Suddenly something occurred to him. He turned to look at his subordinate. “Bayerlein, you have lady friends at home, surely?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even one?”
“Er—well, no—that is, the service is my first love, sir.”
Mittermeier was silent.
“Wait—no—I mean, I do hope to find someone as charming as your wife, sir, one day.”
“Bayerlein.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ve done my best to teach you how to lead men into battle. But when it comes to finding love and telling jokes, you’ll have to figure it out yourself. Nothing wrong with a little independent study now and then.”
Clapping his subordinate lightly on the shoulder, Mittermeier exited the bridge.
The kaiser was abandoning his campaign of conquest and turning back for home.
The news was announced to the entire Imperial Navy on June 7, just after Senior Admiral Müller departed for Iserlohn Fortress as funeral envoy. Mittermeier had been right: Reinhard could not bring himself to raise arms against an army in mourning. Although if the army in question had been Duke von Braunschweig and the rest of the nobility during the Lippstadt War, Mittermeier doubted that the kaiser would have had such compunctions.
Is this the flower of chivalry? Or has the kaiser simply lost his taste for conquest?
The question nagged at both Mittermeier and von Reuentahl as they diligently attended to their respective duties. Mittermeier was reorganizing the ranks of the entire navy for the journey back, while von Reuentahl was putting imperial headquarters in order, starting by sending wounded soldiers home.
The posthumous promotion of Fahrenheit and Steinmetz to imperial marshal had already been decided, but the kaiser had decided to further honor them with the Siegfried Kircheis Distinguished Service Award, named for his late friend. The state coffers would pay for their funerals as well as their gravestones, which was the highest honor a member of the imperial military could receive. However, in a Reinhardian touch—indeed, a Lohengrammian one—the only text carved on those gravestones would be their names, ranks, and dates of birth and death. When Reinhard’s own gravestone was eventually put in place, it, too, bore nothing save the words “Kaiser Reinhard von Lohengramm” and his dates of birth, death, and accession to the throne.
Once Müller had returned from Iserlohn Fortress, the Imperial Navy’s withdrawal began. There was no risk of enemy attack, but their professional military pride would not permit a disorderly departure. And so, in crisp, disciplined formation, the Imperial Navy left the region of Iserlohn Corridor.
Yang Wen-li is dead. He was the greatest defender of democratic republican governance and—excepting one other man—the greatest and best military leader in five centuries. Will his death mean the collapse of the republican faction? I once thought so myself, but I am no longer sure. Irrespective of his own desires in life, in death Yang Wen-li seems to have become an unimpeachable presence within the movement for democracy. Among those determined to continue his legacy and therefore his war, Iserlohn will surely become holy ground. Depending on the talent and capacity of that leadership, this meaningless fighting might not be over just yet. Of course, trapped on Iserlohn they will not be able to withstand the Imperial Navy for long, so what concerns me more is the possibility that other groups might seek to make use of them…In any case, let us give thanks for now to the kaiser and his staff for granting me the good fortune to return safely and see your face again…
The letter Mittermeier sent to his wife Evangeline contained a prophecy that escaped even him at the time.
IV
Though confined to his bed by illness, Reinhard had not ceased his work as emperor. Military affairs he left to marshals Mittermeier and von Reuentahl, but on the political side he dealt with all the day-to-day issues an autocrat must: building new structures of governance, reforming the legal and tax systems, establishing communication and transportation networks to organically merge existing territories with vast, newly acquired ones, and so on.
When his fever fell during the day, he ignored the protestations and prohibitions of his medical team, sat up in bed, and summoned to his sickroom the civilian officials he had brought on campaign with him. He approved paperwork by the ream, asked questions, offered admonishments when no answers were forthcoming, assigned new projects, and generally maintained vigorous and active.
These circumstances had arisen partly out of Reinhard’s own energetic nature, but they were also a result of the death of von Silberberg, his trusted secretary of works, at the hands of terrorists. He had not been able to find anyone else who could do in the civilian realm what von Reuentahl and Mittermeier did in the military sphere. With each passing day, Reinhard’s private regret for the loss of the inventive and diligent von Silberberg grew.
The head of Reinhard’s cabinet, Minister of Domestic Affairs Count Franz von Mariendorf, was sincere in both his duties and in his personal dealings with the kaiser. He was a man of fairness and integrity, with sound judgment and a good eye for personnel in the context of imperial governance, but he was not the kind of politician who actively sought to build a new age.
Nor had Reinhard ever expected this of him. It was sufficient that the count faithfully carried out his orders and fulfilled his duties—or so Reinhard had thought. Now, however, with the burden of military affairs gradually falling from the kaiser’s shoulders, he was beginning to feel that he did need someone to share the political burden with him after all. Von Silberberg might have been that man. If Siegfried Kircheis had still been alive, he would have complemented Reinhard’s political abilities more than adequately. But both were now gone from this world.
He could have sought what he needed in Hilda, Count von Mariendorf’s daughter. But by appointing her chief advisor at his imperial headquarters and strengthening her authority over military affairs, Reinhard had weakened her standing to speak politically. Even in an autocracy, the division between civilian and military officials had to be maintained. There were always exceptions, of course, but it would not do to declare someone exceptional right from the outset.
Hilda herself, understanding the position and authority vested in her, did her best not to respond to questions of governance. Reinhard would tease her for her evasiveness—“Oh, that’s right—Fräulein von Mariendorf won’t discuss such matters with the likes of me until I promote her to at least imperial prime minister”—and enjoy her momentary consternation. Reinhard had felt Yang Wen-li’s death as the loss of a mind equal to his own, so it was natural that Hilda’s significance as a source of intellectual stimulation should have increased.
Reinhard had never used the word “revolution,” but the raft of political and social reforms he had initiated in his brief span as ruler were a revolution from above in all but name. Except, of course, for the fact that everything lay within the framework of imperial autocracy. Unlike his late rival Yang, Reinhard made no distinction between, for instance, his contempt for Job Trünicht as an individual and his assessment of democratic republicanism itself.
Reinhard had not sought to abolish the old titles, but neither had he created a new noble class. Even Mittermeier, whose military accomplishments were of the finest order, had not been made a duke or count. The Gale Wolf himself joked that this was because “Wolfgang von Mittermeier” would be too unwieldy, but he had also been heard to remark that the nobility were destined to be found only in historical museums, “as surely as the elderly are headed for the grave.”
More speculatively, since he made no clear statement on the matter, Reinhard may have hoped to create a so-called liberal empire where the emperor and his subjects were directly connected, rather than separated by the wall of ceremonial dress that was the nobility. He may have had something even more novel in mind—but this must now remain forever unknown.
From his bed, Reinhard also made several
decisions on internal affairs. Increased pensions for decommissioned soldiers, particularly the wounded. A better scholarship system for the families of those who died in battle. Financial compensation from the government for victims of crime. These were all the brainchild of his secretary of civil affairs, Karl Bracke, and then amended by Reinhard himself. Known since the previous dynasty as a reformist, Bracke had been strongly critical of Reinhard’s autocratic leanings and militarism, but his policies as the new dynasty’s first secretary of civil affairs had significantly contributed to realizing the Lohengramm Dynasty’s characteristic approach best summed up as “social justice under autocratic control.”
Even after two straight years of military expeditions, the empire’s public coffers were still sufficient to ensure the welfare of the people. This demonstrated the sheer vastness of the wealth that had been usurped by the privileged classes during the previous dynasty’s five-century reign. Now, the former nobility of the empire had been driven into penury by the confiscation of their property and holdings and were largely on the verge of starvation. As minister of domestic affairs, Count von Mariendorf had been generous enough to compensate them for the seizures, but the amounts involved were meager, and once the nobles, accustomed to spending freely, had frittered it away, there was nothing further the count could do.
“If one noble’s death means the salvation of ten thousand commoners, I consider that justice,” had been Reinhard’s official comment on the matter. “If they object to starvation, let them work, just as the common people have for the past five hundred years.” He shed no tears at the thought of the nobility facing the end of their days.
Reinhard’s young bodyguard Emil von Selle bowed once and entered the room. His face fell when he saw the tray on the nightstand. Reinhard had not eaten a bite of his breakfast of beans, warm milk with honey, and a soft-boiled egg. Emil could not hide his concern over the kaiser’s complete lack of appetite.
“Your Majesty, will you eat nothing at all?”
“I have no desire to.”
“But, Your Majesty, you must eat if you are to recover your strength. I beg you, take at least some sustenance, however little it appeals, to fuel a swift return to health.”
“You dare to issue orders to the emperor of all humanity, Emil? Must I partake of unwanted meals simply because my bodyguard wills it?”
Reinhard regretted his words before they were fully out. He saw the tears welling in Emil’s eyes and knew that he had committed the most shameful act of all: lashing out in uncontrolled anger at a defenseless child. He had been on the verge of becoming a tyrant!
Despite his fever and exhaustion, Reinhard’s fair features had remained as exquisite as ever, as if carved from pearl. Now, however, they glowed with shame. He reached out and stroked Emil’s hair.
“My apologies, Emil,” he said. “Sometimes my temper gets the better of me. Forgive me. I will eat, at least a little.”
After his bodyguard left, Reinhard sipped two silver spoonfuls of soup. He might have taken a third, had not his chief aide Arthur von Streit sought an audience.
Von Streit’s business concerned Steinmetz’s bequest, such as it was. It seemed he had written a letter containing a kind of will in which he left everything he had to a certain woman. The will was neither legal nor formal, but von Streit requested the kaiser’s permission to honor the departed man’s wishes anyway.
“I have no objection,” said Reinhard. “I am surprised, however. I thought Steinmetz was unmarried.”
“He was, Your Majesty, but he did have a lover. Her name was Gretchen von Erfurt. It seems they had been together for five years.”
“Why had they not wed?”
“As I am given to understand, the admiral used to say that until Your Majesty had unified the galaxy, as your subject he would not keep a household either.”
“The fool…”
Reinhard’s voice had a stunned ring to it.
“Mittermeier and von Eisenach are loyal retainers to me, but they both have families, do they not? Why did Steinmetz not marry this Gretchen, too? I would have sent them a gift in celebration.”
“If I may, Your Majesty, when the kaiser himself will not take a bride, it is not surprising that his subjects follow his example. Do you not think so?”
“You are ordering me to marry, then? Is that your meaning?” Reinhard’s elegant lips curved in a frown. It was as if some nature spirit had plucked the petals from a winter rose. “If I die—”
“Your Majesty!”
“Calm yourself. I am not Rudolf the Great. Emperor or nameless commoner, all grow old and die alike. I understand that much.”
Von Streit was speechless. The golden-haired conqueror continued, a sardonic glitter in his ice-blue eyes.
“If I die leaving no issue, I expect someone of ability—retainer or not, it makes no difference—to install themselves as kaiser or king in my place. Such has always been my intention. I may have conquered the galaxy, but there is no reason my descendants should inherit it if they lack the ability and the renown to do so.”
Von Streit met the young kaiser’s gaze, directly and decisively. “I know that it is not my place to say this, but I beg Your Majesty not to delay in taking a bride and securing the line of succession. That is the devout wish of every subject in Your Majesty’s empire.”
“And father an heir like Sigismund the Foolish or August the Bloodletter? A fine legacy!”
“Maximilian Josef the Seer and Manfred the Fugitive were heirs too. The wise rule of the Lohengramm Dynasty can reveal its true value only if the dynasty itself survives. To guarantee that survival by legal means is fine. But to leave things to a succession of conquerors would not only cause needless bloodshed, it would also disrupt governance itself. Please, Your Majesty, reconsider the matter once more.”
“Your point is well-made, and your counsel is keenly felt. I shall remember it.”
Reinhard may not have been entirely insincere, but it cannot be denied that he luxuriated in the sense of freedom he felt as he dismissed von Streit from his room.
Once communications with Phezzan were possible again, Mittermeier contacted the Domestic Safety Security Bureau’s office there to inquire about von Reuentahl’s child.
“Elfriede von Kohlrausch has taken the baby she gave birth to late last month and disappeared,” said the man who answered the call. “She has not been seen since.”
Seeing the fury begin to fill the famed young marshal’s face on his screen, the bureaucrat hurriedly transferred the call to his supervisor, who offered a superficial facsimile of apologetic sentiment bundled in self-justification.
“We don’t have as much policing power as we need, and the bombing has been our main focus recently,” he said.
“And yet the terrorist remains at large,” said Mittermeier, disappointment curdling into rage. “So much for the Domestic Safety Security Bureau’s powers of detection. Kessler’s military police would have cracked the case long ago.”
He cut the connection. He had never felt kindly disposed toward this woman Elfriede von Kohlrausch, who had temporarily driven his friend into a difficult position, but the thought of her wandering the streets with a babe in arms was unbearable. What sin, after all, had the infant committed?
“Just a baby…”
Thinking on his own marriage, still childless after eight years, even the highest-ranked admiral in the Imperial Navy could not exclude a degree of mild bitterness from his breast.
I
ON JULY 1, 800 SE—year 2 of the New Imperial Calendar—Reinhard von Lohengramm, first kaiser of the Lohengramm Dynasty, disembarked at Phezzan Spaceport. Because he had gone directly to Phezzan rather than via the old alliance capital of Heinessen, it had taken him less than a month to cross the entire former territory of the alliance, known now as the Neue Land.
Ten days earlier, on July 20
, Marshal Oskar von Reuentahl had landed on Planet Heinessen as the newly appointed governor-general of the Neue Land, relieved of his post as secretary-general of Supreme Command Headquarters. With him in the territory remained 5.2 million officers and enlisted troops, and the imperial government dispatched ten thousand additional civilian officials to serve in his administration.
“Artist-Admiral” Ernest Mecklinger recorded his thoughts on the birth of this mighty new government for posterity:
“Von Reuentahl was an accomplished military man and an able civilian administrator. The newborn government was colossal in scale, dwarfing the high commission of the late Helmut Lennenkamp to effectively rule half of humanity. Kaiser Reinhard may have originally envisioned this structure of governance with his dear friend Siegfried Kircheis at the helm, but Kircheis had taken up residence in Valhalla, leaving only three men conceivably worthy of this important office: von Oberstein, von Reuentahl, and Mittermeier. Von Reuentahl was chosen, I imagine, partly because the dissolution of Supreme Command Headquarters left its secretary-general without another role of his own. In any case, it was not for some time that people began to ask why, of all people, von Reuentahl had been appointed to the position…”
July 7, 800 SE, year 2 of the New Imperial Calendar. Afternoon.
The leadership of the Imperial Navy was gathered in the salon of the Baldanders, an exclusive Phezzanese hotel. Von Reuentahl and his staff officers were absent, having remained on Heinessen, but among those present were Marshal Mittermeier; Senior Admirals Müller, Wittenfeld, Wahlen, von Eisenach, and Lutz; and ten or so other full admirals. The state funerals for marshals Fahrenheit and Steinmetz and first secretary of works Bruno von Silberberg had been carried out that morning, and those three great servants of the empire had been interred in the presence of the kaiser.
Desolation Page 19