After that, Kauf’s exploits had continued, completely free of the bad luck that had been with him till that day. He became a three-time winner of the Sindbad Award, and when he died in his mid-fifties, he left behind six sons and a vast store of wealth. Today, not a pillar remained of the Kauf Financial Group, however. Just because his six sons had inherited his fortune didn’t mean they’d inherited his talent and energy as well. Still, even if it was only for one generation, the spectacular success of Valentine Kauf was a historical fact—and more than sufficient to foster the dreams and ambitions of Phezzanese merchants.
“Today you’re a nobody just starting out. But tomorrow you could be Valentine Kauf II!”
That slogan was posted at Phezzan’s largest school of commerce, and while its message could hardly be described as refined, it did resonate in the hearts of the young. That university, incidentally, was founded by a grant from O’Higgins, the lifelong loyal friend of Valentine Kauf, so one could say that O’Higgins had, in a way, contributed more to Phezzan than Kauf ever had. Kauf’s vast fortune had vanished like a heat mirage, but the university O’Higgins had founded remained to this day, producing many free merchants, economists, and bureaucrats, and providing Phezzan with its greatest resource—talented people.
One day, at a table in the main bar at De la Court, a group of merchants just back from an interstellar business trip were enjoying drink and gossip. The topic of conversation was how society in the empire was changing day by day.
“It seems that the nobles are selling off real estate, jewelry, and securities very quickly, now that they’ve lost their special rights. Everyone can see they’re holding a weak hand, so the prices have really been beaten down low. Even if they’d like to protest what’s going on over there, they’re afraid of what might happen to them afterward, so all they can do is sit in their beds and cry.”
“When power changes hands, the ones who got fat off the old order will always become targets for revenge in the new. That’s an ironclad rule of history.”
“In other words, descendants are connected by blood to their ancestors’ misdeeds. Don’t get me wrong—I do feel a twinge of pity for them, but …;”
“Save your pity for all those commoners the nobles have been feeding off of for the last five hundred years. Even if they were set to be punished for the next five hundred years, I wouldn’t feel a hint of sympathy.”
“There you go again—you got ice in your veins or something? You’ve been able to lead a pretty sweet life thanks to the nobility.”
“Everything I do, I put my all into it, and I’m ready for what’ll happen if it blows up in my face. But they think money just bubbles up out of the ground without having to use your brain or your body. That’s what I just can’t get over.”
“All right, all right. By the way, I picked up an odd bit of scuttlebutt from officials at the dominion capital.”
“Oh? What’d you hear?”
“That the landesherr’s been seeing a lot of a certain weird hood lately.”
“He’s meeting with a hood? That doesn’t quite fit my image of the Black Fox.”
“Oddly enough, it might fit better than you think. Cause apparently, this is the kind of ‘hood’ that comes with a long black robe attached.”
At the dominion capitol building where Adrian Rubinsky did his work, staffers’ eyes turned toward the waiting room as they furtively whispered to one another.
With his extremely busy public and private lives, the landesherr was always saying he needed two bodies to keep up (or failing that, fifty hours in the day), so his staff couldn’t fathom what had gotten into him to make him spend the past several days in confidential talks with some mysterious religious leader. Few Phezzanese were aware of the extraordinary relationship that existed between the dominion and Terra, and of those, only a scant handful worked in the central hub of government.
The black-robed figure stood unmoving in the midst of the staffers’ converging, disapproving lines of sight. At last the secretary came out and escorted him to the landesherr’s office. Visitors who had requested meetings with Rubinsky prior to this man’s arrival could only watch his departing form with irritation as their own audiences were delayed.
This bishop, dispatched by the Grand Bishop of Terra to observe Rubinsky, was called “Degsby.” It was both his status and his name.
As he entered the room, Bishop Degsby lowered his hood.
The face that appeared from beneath was surprisingly young—probably not yet thirty. His thin, pale face bespoke a life of strictly regimented abstinence from worldly pleasures, as well as a bit of nutritional imbalance. His black hair was long and unkempt, and he had a gleam in his blue eyes that was like the sun in a tropical rain forest—a fervent gleam that made others uncomfortable, suggesting a clear imbalance between reason and faith.
“Please, Your Grace, be seated,” Rubinsky said. He had assumed an attitude of humility that was evident in his every movement. It was all a refined act, however, not something that welled up naturally from inside his heart. Degsby lowered himself into the proffered chair with a bearing that was not so much haughty as uninterested in observing the niceties.
“Was what you told me yesterday the truth?” he demanded, apparently seeing no need to exchange greetings.
“Indeed it was. I’m about to start placing an increased emphasis on economic cooperation with the empire, as well as on financial assistance. Albeit not too abruptly.”
“By doing so, you’ll upset the balance of power between the empire and the alliance. How do you plan on using that?”
“By allowing Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm to unify the whole galaxy, after which I will eliminate him and obtain his entire legacy. Is there some problem with that?”
On hearing the Landesherr’s words, surprise appeared first on the bishop’s face, followed by a silent unfolding of the wings of suspicion. After taking a moment to collect himself, he said, “It’s a fine idea, though perhaps just a little selfish. But the golden brat won’t be that easy to trick, and he’s also got that scoundrel von Oberstein with him. Do you really think they’re going to just go along with what you have in mind?”
“You seem quite informed about the situation,” Rubinsky said amiably. “However, neither Duke von Lohengramm nor von Oberstein is all-knowing or all-powerful. There’s sure to be an opening we can take advantage of somewhere. And even if there isn’t, I can make one.”
Had Duke von Lohengramm been omnipotent, he would not have let himself be targeted by an assassin last fall, nor would he have lost his top advisor, Admiral Siegfried Kircheis.
“The thing about authority and the functions of government,” mused Rubinsky, “is that the more you centralize them, the easier you make it to manipulate the whole system simply by taking over small portions. In the new dynasty that’s coming, we kill one man—Duke von Lohengramm …; or should I say, Emperor Reinhard—and take over the nerve center of his government. That alone will make us the rulers of the entire universe.”
“However,” said Degsby, “the ruling authorities of the Free Planets Alliance aren’t exactly far from our grasp. You Phezzanese have got them by the throat with your wealth, and during the coup d’état their head of state Trünicht was saved by some of our own disciples. Side with the Galactic Empire if you like, but doesn’t it seem a waste to let our pawns in the alliance die? To put it in your terms, we’d lose our investment, would we not?”
The bishop’s point was incisive. Mental balance notwithstanding, he certainly didn’t lack for intellect.
“No, no. Not at all, Your Grace,” said Rubinsky. “The alliance’s leadership can be used as a corrosive agent to cause the alliance itself to collapse from within. Generally speaking, there’s no such thing as a nation that’s so strong internally that it can only be destroyed by an outside enemy. And internal decay encourages external threats. And here’s
the important thing: decay in a nation never starts from the bottom and works its way upward. The rot begins at the very top. There isn’t a single exception.”
As Rubinsky underscored that point, the bishop looked at him with an ironic gleam dancing in his eyes.
“Phezzan may be called a dominion, but it, too, is a de facto nation. Surely its pinnacle isn’t starting to rot like the alliance’s.”
“That’s rather harsh. I’ll have to bear in mind my responsibilities as a statesman. In any case, I think that’s enough of this formal talk for one day …;”
The Landesherr told him that preparations were being made for a banquet, at which point the bishop brusquely refused and departed.
In his place, a young man appeared. He looked like he was fresh out of college, but there was no youthful naïveté in the gleam of his eyes, and although he did have a handsome face, there was something dry and emotionless about it as well. He was a little on the thin side, and his height, while on the upper end of average, was not enough to be considered tall.
He was Rupert Kesselring—installed as Rubinsky’s aide last fall. His previous aide, Boltec, had been dispatched to the Galactic Empire as a commissioner, where he was presently engaged in a certain operation on Odin.
“It must be terribly hard on you, Excellency, babysitting that bishop.”
“Indeed. A fanatical dogmatist is harder to handle than a bear fresh out of hibernation …; What in the world is ‘living for pleasure’ supposed to mean?”
The landesherr—a self-described hedonist—sneered at the young bishop’s puritanical behavior.
“Thousands of years ago, Christians succeeded in taking over the old Roman Empire by religious brainwashing of its highest ruling authority. And the dirty tricks they pulled afterward to suppress or wipe out the other religions! And thanks to that, they eventually ruled not just an empire, but civilization itself! Nowhere else will you find such an efficient invasion. I said before that I was going to make that bit of history repeat itself, but that was when the plan was to bring down the empire and alliance together …;”
The Black Fox of Phezzan clucked his tongue with irritation. There was a very good reason why he had finally had to give up on his initial plan. It was because of the rise of Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm. His genius encompassed governance as well as warfare, and under his guidance the empire was now undergoing drastic internal reform. The old and feeble Goldenbaum Dynasty was about to flicker out forever—as was only natural—but from the ashes of its corpse, a young and powerful Lohengramm Dynasty was about to be born.
To defeat both the alliance and this new dynasty simultaneously would be no easy feat. And even if that went well, what came next would be political chaos and a collapse of security on a galactic scale. Restoring stability would require vast military forces and a lengthy interregnum, and during that time, Phezzan’s rights and interests would likely be nibbled away to nothing by the legions of petty political and military forces that would arise before a new order could take shape.
And we mustn’t have that, thought Rubinsky. So, then, what should we do?
What Phezzan should do was rule jointly over a partitioned galaxy, together with this new Galactic Empire. That was the conclusion Rubinsky had arrived at.
“Partitioned” didn’t mean that he wanted to draw up national boundaries in space. No, the whole human family would be unified under this new Galactic Empire, and political and military sovereignty, with all accompanying authority, would be vested in its emperor alone. Phezzan would be subject to him. However, economic sovereignty would belong to Phezzan. By partitioning control over society’s functions, as opposed to its three-dimensional space, the “New Empire” and Phezzan could coexist and engage in reciprocal development. The decadent and hopeless Free Planets Alliance would have to play the role of fertilizer, tilled into the soil of a new age.
However, Rubinsky had shared only an edited version of his plans with the Church of Terra’s young bishop. The Church of Terra’s goal was not merely religious supremacy but a theocracy, in which the political and religious leadership would merge completely. If they made Earth a temple for all humanity, if their pilgrimages never stopped—well, there was no real problem with that. After all, that weak frontier world was indeed the cradle of the human race. But the thought of Earth as the seat of a theocracy, of it once again becoming the center of authority over the whole human race—that was too horrible a thought to even contemplate.
It would only mean the rise of Terra’s Grand Bishop in place of the “sacred and inviolable Emperor Rudolf”—a second sense in which history would be running backward. To prevent that, and to make Rubinsky’s intentions a reality, he had to give false obedience to the Church of Terra, and then, at the point when the double ruling systems of the empire and Phezzan were established, use the empire’s military might to suppress and destroy Terraism. It went without saying that plenty of care and caution would be necessary. In the past, no sooner would a landesherr show signs of throwing off the yoke of Earth than he would pay for it with his life. He mustn’t follow in their footsteps—only a perfect victory could make the fetters of Earth disappear for good.
IV
Count Jochen von Remscheid, once a high-ranked commissioner of the Galactic Empire, was now living the life of a defector in an out-of-the-way cranny of the main world of the Phezzan Land Dominion.
As a high-ranking official in the old system, the judgments of the new would be waiting for him should he return to the empire. If he repented of past sins and swore allegiance to Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm, he might be forgiven, but his own pride and the traditions of his distinguished house would not let him bend the knee to an upstart like the golden brat. He had left his official residence and decided on a new house in the Izmail District, half a day’s journey from the capital. The artificial sea in front of him brimmed with persian-blue water, and behind him rocky mountains that looked like they were made of agate closed in around. The flat land that lay between was a jumble of cypress groves and grassland. In the midst of it, a building made of granite and heat-resistant glass displayed its quiet presence.
Ever since the young count lost his official livelihood he had been living in a shell of loneliness and boredom, but now, for the first time in what felt like ages, he was sitting in his reception room and greeting a guest. His guest was a young Phezzanese aide by the name of Rupert Kesselring.
Two or three disparaging comments about Reinhard’s new system of government served as an exchange of greetings, and then his guest immediately launched into the reason for his visit.
“If you’ll forgive my saying so, Count von Remscheid, Your Excellency is presently in an extremely difficult position. Is that fair to say?”
After an uncertain pause, von Remscheid said, “I don’t need you to tell me that.” There was a shade of anguish in his eyes that his irises’ thin pigmentation couldn’t conceal. Although he had yielded the use of his assets to a Phezzanese trust company and had no inconvenience in his daily life, he could not deny the existence of a psychological void inside himself. Hatred and anger toward the new system, a longing for home and the old ways—though these passions were negative, they were indeed passions of a sort. A passion for the restoration of the old ways radiated from Count von Remscheid’s beady eyes, spreading out before him. Rupert Kesselring, more than twenty years younger than the count, was observing this with a blend of coolness and sarcasm in his eyes, but when he finally opened his mouth, he was very courteous.
“Actually, I’m here as the landesherr’s unofficial messenger. He wishes to propose a certain plan to Your Excellency, so if I may have your attention …;”
Fifteen minutes later, the count was staring at Kesselring with a look of shock and disbelief.
“That’s quite a bold suggestion. And it has its attraction. But I do have to wonder if this is really in accordance with the landesherr�
�s wishes, or if it’s in fact just you getting carried away with yourself.”
“I am but the landesherr’s devoted servant.” The young aide was making modesty his virtue, despite its being only lip service. For just an instant, a steely glint flashed in his eyes.
“Be that as it may,” von Remscheid said, “there’s still something I’m having a little trouble understanding. Don’t get me wrong—this proposal of yours is music to my ears personally, but what’s in it for Phezzan? I’d think that, going forward, it would be in your best economic interests to try to get along with the golden brat’s new order.”
Kesselring flashed a gentle hint of a smile. Assuaging the misgivings of the former commissioner was child’s play. All he need do was make a show of reaffirming his prejudices.
“Duke von Lohengramm is trying to transform not only the politics, but the society and economy of the empire as well. His actions are radical, and what’s more, he’s acting arbitrarily on no one’s authority but his own. Already, he’s begun to infringe on a number of the rights and interests we Phezzanese have enjoyed in the empire. Change is fine—but change in the wrong direction is something we can’t ignore. That’s an extremely simple explanation, but basically, that’s where Phezzan stands.”
Von Remscheid thought it over for a moment.
“Naturally,” Kesselring continued, “once this plan has succeeded and the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s been saved from the hands of that despicable usurper, Phezzan will receive compensation commensurate to its services. But fame as the savior of the nation will be yours. How about it? Don’t you think it’s an attractive deal for both parties?”
“A ‘deal,’ is it …;” Count von Remscheid smirked just a bit. “Everything’s grist for deals to you Phezzanese—even the life or death of the nation. And that’s the height of strength. If the empire could recover that kind of vitality and spirit, we’d have another five centuries of order and stability …;”
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