No longer will those incompetents try to paint a sweet picture of reality by dissolving their paints in sugar water.
Such were the thoughts of Bernhard von Schneider, on whom the so-called legitimate government had bestowed the rank of commander. Being the clever specimen that he was, von Schneider didn’t have an ounce of illusion about the exiled nobles’ castle in the sky, built entirely on wishful thinking. Although he felt far from hopeless, neither could he act as if he were spectating this farce from a high vantage point. The object of his loyalty, Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, since defecting from the empire, had been treated as a “guest admiral,” but as secretary of defense for the legitimate imperial galactic government he was reluctantly organizing a new regiment. Even as he worked tirelessly as Merkatz’s aide, von Schneider was thinking hard about the future.
If the Imperial Navy invaded by way of the Phezzan Corridor, chances of an alliance victory were slim. Even with Yang Wen-li’s peerless ingenuity on their side, the scales were balanced at best. The way von Schneider saw it, the worst-case scenario was more than probable.
The most the alliance could hope for was cease-fire and reconciliation. As part of that reconciliation, the higher-ups of the “legitimate government” would need to be punished. Peace would only be a temporary measure. If it was ever going to rebuild its forces, the alliance needed to face its national egotism, which meant the “legitimate government” would become its scapegoat. And the seven-year-old emperor, Erwin Josef, was riding that goat straight to his execution ground.
It pained von Schneider to think of that unfortunate child. The child emperor, whose own will had been ignored in all this, who’d been exploited as a prop for the politics and ambitions of adults, was deserving of sympathy. But no longer could von Schneider afford to consider the emperor’s future. He had to throw all his efforts into protecting Merkatz from the political cyclone that was about to hit them. Furthermore, because it went against Merkatz’s conscience to protect his own safety at others’ expense, von Schneider had to show his concern for Merkatz while feigning emotional detachment. Von Schneider’s expression deepened in intensity and shrewdness. The young soldier looked in the mirror, recalling a time in the imperial capital of Odin when he was known as sweet and handsome by the ladies at court. Like a bankrupt man yearning for his former extravagance, he stewed in his discouragement.
Von Schneider nevertheless had a voluntary responsibility and outlook on the future, while most people couldn’t even grasp what they were supposed to do to get through today, much less tomorrow. But the legitimate government’s acting prime minister, Count Jochen von Remscheid, had been knocked off-balance when the situation had exceeded his expectations, and one could only imagine how many days he’d spent trying to restore his equilibrium. The exiled nobles, lacking in fixed opinions and who under Count von Remscheid’s influence had been napping in a garden of optimism, had lost their raison d’être as objects of von Schneider’s derisive scrutiny.
Since absconding with Erwin Josef from Odin, Count Alfred von Lansberg had been employed as the legitimate government’s military undersecretary. His loyalty to the child emperor and the Goldenbaum Dynasty were unwavering, but as a man who was poetic not only in heart but also in mind, it pained him to have come up with no concrete plan to safeguard the royal family. Former captain Leopold Schumacher, who’d abetted his infiltration of the capital, bore no small sentiment toward the royal Goldenbaum family’s betrayal of tradition. Not knowing the well-being of his subordinates back on Phezzan made him quite uneasy. Both men felt powerless, and it was all they could do to keep their emotions from leaping into the abyss.
The legitimate government’s first cabinet meeting of the new year was hastily convened, but of the seven cabinet ministers, neither secretary of finance Viscount Schaezler nor secretary of justice Viscount Herder were present. Among the five who were, secretary of the imperial household Baron Hosinger was fuming like a dragon guarding his alcoholic hoard. The bottle of whisky in his hand had been making its way silently around the conference table. Even the Secretary of Defense, Admiral Merkatz, kept heavy silence. This left the debate over the future of the government-in-exile in the hands of three men: prime minister and secretary of state Count von Remscheid, secretary of the interior Baron Radbruch, and chief cabinet secretary Baron Carnap. Like the incubation of an unfertilized egg, the debate was a serious yet futile effort and was interrupted by the secretary of the imperial household’s hysterical laughter. Doused in looks of anger and reproach, Hosinger stuck out his bluish-black face in ostentatious display.
“How about telling the truth, my high-minded, loyal gentleman. You’re not worried at all about the fate of the Goldenbaum Dynasty. You only care about your own safety, you who carelessly defied Duke von Lohengramm. And when that golden brat steps foot on our soil as victor, where will you hide then?”
“Baron Hosinger, are you sure you want to soil your name in a fit of drunkenness?”
“I don’t have a name to soil, Your Excellency Prime Minister. Unlike you.”
His laugh was loathsome, and his breath reeked of booze.
“I can shout from the rooftops things you’d never say for fear of ruining your precious reputations. Handing over His Majesty the young emperor to Duke von Lohengramm, for example, just to get on his good side.”
He waited with bated breath for the reactions of his colleagues, whose pride he’d wounded with an immaterial blade. Even Merkatz was at a momentary loss for words and glanced at the secretary of the imperial household in horror. Secretary of the Interior Radbruch kicked over his chair as he jumped to his feet.
“Shameless drunkard! When did you lose your integrity as an imperial noble? You forget the innumerable graces and honors the empire has given you and think only about your own safety, you …”
Unable to come up with the appropriate insult, Radbruch fell short of breath and scowled at Hosinger instead. He scanned the roundtable for support, but not even prime minister and secretary of state Count von Remscheid made any effort to untangle the bramble of this tense silence, if only because he understood that Radbruch’s real opponent wasn’t Hosinger but the monster of egotism rearing its ugly head from beneath his own shameful conscience.
This confrontation was no small thing. Apart from Merkatz, their participation in the government-in-exile was indeed the result of self-interest, and when that self-interest failed them, another would inevitably take its place on the stages of their hearts. The idea that they’d handed over the child emperor to Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm to save their own skins, while a tempting leap of intuition to make, was enough to plunge them into a self-loathing so deep that alcohol was their only defense against it.
Further complicating the mood of the exile government leaders was the fact that the object of their loyalty, the child emperor Erwin Josef, couldn’t have cared less about their sympathy. Having never learned to suppress his ego, and unaware that he expressed it only by lashing out, this emotionally unstable seven-year-old, in the eyes of his weary subjects, was also a manifestation of their innermost demons. Their loyalty was nothing more than narcissism reflected in the fun-house mirror that was Erwin Josef. Naturally, however, none of this was the responsibility of a seven-year-old child who’d been snatched from his unwitting throne as quickly as he’d assumed it. Of the adults who admired and respected him with formulaic affection, not one made had ever taken responsibility for his character development.
Erwin Josef was no longer fit to be called emperor. More than ten thousand light-years away, in the imperial capital of Odin, a change in the master of the throne was already under way. After Erwin Josef’s departure, on the gold and jade throne sat an infant whose teeth had yet to come in: “Empress” Katharin Kätchen I. She was the youngest sovereign in the history of the Galactic Empire and would also be the last ruler of the Goldenbaum Dynasty founded by Rudolf the Great five centuries ago. Erwin Josef
was already listed in public record as a “dethroned emperor.”
When the politico-military flow of events between Lohengramm’s despotic empire and the Free Planets Alliance went from swift stream to raging waterfall, the exiled nobles’ state of mind was inevitably shaken. Self-interest reigned supreme—enough, as Hosinger had so carelessly remarked, to blind them to the fact that they’d handed over the “dethroned emperor” to their bitter enemy Lohengramm to protect themselves. Try as they might to deny it, they’d overcome their shame and delivered the emperor into enemy hands, and without guarantee that Duke von Lohengramm would pardon them. If anything, he was likely to persecute and punish them severely for their treason and foul play.
Running away from the invading forces in the belief that one day the Goldenbaum Dynasty would be restored meant a life of flight and vagrancy. While romantic in theory, in practice such a life would be far from easy. Without either the political protection of the Free Planets Alliance or the economic clout and organizational capacity of the Phezzan Land Dominion, in addition to lacking even inchoate military power, it was unlikely they could manage a life on the run in enemy territory. However much these nobles might have lacked in foresight, they couldn’t have been quite that oblivious.
In the end, there was no exit in sight. Knowing it was pointless, von Remscheid felt sorry for Hosinger and adjourned the meeting, having reached the limits of his fatigue.
Another serious yet unproductive assembly of exiled nobles was held the following day. But Jochen von Remscheid, serving as its chair, was met with five empty seats and Secretary of Defense Merkatz sitting alone in silence. Von Remscheid had been left high and dry.
IV
Amid passive upheaval, the people feared what might become of them. Even if they were too proud to resign themselves to unilateral victimhood, events on a macro level were overwhelming their willpower and discretion at the micro level. It was like running in the opposite direction across the deck of a ship: no matter how fast one ran, one could never reach land.
Boris Konev felt that helplessness in his veins. Since being posted in the Phezzan high commissioner’s office on Heinessen, he’d been working as secretary. Despite having no desire to be a government official, he’d taken the position by order of Phezzan’s highest administrative official, Landesherr Adrian Rubinsky. Boris Konev was an independent merchant whose tendency to follow his own convictions was strong even for a Phezzanese. His father and his father’s father had sailed merchant ships all around the universe, overcoming political and military powers and living out their lives based on their own will and wit alone. It was a family tradition that Boris still hoped to continue, and so being stuck in a rut of government service was enough to wound his self-importance.
Not a single day went by that he didn’t think of slapping down his resignation letter and becoming an ordinary citizen again, forsaking rank and title. Now that his birthplace of Phezzan was occupied by the Imperial Navy and Landesherr Rubinsky had gone incognito, he had a mind to abandon his post and go incognito himself. And yet he stayed put. Irrational as it was, it was beneath him to abandon a sinking ship.
He feared for his merchant ship, Beryozka, which he’d left back home along with a twenty-man crew. But communications with Phezzan were, like the routes that could’ve taken him there, under strict alliance suspension, making a return next to impossible. Something dramatic, such as the Imperial Navy withdrawing from Phezzan or defeating the Alliance Armed Forces, would need to occur before he could even think of reuniting with his beloved ship and crew. In Boris’s eyes, the latter possibility was far more likely. He prayed to a god he didn’t believe in for just that, keeping up appearances at the commissioner’s office, where his work had already been reduced to nothing.
That year, SE 799, IC 490, would go down in history as the Galactic Imperial Navy’s longest march. At the end of the previous year, after occupying Phezzan as a rear base, the empire had brought all inhabited worlds in the Phezzan Corridor under its control. Understanding the relevance of government, Phezzan’s order was stable for the time being. But if the imperial occupation dragged on at the expense of their material resources, the Phezzanese, independent by nature, would quickly tire of their subservience.
For now, Wolfgang Mittermeier’s duty and concerns were not behind but ahead of him. Three days after placing his brave Vice Admiral Bayerlein at the vanguard in hopes of detecting alliance activity, he received word from Bayerlein.
“No signs of the enemy at the end of the Phezzan Corridor.”
Upon receiving this report, Mittermeier looked warily back at his chief of staff, Vice Admiral Dickel.
“Well, they’ve let us into the foyer. Now the question is whether we’ll make it to the dining hall. And even then, when I sit down at the table, the food brought out to me might very well be poisoned.”
On January 8, SE 799, the First Imperial Fleet passed through the Phezzan Corridor as uninvited guests of the alliance, sailing forth into a giant ocean of fixed stars and planets they’d never seen before.
I
At Iserlohn Fortress, on the other side of the Free Planets Alliance, the new year was also rearing its impartial head. Had its soldiers, besieged as they were by the Galactic Empire’s grand fleet under command of Senior Admiral Oskar von Reuentahl, even wanted to toast the new year, they were in no mood to get comfortably drunk.
The only thing preventing them from lapsing into absolute despair was the firm faith they had in Admiral Yang Wen-li, their “Miracle Yang,” who held dual commandership over Iserlohn Fortress and its fleet. The young, black-haired, dark-eyed commander would be thirty-two this year. Since graduating from Officers’ Academy, he’d accumulated medal after medal in wars both abroad and at home, catching the eyes of even the enemy Galactic Imperial Navy’s admirals as the alliance’s most resourceful general. To all outward appearances, he was a budding scholar and nothing like a soldier obsessing over order and rank.
“No matter what I try to do in this world, it always fails. I might as well drink and go to bed.”
With these quiet self-admonishments, Yang welcomed the new year, caught between danger and distress. But even as he gazed at the distant hatching of gunfire and light beams on-screen, a directive from the capital bypassed the Imperial Navy’s communications block to reach him.
“Space Armada Command assumes full responsibility. You will take whatever course of action you feel is necessary. Commander in Chief of the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada, Alexandor Bucock.”
As Yang read over the message a few times, the muscles in his face resolved into a delicate smile, as if he might burst into song at any moment. He very much approved.
“Everyone should be so lucky to have such an understanding boss.”
After saying as much, he unconsciously knitted his eyebrows. With all the pieces now in place, it was time to get cracking. Had this been a simple and unenlightened order to “protect Iserlohn to the death,” Yang would’ve used every tactical trick at his disposal against siege commander Oskar von Reuentahl. But now that he’d been given free rein, it would only be in the Free Planets Alliance’s best interests that Yang should respond to Bucock’s good graces by considering the war at the meta level, far beyond the confines of the battlespace before him. Anyone meeting him for the first time wouldn’t have believed it, but Yang was highest in command after admirals Dawson and Bucock.
“That shrewd old man,” Yang grumbled. “He expects me to work beyond the terms of my salary.”
He consigned the admiration he’d expressed just a moment ago to oblivion, adding:
“How much per enemy ship will I increase my pension?”
Lieutenant Frederica Greenhill, ever by his side, was within earshot. Yang had only spoken this way to his ward, Julian Mintz, and so most future historians would know nothing of that fact. What they would know is that Yang stood up from his commander’s sea
t and, through his aide, convened a meeting of executive leaders. Then, to those leaders gathered in his conference room, spoke freely once the lunch menu was decided:
“We’re abandoning Iserlohn Fortress.”
Iserlohn’s leaders shouldn’t have been all that surprised. Fortress administrative director Rear Admiral Alex Caselnes, chief of staff Rear Admiral Murai, vice commander of Iserlohn Patrol Fleet Rear Admiral Fischer, commander of fortress defenses Rear Admiral Walter von Schönkopf, deputy chief of staff Commodore Fyodor Patrichev, and division commander within the Iserlohn Patrol Fleet Rear Admiral Dusty Attenborough were all living witnesses to Yang Wen-li’s ingenuity. Nevertheless, they returned their coffee cups to their saucers in a clinking symphony of misgiving.
“What did you just say, Your Excellency?” said Rear Admiral Murai, who thought of common tactical wisdom as a fur coat in a cold spell, in his low voice.
Rear admirals Caselnes and von Schönkopf exchanged quick glances as the ingeniousness of Yang’s stratagem sank in.
“We’re abandoning Iserlohn Fortress,” repeated Yang robotically.
Steam rising from coffee cups tickled the chins of staff officers still trying to process this statement. Yang was used to having a teacup in front of him, but since Julian Mintz had gone, and with him the best black tea in the universe, Yang had given in to coffee as much as he could stand.
“Not that I wish to oppose you, but could you at least give us an explanation?”
Yang nodded to Rear Admiral Murai’s question, which was equal parts faith and suspicion.
Although Iserlohn Fortress was situated at the heart of a long corridor, it had strategic significance only insofar as military powers could cap off either end of that same corridor. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Iserlohn had no way of relinquishing its isolation. The fortress, as well as the fleet stationed there, were powerless if they didn’t fight. And so, while Iserlohn was strategically impregnable, Reinhard von Lohengramm’s ploy had ingeniously rendered it insignificant. Not only was it unnecessary for the Alliance Armed Forces to stick it out on Iserlohn, it was also foolish. At the very least, even if only by means of their stationed fleet, they had to act practically in the event of an imperial attack.
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 5 Page 3