Desolation

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Fräulein…Fräulein!”

  His gorgeous golden hair was filled with the wind.

  “You have brought me bad news many times, but this is the limit. Do you have the right to disappoint me so?”

  Beneath skin like virgin snow, his blood vessels had become passageways for passions that now boiled over. He felt personally insulted. The man he had battled until that day, had anticipated matching strategies with again, had even hoped to get to know as a person through their upcoming talks, was suddenly gone. Did he truly have to accept such a senseless outcome? His rising fury suddenly escaped to the outside world in the form of a shout.

  “Everyone leaves me! Enemies, friends, everyone! Why do they not live on for my sake?”

  Hilda had never seen Reinhard reveal emotions so negative or express himself so violently. Forgetting even his unjustified attack on her, she gazed at the young kaiser. The golden-haired conqueror, wrenched by a boundless sense of loss, looked miserable and alone.

  Reinhard had not been born with enemies, but it was undeniable that over the course of his life it had always been enemies who showed him the path he must take. The Goldenbaum Dynasty and its parasitic clique of nobles. The Free Planets Alliance and its admirals. How brightly his life had shone as he defeated them all in battle! But now he had lost the highest and greatest enemy of all of them, which meant he had also lost the opportunity to develop, to shine even brighter. His rage might have been connected to fear. Yang’s death partly echoed the demise of Siegfried Kircheis. Reinhard had once more lost the presence he needed most.

  “I need an enemy.”

  And yet Yang Wen-li had left him with everything still to be settled! He had stolen from Reinhard forever the chance to triumph over him. He had forced on Reinhard alone the duty of building their new age. He had set a course for another dimension, unaccompanied and unhesitating.

  Had Reinhard not been sick in bed, he would have been pacing around his room. Disappointment turned to furious energy blazing within his porcelain cheeks.

  “I do not recall granting that man permission to be slain by any hands other than my own. He denied me victory at Vermillion and at Iserlohn Corridor, he killed I know not how many of my precious commanders—and now he allows another man to murder him?!”

  Reinhard’s angry denunciation might have seemed illogical in the extreme to an outside observer, but Hilda understood that Reinhard himself felt it was perfectly fair. Eventually the fire of the kaiser’s fury died down, but the gloom of his disappointment only deepened.

  “Fräulein von Mariendorf.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I wish to send a representative to Iserlohn. An envoy to convey my condolences. Who do you feel might be suitable?”

  “Shall I go, Your Majesty?”

  “No, I need you here with me.”

  Startled, Hilda looked at the golden-haired conqueror’s face before blushing internally. Foolish! For an instant just now, what I was I thinking?

  “You are my chief advisor, after all,” Reinhard added.

  He did not notice the slight change in volume of the blood that flowed beneath Hilda’s skin. He was intent on following the course of his own thoughts. This, Hilda knew, was simply the kind of person he was.

  “Ah—I shall send Müller. I recall that he and Yang met face-to-face after the Vermillion War.”

  Informed by Hilda of the kaiser’s will, Senior Admiral Neidhart Müller accepted the mission without complaint.

  The life-or-death struggle he had waged against Yang Wen-li as second-in-command to Senior Admiral Karl Gustav Kempf was already two years in the past. After his defeat and failure to save Kempf’s life, Müller had hoped to settle the score against Yang in a second battle, but that feeling had now sublimated to respect for his great enemy.

  How many other comrades had he lost? Time of war or not, dwelling on the deaths of so many fine leaders, from Siegfried Kircheis to Lennenkamp, Fahrenheit, and Steinmetz left Müller feeling a sense of desolation. But perhaps that list would now grow no longer. He tried to convince himself of this, but the winter clouds above his psyche showed no sign of allowing light through.

  Yang’s death came as a tremendous shock to the other imperial staff officers too. There were gasps and exchanged glances as they struggled to digest the ill-starred news.

  Some were suspicious about whether they could truly be sure that Yang was dead, arguing that he might only have feigned his demise. But this was indeed mere suspicion, and none could offer any explanation for why Yang might resort to such a ruse. His startling battlefield strategies had made him famous, but faking his own death would have been out of character.

  “Perhaps not, but we all know how wily he is,” objected one officer. “Who knows what he might be planning?”

  But neither Yang’s admirers nor those who reviled him had ever imagined they would lose their greatest enemy in this way. The leaders of the Imperial Navy had always assumed that if Yang died, it would be in battle against them. And Reinhard, leader of those leaders, had believed this most strongly of all.

  Oskar von Reuentahl had once told his chief of staff Hans Eduard Bergengrün, “Only one man in the galaxy has the right to slay Yang Wen-li: mein kaiser, Reinhard von Lohengramm. Even Odin All-father cannot usurp it.” It is an open question, of course, whether von Reuentahl was sincere or simply commenting slyly on Reinhard’s fixation on his opponent.

  “Do you think he would die so easily?” some insisted. “It’s some distasteful trap, mark my words. Yang is alive and in hiding.” Perhaps it was precisely those who came to those conclusions based on no evidence who subconsciously hoped most fervently that Yang was still alive. It was fair to say that after the fall of the Free Planets Alliance, most of the mighty Galactic Imperial Navy’s battles had been waged against Yang Wen-li alone. The unfortunate Dr. Romsky and his revolutionary government did not even draw comment from the Imperial Navy.

  In any case, the imperial officers were unable to take any pleasure in the eradication of their enemy in this way. Even Wittenfeld, who seemed to nurture the strongest animosity of all toward Yang, paced the bridge of his flagship Königs Tiger in a thin haze of disappointment and discouragement, and his staff officers took care not to provide a catalyst that might turn their commander’s disappointment into rage.

  At the Battle of the Corridor, Wittenfeld had been the man responsible for the death of Vice Admiral Edwin Fischer, master of fleet operations for the Yang Fleet. It could even be said that Wittenfeld was the figure who had, if indirectly, set the course of Yang’s fortunes from then on—but he himself had no way of knowing this, and no way of shaking off the feeling that Yang had taken his winnings and fled.

  Enfolded in dull exhaustion, the Imperial Navy waited for new instructions from the kaiser.

  II

  In the first weeks of June, Julian Mintz was no more than a minor companion star to Yang Wen-li’s dazzling sun. The imperial leadership had barely heard of him. The only admiral who had met the flaxen-haired youth was Wahlen, and that encounter had taken place under bizarre circumstances on Terra, with Julian using a false identity.

  When Mittermeier raised the eminently reasonable question of who this Julian Mintz was who claimed to be Yang’s representative, the intelligence division needed some time to respond. After an hour of combing through their data, they informed Mittermeier that Julian had been Yang’s legal ward and was eighteen years old.

  “I see. Poor kid. He’s got hard times ahead.”

  This was not meant ironically. Mittermeier genuinely sympathized with the young man following in the footsteps of a predecessor who was simply too great to be equaled. He could foresee the difficulties that lay ahead for Julian, and knew that the more self-confident and competent he was, the deeper his missteps would be, and the more difficult to recover from.

  The Imperial Na
vy was abuzz with opinions on the situation. “It doesn’t matter who Yang’s successor is—there’s no way he’ll be able to do as well as Yang did, let alone better,” people said. “There’s no guarantee that his troops will even follow him. The last redoubt of democracy proved impregnable to its enemies, but soon it’ll be consumed from within.” The troops’ predictions of the decline and fall of Iserlohn as a democratic republic were an expression of their own excitement at the prospect of returning home. Regardless of the reasons, the day was near when they would finally put cursed, blood-soaked Iserlohn behind them and return to their homes and the families or lovers that awaited them there. Praise be to peace!

  Shock and despondency changed slowly but surely into optimism and anticipation. It was already ten months since the troops of the Imperial Navy had left their homes to accompany the kaiser on his campaign. Those who served under Steinmetz had not seen the faces of their spouses or lovers or parents in over a year. Now that the great obstacle of the enemy was removed, their longing for home became stronger by the day.

  One day after Müller departed as envoy, von Reuentahl paid a visit to Mittermeier. It had been some time since the two friends had enjoyed drinks and conversation together.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if that multitalented minister of military affairs of ours had reached out and plunged the knife into Yang Wen-li’s heart himself,” said von Reuentahl. “Although I suppose even he can’t be behind every intrigue in the galaxy.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” growled Mittermeier, and drained a glass of bitterness and dark beer.

  How many times had the two of them gone drinking together since their first meeting on the front lines eleven years ago? Roaming the night streets with their arms around each other’s shoulders, getting into fights but never getting the worse for them…Now they had both risen to the rank of marshal; they were senior imperial retainers, unable to carouse as freely as they had in those days. As commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada, Wolfgang Mittermeier stood at the head of a hundred thousand ships; as secretary-general of Supreme Command Headquarters, Oskar von Reuentahl had a place by Reinhard’s side and would one day rule the entire territory of the former alliance, the so-called Neue Land, as its governor-general.

  That posting, however, would be effective only once the empire had defeated its immediate enemy, Yang Wen-li, and unified the entire galaxy. As a result, strange as it was, in those first weeks of June most of the Neue Land was not under the supervision of any imperial official at all. Admiral Alfred Grillparzer, the “Young Geographer,” administered the imperial occupation of the planet Heinessen, former capital of the Free Planets Alliance, but who was responsible for the other alliance worlds, other stellar regions?

  Nothing was decided, except perhaps within the breast of the young, unmarried, and childless kaiser. Presumably they would learn of his decisions on these political and military matters within the next few days, but the absence of any successor or heir to Reinhard made Mittermeier uneasy nonetheless.

  Meanwhile, von Reuentahl nursed his own source of unease.

  You grant me status and authority beyond what I deserve, mein Kaiser, but what is it you want in return? Is it enough to be a loyal and effective cog in your engine of conquest?

  If that were all Reinhard desired, the bargain was one von Reuentahl could accept. A senior statesman and veteran admiral within the second galactic dynasty, respected as a capable and loyal official: such a life, and indeed death, was far from undesirable. If it was not quite in accord with his inborn essence, well, not all men could be guaranteed a life fully true to their nature.

  Gazing into the reflection of his heterochromiac eyes in the mirror, von Reuentahl felt as if the Ambivalenz within him were fully exposed. If he could choose the path he wished, perhaps he would lead a life of both an incomparable liege and an incomparable friend, just like in a textbook. He found this idea endlessly tantalizing, although he knew that this was precisely because it was out of reach. This had been a bitter realization.

  Soon the conversation moved on to military matters. How were they to dispose of Iserlohn Fortress now that Yang was gone?

  “What do you think?” asked Mittermeier.

  “An offensive operation is the only possible choice in both political and military terms. First we demand surrender, offering amnesty to the entire Yang Fleet. If they hold firm, we strike with the full power of the Imperial Navy. How would you approach it?”

  “I feel the same way. With Yang Wen-li dead, Odin All-father grants the entire galaxy to the kaiser. To reject it would be to defy the will of the gods.”

  Was it not their lot now to plunge into the corridor with full force and smash the now-headless Iserlohn Fortress in fire and blood?

  “However,” Mittermeier added, “I doubt that the kaiser will deem it proper to attack an army in mourning.”

  Von Reuentahl looked at Mittermeier in silence. About to speak, he closed his mouth again to choose his words more carefully.

  “And you feel that this is mere sentimentality? Until very recently, I would have agreed, but…”

  “You have had a change of heart, then?”

  “Everything depends on how you look at it, von Reuentahl. You and I both opposed entering the corridor initially, but the kaiser ignored our advice because of the presence of his great enemy, Yang Wen-li. Now that enemy is gone. Surely the most natural thing would be for the kaiser to return to his original strategy.”

  Von Reuentahl lowered his black-and-blue gaze to his glass. His pinched expression belied the alcohol on his breath as he exhaled.

  “Surely you understand, Mittermeier, that yesterday’s optimal strategy may be inappropriate today. The correct strategy while Yang Wen-li was alive may hold less value after his death. Of course, if the kaiser agrees with you, perhaps my thinking is wrong.”

  Between the two men, dark beer foamed.

  “The character of the Imperial Navy will soon change. Where once it looked outward to conquer, it will turn inward to keep the peace within the empire. If everything is wrapped up according to plan, that is.”

  “Let it change, then. Most of our men will soon return home alive. The galaxy is all but unified. What objection can there be to that?”

  “And you can return to your beloved wife, eh, Mittermeier?”

  “Something for which I am very grateful,” said the highest-ranking man in the Imperial Navy.

  Von Reuentahl watched his old friend toss back another beer. They were very different by nature, but they had walked the paths of life and death together for years. The black of von Reuentahl’s right eye was deep in shadow, but his blue left eye glinted sharply, as if signaling the two sides of his personality.

  Mittermeier’s lively gray eyes took this in and then, with some hesitation, he asked a question. “Whatever became of that woman who said she was pregnant with your child, by the way?”

  All expression vanished from von Reuentahl’s face as he answered. “She gave birth on the second of May. A boy, apparently.”

  Mittermeier grunted noncommittally. Neither congratulations nor condolences seemed entirely appropriate.

  “It’s mine,” continued von Reuentahl. “Of that there is no doubt. Born in defiance of the gods, just like his father. If he makes it to adulthood, I’m sure he’ll be quite the outcast. One red eye, one yellow, perhaps.”

  “Von Reuentahl, I don’t expect you to be objective about the woman herself, but—”

  “But the child is blameless?”

  Mittermeier shrugged. “I’m not a father myself.”

  This counterattack was more effective than he had expected, wiping away the self-deprecating sneer of von Reuentahl, who almost seemed to recoil. Angels danced roguishly in the air between the two.

  “You’re better off that way,” von Reuentahl said at last. “Less fear of betrayal
. But enough about that. There’s no reason for us to fight over a baby neither of us has even seen.”

  Mittermeier and von Reuentahl exchanged a slightly awkward handshake and parted. Of course, they had no way of knowing—knowing that this would be the final handshake between the Twin Ramparts of the Imperial Navy, and the final drinks they would ever share. It was June 8 in the second year of the New Imperial Calendar.

  III

  After parting ways with von Reuentahl, Mittermeier returned to the bridge of his flagship Beowulf to brood over the imperial ships on-screen. Bayerlein stood by his side, confusion and uncertainty in his usually spirited face.

  “Does this mean it’s all over, sir?” asked Bayerlein.

  “An excellent question.”

  “It somehow feels as if…as if half the galaxy has turned to void. Yang Wen-li was a sworn enemy of mein Kaiser, but no one can deny that he was also a superb tactician. Just as day needs night to express its nature, I wonder if we didn’t need him too.”

  For a moment, Mittermeier’s heart beat faster as a kind of unease filled his breast. Then he firmly shook his head of unruly, honey-colored hair. Still unsure what had brought the feeling on, he changed the subject.

  “When we get back to Phezzan, it’ll be one funeral after another. Fahrenheit, Steinmetz, Minister von Silberberg…”

  Bayerlein sighed. “What a year this has been!” he said. “It will surely go down in history as one of the Lohengramm Dynasty’s worst.”

  “And it’s only half-over.”

  “Please, Marshal, don’t remind me! I only hope that I have already used up my annual allocation of bad luck.”

  Mittermeier chuckled at the utter sincerity on Bayerlein’s face. If there really were such a thing as an allocation of bad luck and ill fortune, it would be much easier for people and states alike to draw up their plans for the future. Even his own wife Evangeline would no longer need to offer those devout, anxious prayers for his safety to Odin All-father every time he went out on campaign.