoat for the loss.” He jabs a finger at Mitkof. “But his performance at Azincourt will determine courtly politics.”
Mitkof shook his head. “This battle will generate lots of widows, but by chance . . . a sheer, chance . . . it could spawn a hero among the Confederacy?”
Isaac merely stared at Mitkof. But it was not a look of contempt, or bafflement or any ill-intention—but rather a calculated one. Mitkof was convinced he won him over with this imaginary phantom republican menace... but still something even greater bothered him. Isaac shook his head—once, thrice. As if trying to get rid of terrible speculation. You can’t navigate a war through speculation.
“Then what we will soon see will become a game of cosmic titans,” Isaac said. “And Azincourt will be the grand overture to a new war.”
Taken back unexpectedly by the answer, Mitkof asked: “This won’t be the end of the war?”
Isaac shook his head. “No, boy, this will not be the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”