Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 6

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein was thirty-eight years old. His half-white hair made him look older than he was. Both of his artificial eyes were connected to an optical computer and emitted a brilliance that was not always easy to describe. Known as a cool and keen strategist, he’d been allowed to carve out a space in the shadow of Reinhard’s supremacy. Whether valued or misunderstood, he saw no need to explain himself. No one among his colleagues or subordinates disliked him. Neither did anyone scorn him, for none doubted his achievements and abilities. He was never one to patronize or mince words with his lord out of self-interest. At the very least, he was instilled with a sense of reverence that served him well in every situation. He genuinely strove to accord common courtesy to all. In the new dynasty he’d been appointed secretary of defense, serving also in a ministerial position as an official military delegate.

  Imperial Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier, he of the unruly honey-colored hair and vivacious gray eyes, was thirty-one years old. If pushed to say, one might have called him diminutive in height, but he had the toned and well-proportioned physique of a gymnast and gave an impression of being just as agile. Known throughout the military by his other name, the “Gale Wolf,” he was unparalleled in tactical speed. By all accounts, Mittermeier was the Galactic Imperial Navy’s bravest general, and to prove it he had racked up significant deeds of arms during the Battle of Amritsar three years before (when he’d first entered Reinhard’s direct command), the Lippstadt War, the occupation of Phezzan, the Battle of Rantemario, and the capture of the Bharat star system. Only the late Siegfried Kircheis and, of those still with them, Oskar von Reuentahl possessed comparable track records.

  Von Reuentahl himself was thirty-two years old, a tall young officer with dark-brown hair and graceful features. But surely his heterochromatic eyes—the right black, the left blue—were the most impressive of those features. Along with Mittermeier, he was known as one of the “Twin Ramparts” of the Imperial Navy, a man of exceptional offensive and defensive capabilities. Yet when it came to winning without fighting, he was a man who thought outside the soldier’s box. Once, he had recaptured Iserlohn Fortress after it was snatched away by the empire’s sworn enemy, the Free Planets Alliance, and together with Mittermeier had subdued the alliance capital of Heinessen. These were but two of his many splendid military achievements. Mittermeier was his friend of ten years. And yet, whereas the “Gale Wolf” was a good family man, von Reuentahl was a notorious philanderer. In the new dynasty, as secretary-general of Supreme Command Headquarters, he oversaw the entire Imperial Navy as the emperor’s proxy and worked closely with the emperor himself during official expeditions.

  Outside of this formidable trio, who came to be known as the “Three Imperial Chiefs,” there was Senior Admiral Neidhart “Iron Wall” Müller, praised by Marshal Yang Wen-li of the Free Planets Alliance as “a great general.” There were also thirty-six-year-old Senior Admiral Ernest Mecklinger, who in addition to being a military man was renowned as a poet and watercolorist; thirty-seven-year-old Senior Admiral Ulrich Kessler, military police commissioner and commander of capital defenses; thirty-two-year-old Senior Admiral August Samuel Wahlen; and thirty-two-year-old Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld, a decorated general and commander of the Schwarz Lanzenreiter fleet.

  Mingled among these starfarers, weaving her way through the cross fires of men, was a single youthful woman: Hildegard, also called Hilda, daughter of Count Franz von Mariendorf, who was now secretary of state under the new regime. Referring to the two as “Fraulein Mariendorf and her father,” as long-serving heroes did, seemed accurate enough. This twenty-two-year-old woman, who kept her dark-blond hair short and dressed almost no differently from her male counterparts, might easily have been mistaken for an attractive and vivacious young man were it not for her lightly applied makeup and the orange scarf peeking out from her collar. She worked as Emperor Reinhard’s chief imperial secretary and was treated like a captain by the military. She’d never commanded a single soldier, but as far as Mittermeier was concerned, she had enough gumption to run an entire fleet. Even as Reinhard had been waging a hard fight against Yang Wen-li in the Vermillion star system, she had come up with a way to save him. Hilda alone had paved the way to success by proposing capture of the alliance capital of Heinessen.

  Compared to her illustrious accomplishments, most civil officials lacked luster against past brilliance, but now that Reinhard had taken the throne and had gone on to claim total domination over the Phezzan Dominion and achieve submission of the Free Planets Alliance, the time for change had come. Under the young emperor and his regime, orthodoxy was destroyed, and its progenitors made sure the new order established in its place would be the stuff of legend. The future was calling their names.

  Secretary of State Count Franz von Mariendorf felt only modest satisfaction as the ceremony quietly evolved into a party. Although the ceremony reflected the former—that is, the Goldenbaum—dynasty’s seemingly institutionalized extravagance and empty formalities, none of it was to his liking, despite it being within his duties as secretary of state to oversee ceremonies and festivals of national importance. He wanted every soiree and formal display to be as simple, yet thorough, as possible.

  There were several reasons why the emperor should look upon him favorably. One of which was that, being the frugal man that he was, he hadn’t made the ceremony any more lavish than it needed to be. And while some spoke ill of him behind his back, accusing him of putting on an act, most of the old-dynasty emperors had failed to respect the boundaries of the proscenium.

  “You must be tired, Father,” came a soft voice.

  Count von Mariendorf turned to see standing there the only person who could rightly call him father. She offered him a wineglass.

  “Not at all, Hilda, I’m fine. Although at this rate, I’m sure to rest easy tonight.”

  Count von Mariendorf thanked her and accepted the wineglass. He clinked glasses with his daughter, enjoying the crystalline tone, and took his time to savor the crimson nectar on his tongue.

  “A fine vintage. From the year 410, I’d guess.”

  Hilda had little interest in such useless details and cut her father off before he started lecturing her on the merits of good wine. Hilda had always been indifferent to the cultural refinements about which a noble daughter was supposed to have knowledge—not only in regard to wine, but also gemstones and horse racing, flowers and haute couture. As far as she was concerned, knowing there were already experts on the subjects of wine and gemstones, she felt it better to leave such matters to those best qualified and to know which experts she could rely on when their knowledge was required. She’d known this ever since she was a little girl of not yet ten. Hilda was singled out for being a tomboy and was a social outcast among the other daughters of nobility with whom she sometimes interacted. In response to her father’s worries, she declared with melodramatic elegance that she didn’t care about being girlish, preferring instead to read books and take walks in the fields. One might have said that her present status of chief imperial secretary was the culmination of those childhood tendencies. Either way, she seemed born to occupy her current station.

  “Which reminds me—about Heinrich. He’s in bad health, as you know, and couldn’t put in an appearance at the ceremony. But he was hoping His Majesty might honor him with a visit, if at all possible. How about it? Would you be willing to inquire of His Majesty on my behalf?”

  Upon hearing the name of her feeble cousin, head of the Baron von Kümmel family, a gentle pall swept over Hilda’s lively eyes. He’d once voiced his envy of Reinhard. But it wasn’t Reinhard’s abilities he so desperately wanted; it was his health. When she heard him say this, Hilda hesitated to chide him for such an immodest comment, as she normally would have done. She could understand the sentiments of Heinrich, whom she’d come to think of as a younger brother, but—and maybe it was cruel to say this—even if he’d been of so
und health, he wouldn’t necessarily have been able to accomplish as much as Reinhard. Heinrich had exceeded the limits of his abilities, and his body, long ago. And so, without a wick to burn, his inner flame had faded into a mere flicker over the years. It was only natural that he should curse his own infirmity and be jealous of the good health of others.

  “Of course,” answered Hilda. “I can’t guarantee anything, but if it means that much to Heinrich, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Both Hilda and her father knew Heinrich didn’t have much longer to live. And even if it was somewhat selfish of him to make such a request, who were they do deny it?

  And so, the seed was planted for the Kümmel Incident, which would capture widespread attention immediately following the new emperor’s coronation.

  II

  Reinhard’s coronation took place on June 22. At Hilda and her father’s insistence, he paid a visit to the residence of Heinrich von Kümmel on July 6. During the interim, the young new emperor threw himself diligently into governmental affairs without rest, putting his administrative abilities to the ultimate test.

  Reinhard’s merits had often been compared favorably to those of Yang Wen-li on the military front, but he far surpassed the drive of his nemesis when it came to work ethic. With a decadence others might have poured into self-indulgences, and still without an heir, the golden-haired emperor followed his own honor code. And while his was an autocratic administration, his virtuousness, efficiency, and sense of justice set him apart from his Goldenbaum Dynasty predecessors. He had liberated the populace from the burden of having to pay exorbitant taxes to fund the extravagances of the nobility.

  The following ten cabinet members were placed under Reinhard.

  Secretary of State: Count von Mariendorf

  Secretary of Defense: Marshal von Oberstein

  Secretary of Finance: Richter

  Secretary of the Interior: Osmayer

  Secretary of Justice: Bruckdorf

  Secretary of Civil Affairs: Bracke

  Secretary of Works: von Silberberg

  Secretary of Arts and Culture: Dr. Seefeld

  Secretary of the Imperial Household: Baron Bernheim

  Chief Cabinet Secretary: Meinhof

  Without a prime minister in place, the emperor was the highest executive officer by default. This meant that, with Reinhard as emperor, the conquered universe was now under a system of direct imperial rule. Reinhard had abolished the former Ministry of Ceremonial Affairs—a government office that regulated the interests of the high nobles, investigated family backgrounds, and approved marriages and successions under the old empire—and established the Ministry of Civil Affairs and Ministry of Works in its place.

  The Ministry of Works had its cogs in many machines, including interstellar transportation and communications, resource development, civilian spaceships and production of raw materials, as well as construction of cities, mining and manufacturing plants, transportation bases, and development bases. It also oversaw imperial economic reform and was granted the important function of maintaining social capital. A highly talented individual possessed of political acumen, managerial experience, and organizational skills was necessary to keep it all running smoothly. The thirty-three-year-old secretary of works, Bruno von Silberberg, was of the confident opinion that he possessed two of these qualities, but he had also been given another informal, yet no less important, title: Secretary of Imperial Capital Construction. In that capacity, he was to oversee Emperor Reinhard’s secret plans to relocate the capital to the planet of Phezzan. In the future, he would annex all Free Planets Alliance territory and, once he’d doubled the empire’s possessions, realize his plan of refashioning Phezzan as center stage of a new era of universal rule.

  Compared to mobilizing grand armies across a vast ocean of stars and wielding his omnipotence to vanquish a formidable enemy, handling internal affairs was a set of simple, prosaic tasks. If foreign campaigns were Reinhard’s privilege, then domestic matters were an uncreative duty. And yet, the young, elegant emperor never neglected the obligations incumbent in his position and authority. In Reinhard’s estimation, even the smallest task was as important as the larger machinations that had brought him to this point.

  According to one future historian, Reinhard’s diligence as a politician arose from his guilty conscience as a usurper. Nothing could be further from the truth. Reinhard never felt that his usurpations constituted a lapse in his personal morality. He wasn’t so deluded as to believe that the power and glory he’d hijacked from the Goldenbaum Dynasty were eternal. Neither had anyone ever guaranteed them to be. And while he’d never studied history with anything approaching the zeal of his rival Yang Wen-li, he knew that every dynasty ever birthed by human society had been conquered and overtaken, but that he was the atypical child who had destroyed the womb of order that predicated his existence. To be sure, he had hijacked the Goldenbaum Dynasty. But wasn’t its very founder, Rudolf the Great, himself a deformed child who’d compromised the Galactic Federation of States, sucked millions dry of their blood, and forced his way to the top? Who had ever imagined that the intention of the emperor alone could produce an interstellar autocratic regime with enough military power to enforce it? Even Rudolf the Great, who’d walked his own path of self-deification, couldn’t cheat death. The time had come for his magnum opus, the Goldenbaum Dynasty, to expire, and for a new volume to be written in its place.

  Reinhard wasn’t so immature as to ignore the gravity of his sinful deeds. Likewise, he could find no justification for the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s actions. Others both living and dead had provoked in him an acute mixture of regret and self-admonishment.

  On July 1, as early summer transitioned to the heights of the season, Secretary of State Franz von Mariendorf came to seek an audience with the young emperor. Count von Mariendorf thought himself unworthy of being a cabinet minister in the government of such a vast interstellar empire. Since the former dynasty, he’d never harbored a single political ambition. He reliably managed the estates of both the Mariendorf and Kümmel families, stayed clear of political strife and war, and tried his best to live a frugal life. He had no intentions of cozying up to power or status just to advance his reputation.

  From where Reinhard stood, the new dynasty was under his direct rule. This meant that his cabinet ministers were no more than assistants, and so there was no need for someone so prodigious as a chief cabinet minister to aid him. Keeping as low a profile as he could, Count von Mariendorf devoted himself to coordinating the other cabinet ministers, while managing ceremonies and other organizational tasks at just the right level of involvement. Moreover, he was known as a man of honest virtue. As manager of the Kümmel family fortune, he could easily have embezzled those assets if he’d wanted to. Many such precedents filled the pages in the reference room of the old minister of ceremonies. Nevertheless, when Heinrich had inherited the family fortune at seventeen, it hadn’t decreased one bit. In that same period, the Mariendorf family assets had in fact decreased slightly due to a heavy water mine accident. The count’s impartiality was therefore never in doubt. As one fully aware of his daughter’s abilities, he had developed her strong points. These were just some of the reasons that he’d been given the position he presently held.

  What Count von Mariendorf had come to say caught Reinhard slightly off guard. After bowing deeply, the secretary of state asked the young emperor whether he had any intention of getting married.

  “Married, you say?”

  “Yes. Getting married, producing an heir, and with that heir determining the succession of your throne. It’s your sovereign duty, after all.”

  Reinhard couldn’t doubt it was a sound, if artless, argument. He preceded his response with a brief overture of silence.

  “I don’t intend to. At least not for now. I have too much else to do before I can even think of having a child.”

  His wo
rds were fall-off-the-bone tender, but the gristle of their rejection was ten thousand times tougher to chew. Count von Mariendorf bowed in silence. To him it was enough that he’d aroused discretion in the young emperor toward the social custom of marriage and that he’d affirmed its significance in securing the future of the throne. He knew better than to make too much of it, lest he incite the emperor’s violent temper.

  Count von Mariendorf changed the subject to his cousin Baron von Kümmel, a man without much time left to live—his health had been deteriorating for a long time—and who desired the once-in-a-lifetime honor of receiving an imperial visit at his home. With uncanny grace, Reinhard titled his golden head slightly, then nodded in assent.

  Count von Mariendorf was pleased and took his leave to confront the next ordeal. Just before the regular cabinet meeting commenced at two o’clock, secretary of defense Marshal von Oberstein broached the subject with him.

  “I understand you encouraged His Majesty to get married. If I might be so bold, what was your intention in doing so?”

  The meek secretary of state could give no immediate reply. Count von Mariendorf knew the artificial-eyed secretary of defense wasn’t a spiteful man, but he also knew that nothing escaped him and that it would be futile to hide anything from him. Von Mariendorf was still on his guard. He chose his words carefully and steeled his expression.

  “His Majesty is only twenty-three years old. I know there’s no need for someone so young to rush into marriage, but it’s only natural that he should get married, if only to ensure the imperial line of succession. I thought it prudent to at least suggest a few potential candidates to be his empress.”

  Count von Mariendorf thought he noted a strange flicker in the secretary of defense’s artificial eyes.

  “I see. And would your daughter happen to be first on that list of candidates?”

  Marshal von Oberstein’s tone planted not a stinger but an icicle. Von Mariendorf felt the temperature around him lower to that of early spring. The secretary of defense’s words were serious enough as a joke, but even more serious if meant in earnest. Gathering his wits, the count acted as if taking it in jest.