Ambition

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  The sporadic resistance drew to a close, and the first of the admirals to step into the fortress once it was completely secured were Mittermeier and von Reuentahl.

  To their right and their left, captured nobles were lined up against the walls of a corridor leading to a large reception hall. Frightened by the guns Reinhard’s troops carried, the injured, filthy nobles had sunk to the floor.

  Mittermeier shook his head slowly. “I never dreamed the day would come when I’d see boyar nobles looking this miserable. Can we really call this the start of a new era?”

  “One thing’s for certain—it’s definitely the end of the old one,” said von Reuentahl. Nobles were looking up at them without a sliver of hostility in their eyes. Only fear and uncertainty were there, as well as a shade of hope to curry favor with the victors. When their eyes met, there were even some who constructed subservient smiles. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl were at first astonished, then disgusted. But when they thought about it, was not this itself clear proof of their victory?

  “Their age is over. From now on, it’s our age.”

  The two young admirals held their heads up proudly and continued walking, passing between the ranks of the defeated.

  September 9. Gaiesburg Fortress.

  In the entrance to the ballroom where the victory ceremony was being held, the guards were admonishing Siegfried Kircheis not to bring his weapon into the hall. The redheaded youth removed the blaster from his belt but then decided to ask, “I’m Senior Admiral Kircheis—are you sure I’m not allowed to carry my weapon?”

  “We can’t make exceptions, not even for Admiral Kircheis. I’m terribly sorry, but those are our orders …”

  “I see. Never mind, then. It’s all right.”

  Kircheis held his blaster out to the guard. Up until now, Reinhard had always allowed Kircheis to carry his weapon, even at times when all the other admirals had to go unarmed. This had communicated to the admirals that Kircheis was second only to Reinhard himself. However, the usual custom seemed to have been changed today.

  Kircheis went in and joined the ranks of the other admirals who had come in before him. They nodded politely to him when he arrived, and he nodded back. There were subtle gleams in the eyes of von Reuentahl and Mittermeier. No doubt they knew something had happened between Reinhard and Kircheis.

  I can’t let myself start thinking I hold some privileged position, Kircheis warned himself. Still, there was nothing he could do about the flashes of sadness that kept shooting through his heart.

  Were he and Reinhard now nothing more than lord and subject?

  That’s all we could ever be, though, Kircheis thought, trying to shake loose the sadness clinging to him. After all, those below shouldn’t seek equal relations with those above. I’ll wait awhile before saying anything else. Lord Reinhard might lose his way and make mistakes, but in the end I’m sure he’ll eventually understand. Up until now, hasn’t he always, through all these eleven years?

  Up until now? Kircheis was starting to discover an unease in his own heart. Up until now, things certainly had always turned out that way, and he had believed that they always would. He might have been getting ahead of himself, though …

  The coordinator of ceremonies announced Reinhard’s entrance with a cry so loud he seemed to be showing off his lung capacity.

  “The commander in chief of the armed forces of the Galactic Empire, His Highness the Marquis Reinhard von Lohengramm!”

  As Reinhard entered the hall and strode down its scarlet carpet, the officers arrayed on both sides bowed to him in unison.

  In due time, they would bow lower and lower, until at last their bows would become the most reverent of all official obeisance—that which was made only to the one person in all the universe who received the imperial crown. Another two or three years, and this golden-haired youth, born to an impoverished family that was nobility in name only, would achieve all his ambitions.

  Just as his gaze was about to connect with Kircheis’s, Reinhard averted his eyes unconsciously. He had taken von Oberstein’s advice about not letting Kircheis wear weapons at events where his colleagues could not. Reinhard was the conqueror. Reinhard was the lord. Kircheis was just one of his subordinates. Reinhard mustn’t give him special rights and the sense of privilege that came with them. Up until now, he had made too little distinction between his public and private selves. From this day forward, he would have Kircheis stop calling him “Reinhard.” Kircheis would have to call him “Marquis von Lohengramm” or “Your Excellency” or “Imperial Marshal,” just like all of the other admirals. Power and authority belonged only to the lord and master.

  Reinhard began the victory ceremony by giving audience to high-ranking officers who had been taken prisoner. After several of these had filed through, Admiral Adalbert Fahrenheit, an old acquaintance of Reinhard’s, came before him.

  “Fahrenheit … it’s been ages, hasn’t it? I last saw you at Astarte, I believe.”

  “Yes, milord …”

  There was no shame in the admiral’s pale-aqua eyes. By the same token, Reinhard did not look down on this defeated admiral, either—not when he had fought so valiantly.

  “Joining with Duke von Braunschweig was a mistake most unlike you. Why not follow me instead and preserve your warrior’s life?”

  “I am a soldier of the empire. As Your Excellency has taken the reins of military authority, I will humbly follow. I may have taken a roundabout way to get here, but I want to start making up for lost time right away.”

  Reinhard nodded. Fahrenheit’s shackles were removed, and he took his place among the ranks of officers. In similar fashion, other talented officers thronged to Reinhard’s camp one after another as the ceremony progressed. He didn’t need to rely on Kircheis for everything after all, did he? Although he did regret having somehow let Merkatz slip through his fingers …

  A stir of hushed voices rose up from the far end of the assembled ranks. The body of Duke von Braunschweig, sealed within a case of special glass, had just been carried into the room. Deeply moved, the people looked on at the lifeless form of the empire’s greatest aristocrat lying in the case, clad in his military dress uniform.

  Commodore Ansbach accompanied the coffin.

  Standing in the entrance to the great hall, Ansbach, said to have been the right hand of the late duke, directed a stone-faced bow toward the young conqueror and began walking toward him with slow footsteps.

  Sounds of hushed but unmistakable laughter trickled out from among the attendees, a frank expression of the warriors’ hostility toward a sniveling little man who had come to beg mercy, bringing his master’s corpse as a gift.

  Like lashes from an invisible scourge, that laughter beat against every inch of Ansbach’s body. That Reinhard did not put a stop to it was due to a youthful, mercilessly fastidious side of his personality.

  Ansbach came before Reinhard, bowed reverently, and pressed a button. The lid of the glass case opened.

  To let the victor inspect the corpse of his defeated master?

  No, it wasn’t that.

  In the moment that it happened, witnesses could not understand the meaning of the sight. Ansbach’s hands reached out for his master’s corpse, tore open his uniform, and from within pulled out a strange-looking object composed of parts resembling boxes and tubes. A jury-rigged hand cannon—a powerful, miniaturized particle-beam weapon created for use in infantry combat.

  Courageous veteran admirals stood frozen in place, looking on, dumbstruck. And it wasn’t just them. Reinhard himself, while aware of everything that was happening, was unable to move so much as a muscle.

  The barrel swung toward the golden-haired youth.

  “Marquis von Lohengramm, I claim your life in the name of my lord and master, Duke von Braunschweig!” Ansbach’s voice rang out, overwhelming the silence, as the hand cannon roared and spat out tong
ues of flame.

  The hand cannon had enough firepower to destroy an armored vehicle or a single-seat spacecraft in one shot. Reinhard’s body should have been blown apart, leaving nothing but scattered chunks of meat. But the shot missed. A wall about two meters to Reinhard’s left collapsed in an explosion of shattered masonry and white smoke. The shock wave struck Reinhard hard on the cheek.

  A cry of regret burst from Ansbach’s lungs. In that infinitely long instant when everyone was paralyzed, there had been only one man who had managed to take action.

  The man who had thrown himself at Ansbach and turned aside the hand cannon’s barrel was Siegfried Kircheis.

  The hand cannon fell to the floor with a noisy clatter. The redheaded youth, superior to his opponent in speed and strength, grabbed one wrist of the failed assassin and twisted, trying to force him to the ground. A fierce expression flashed across Ansbach’s face, however, and with a sharp, graceful movement, he pressed the back of his free hand up against Kircheis’s chest.

  A silvery-white beam exploded from the redheaded youth’s back. Ansbach had also worn a laser gun disguised as a ring.

  Kircheis, impaled through the midst of his chest on that murderous beam of light, felt pain tearing through his body, but he would not let go of the assassin’s wrist. Again the ring shone with its ominous light, and this time the beam pierced his carotid artery.

  There was a bizarre sound, like several harp strings snapping all at once, and then a fountain of bright-red blood burst from the back of Kircheis’s neck. The drops beat against the marble floor like the rain of a sudden squall.

  Perhaps it was that sound that finally broke the shackles of astonishment that had held the others still for the past ten seconds. With boots pounding, the admirals ran forward and wrestled Ansbach to the floor. There was a dull crack as his wrist broke. In spite of two serious wounds and major blood loss, Kircheis had still kept his hold.

  Kircheis had dropped to his knees, and Mittermeier pressed his handkerchief against the back of his neck. The white silk was stained crimson in no time.

  “Call a medic! We need a medic over here!”

  “It’s … too late.”

  The young man was gasping. It wasn’t just his hair that was red now; his whole body was dyed crimson. The admirals were speechless. They knew from long experience that nothing could be done for wounds such as these.

  Ansbach had been dragged down into the puddle of Kircheis’s blood, and Kempf, Wittenfeld, and the rest were holding him down. But another surprise was waiting for the admirals when Ansbach started laughing in a parched voice.

  “Duke von Braunschweig, forgive this useless servant who couldn’t keep his oath. It looks like the golden brat won’t be joining you in hell for a few years yet!”

  “Bloody scoundrel! How dare you!”

  Kempf struck him with the flat of his hand. As Ansbach’s battered head lolled back against the floor, he spoke once more: “Though I was lacking in ability, I go to be with you now …”

  Realizing what Ansbach intended, von Reuentahl shouted “Stop him!” and lunged toward the assassin’s body. Just before he could lay hands on the man, though, Ansbach’s lower jaw made a slight movement as he bit into a poison capsule that was hidden among his molars. Von Reuentahl grabbed him by the throat and tried to stop him from swallowing, but his persistence made no difference in the end.

  Ansbach’s eyes opened wide and lost focus.

  Reinhard stood in darkness.

  His ice-blue eyes saw neither the admirals nor the man who had tried to kill him. All he could see was his friend—his redheaded best friend … who had just now saved his life.

  He had saved his life—of course he had; no matter the time, no matter the place, Kircheis had always come running to save him. Ever since the day they met as children, Kircheis had always been his red-haired friend—protecting him from all the enemies he’d made, listening to his problems, putting up with his selfishness … His friend? No, he was more than a friend … more than a brother … He was Siegfried Kircheis! And he had tried to treat him like all the other admirals. If Kircheis had been carrying his gun, the assassin would have been shot dead the instant he grabbed the hand cannon. Not one drop of Kircheis’s blood would have been spilled.

  It was all his fault. Kircheis was on the floor bleeding, and it was all his fault.

  “Kircheis …”

  “Lord Reinhard … thank heavens you’re safe …”

  Oblivous to the blood that stained his dress uniform, the golden-haired youth fell to his knees and took his friend’s hand—though the sight of him was already becoming blurred in Kircheis’s field of view. Was this what it was like to die? Kircheis thought. Sensations from all five senses were fading as if with distance. The world was narrowing rapidly, and everything was growing darker. Things he wanted to see, he couldn’t see anymore; things he wanted to hear, he could hear no longer. Strangely, there was no fear. Perhaps his worst fear had been a possibility he had already been facing—that he was not going to be able to spend the rest of his life with Reinhard. More importantly, though, there was something he had to say. Something he had to tell Reinhard before the last of his strength flowed out.

  “Lord Reinhard, I don’t think I can help you anymore … Please forgive me.”

  “Idiot! Don’t talk that way!” Reinhard had meant to shout those words but had only barely managed to say them in a quavering whisper. The young man’s preternatural beauty exceeded all propriety, the dazzling elegance that came to him so naturally regularly overwhelmed those who met him … yet in that moment, Reinhard looked as helpless as a small child, one too young to walk without clinging to the wall.

  “Medics will be here soon. They’ll patch those wounds right up. As soon as you’ve recovered, we’ll go see my sister and tell her that we’ve won. Let’s do that!”

  “Lord Reinhard …”

  “Don’t talk until the medics come.”

  “Take this universe for your own—”

  “… I will.”

  “—and then tell Miss Annerose … tell her that Sieg kept the promise that he made when we were young …”

  “No.” Reinhard’s bloodless lips were trembling. “I refuse to tell her any such thing. You do it. Tell her yourself. I won’t. You understand? We are going to see my sister together!”

  Kircheis seemed to smile faintly. And when that hint of a smile faded, Reinhard realized with a fleeting shudder that half of himself had just been lost forever.

  “Kircheis. Answer me, Kircheis! Why don’t you answer?!”

  Mittermeier couldn’t bear to watch any more. He put one hand on the shoulder of the young imperial marshal and said, “It’s too late, sir. He’s gone. We should let him rest peacefully now—”

  But the rest of his words he swallowed without a sound. There was a light like he had never seen before in the eyes of his young senior officer.

  “Don’t you lie to me, Mittermeier. What you said is a lie. Kircheis would never die first. He would never leave me behind.”

  II

  “How is Marquis von Lohengramm?”

  “Still no change. He just sits there, unmoving.”

  Both the question and the answer were spoken in grave tones.

  The admirals had gathered in the Gun Room, one of Gaiesburg Fortress’s clubs for high-ranking officers. The boyar nobles had at one time spared no expense in decorating this wide, luxurious salon, but those who had prevailed over them now had no interest in it whatsoever.

  The admirals had imposed a strict gag order regarding the tragedy at the victory ceremony, and the fortress was being managed jointly in accordance with military discipline. Still, it had been three days now, and everyone knew things were reaching a breaking point. They couldn’t simply maintain FTL silence with Odin indefinitely.

  Kircheis’s body had been placed in
side a refrigerated case in order to preserve it, but Reinhard, overcome with regret, remained right by its side, neither eating nor sleeping day in and day out. The admirals were getting worried.

  “Still, to be honest,” said Müller, “I never imagined the marquis had such a fragile place in his heart.”

  “He wouldn’t be acting like that if it was me or you who had died,” replied Mittermeier. “Siegfried Kircheis is—or was—something special. The marquis has lost half of his own self, as it were. And because of his own mistake, no less.” The other admirals all acknowledged the soundness of that insight, although doing so made them all the more fidgety about wasting time like this.

  Von Reuentahl’s heterochromatic eyes flashed sharply then, and he spoke to his colleagues in a strong tone of voice: “We’re going to get Marquis von Lohengramm back on his feet again. We have to. If we don’t, that means that all of us will sing a chorus of destruction to the depths of the galaxy.”

  “Still, what should we do? How do we help him get over this?”

  That voice belonged to Wittenfeld, who sounded like he was at an utter loss. Kempf, Wahlen, and Lutz maintained a heavy silence.

  Any one of these assembled admirals could raise one hand to make tens of thousands of ships mobilize and millions of soldiers take up arms. But not even heroes who could traverse at will the sea of stars—destroying worlds and conquering entire star systems—could think of a way to get a young man back on his feet when he was overcome by sorrow and loss.

  Finally, it was von Reuentahl who murmured, “If there is a solution, I know who’ll have it.”

  Mittermeier’s head tilted. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “You should know. He’s the only one who isn’t here right now—Chief of Staff von Oberstein.”

  The admirals looked at one another.

  “You’re saying we need his help?” Mittermeier couldn’t conceal the note of disgust in his voice.