Sunset

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Suddenly, Hilda saw something in Annerose’s face. It took a few moments for the vague impression to form an outline in words. Annerose’s cheeks were too white, Hilda thought. She had always had the same porcelain-like skin as her brother, but now there was a certain lifeless quality to it as well, something Hilda had not sensed in the Freuden Mountains. It suggested that Annerose’s vital energies were ever-so-slightly lacking.

  Could Annerose be suffering from some sort of malady? A small but keen blade of anxiety skimmed across Hilda’s heart. Before its peculiar sting had faded, a servant arrived with news to report: Kaiser Reinhard had arrived from Imperial Headquarters to meet his sister. A moment later, the servant was replaced in the doorway by Reinhard himself. The kaiser’s ice-blue eyes were mild.

  “It has been an age, dearest sister.”

  His voice trembled, from nostalgia and from something more.

  It was the first meeting of the former von Müsel siblings in more than three years. The beautiful young kaiser’s cheeks flushed, making him seem even younger. He had feared that Annerose would not attend his wedding, just as she had been absent from his coronation. She could have seized vast authority and comfort for herself if she had wished, but had instead secluded herself in the Freuden Mountains, resolutely refraining from interference in Reinhard’s rule. But now she was here, having journeyed across the galaxy to witness her younger brother’s vows of matrimony.

  Hilda decided to leave the two alone. She did not think it right for an outsider to intrude on this sibling reunion. For Hilda, of course, Annerose was far too elevated a presence to inspire jealousy.

  Reinhard emerged from the parlor twenty minutes later. Seeing Hilda waiting for him in the hall, he approached her.

  “Fräulein von Mariendorf.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  Reinhard pressed his lips together for a moment, as if in sudden realization of something. A rueful light was in his eyes.

  “No,” he said. “That form of address is no longer appropriate. You and I are to be married, and then you will be a fräulein no longer.”

  “That is true.”

  This was a very odd conversation, but one party to it, at least, was entirely serious. The other party maintained more objective powers of judgment, but had no intention of laughing at him.

  “From now on, I shall address you as Hilda. And so I would like you to call me Reinhard, instead of ‘Your Majesty.’ ”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Reinhard.”

  “Yes, Reinhard…sire.”

  As she replied, Hilda felt something close to certainty growing deep within her: this exchange must have something to do with the private conversation he and his sister had shared. Probably Annerose had suggested it. Notwithstanding this declaration of intent, however, he would afterward come to call her “Kaiserin,” in most cases, and she to address him as “Your Majesty.”

  III

  January 29. Reinhard and Hilda’s wedding day had come at last.

  Hans Stettelzer prayed all night to Odin All-father for fine weather, but the morning was chilly, with a dusting of snow from gray skies. Hans cursed the uncaring, useless heavens in twenty-four different ways on “Little Hilda’s” behalf.

  Nevertheless, the elegance and splendor of the bride and groom easily overcame the colorless weather. Indeed, the wintry skies of gray only made Reinhard—in full dress uniform—and Hilda—in a gown that appeared woven from virgin snow—like unto creations that the gods themselves envied, wrought far more beautifully than the heavens had ever intended.

  Count von Mariendorf sighed deeply in admiration.

  “You are beautiful, Hilda,” he said. “Your mother would have been so happy.”

  “Thank you, father.”

  Accepting her father’s warm if unoriginal congratulations, Hilda kissed him on the cheek. As for the groom, his fixed smile chiefly suggested uncertainty about what expression to wear.

  “Count von Mariendorf—I suppose from now on I should call you father. Thank you for giving us your blessing.”

  When the emperor of all humanity bowed to him, it was von Mariendorf’s turn to be unsure what expression to wear.

  “I remain Your Majesty’s humble servant,” he said. “Please address me as you always have.”

  This was not feigned humility. Von Mariendorf was not sure if he could bear the incongruity of Reinhard calling him “father.”

  “How does it feel to be the kaiser’s father-in-law, Count von Mariendorf?” whispered Chief Cabinet Secretary Meinhof. At thirty-six, Meinhof was the youngest member of Reinhard’s cabinet, and in bureaucratic proficiency said to be second only to former secretary of works Bruno von Silberberg, Meinhof’s now-deceased predecessor. He approached his work with sincerity and showed real talent for decision-making and getting things done, though in terms of creativity he was not regarded quite as highly as his predecessor. The support of this young bureaucrat and politician had been a great help to Count von Mariendorf, who would probably have suggested him as his own successor had Marshal Mittermeier not been available. As things stood, Meinhof would no doubt head the cabinet one day, once he had proven he had sufficient leadership ability and influence.

  The rueful smile that was Count von Mariendorf’s response to Meinhof’s whisper evaporated when the count’s gaze met von Oberstein’s. The minister of military affairs did not have the count at any particular disadvantage, but von Mariendorf found the man’s presence oppressive all the same. Nevertheless, the count did not draw upon the prestige of his soon-to-be son-in-law and glare back at von Oberstein. It was not in his nature to do so.

  Reinhard and Hilda walked down the aisle lined by attendees and ascended the dais. Hilda’s white dress was artfully designed to conceal her pregnancy, now in its fifth month, without impinging in the slightest on the grace of her form and movements. Atop the dais, their witness was waiting to receive them. In accordance with the customs of the former empire, this function was performed by the minister of the palace interior. Presumably, it was not that Reinhard’s reforms had not reached that far so much as it would have been more effort than it was worth to change.

  “I formally declare,” said the minister, Baron Bernheim, “that on this day, January twenty-ninth of the third year of the New Galactic Calendar, Reinhard and Hildegard von Lohengramm became husband and wife.”

  The baron was so nervous that both his voice and his hands shook, making the marriage certificate tremble so in all directions that it hardly seemed a single sheet of paper. The assembled guests watched with a hint of disapproval.

  “Calm down, Baron Bernheim. You are not the one getting married, after all.”

  This was as close to a joke as the kaiser ever came. Mustering all his willpower, Baron Bernheim forced the muscles of his face into a smile, with only a faint localized trembling in his cheeks and lips.

  “Hoch Kaiser! Hoch Kaiserin!”

  These words, loud enough to fill the venue, emanated from the lungs and pharynx of Senior Admiral Wittenfeld. Kessler would describe them some days later as “less a cheer than a bellow,” but in any case they set off an explosion of joyful cries that filled the venue with life.

  “What a beautiful bride Fräulein von Mariendorf makes,” whispered Marshal Mittermeier to his wife.“She truly is fit to stand by the kaiser’s side.”

  “She is no longer Fräulein von Mariendorf, dear,” Evangeline replied, rocking Felix in her arms. “She is Her Majesty Kaiserin Hildegard.”

  Mittermeier nodded, and Felix reached out a tiny hand to tug at his father’s unruly blond hair.

  The seats around the Mittermeier family were all occupied by high-ranking figures in the imperial military: Senior Admiral Mecklinger, who had accepted an appointment as Hilda’s successor as chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters; Senior Admiral Kessler, commissioner of military
police; senior admirals von Eisenach, Wittenfeld, and Müller. Below the rank of senior admiral, there were too many full and vice admirals to count.

  Raking his fingers through his orange hair, Wittenfeld whispered to Müller, “Do you know what I think? As a bridegroom, the kaiser is just a handsome young man, if I may be forgiven for saying so. But as the grand marshal at the head of the entire military, he is truly an awe-inspiring presence. Don’t you think so?”

  Müller nodded deeply, agreement in his sand-colored eyes, but whispered back, “In my opinion, even as a bridegroom, he inspires sufficient awe.”

  Von Eisenach, who was sitting on Müller’s other side, glanced at the two, but said nothing.

  There was one figure for whom the wedding brought surprising good fortune. This was Heidrich Lang, who until the previous year had held positions near the top of the imperial security apparatus—junior minister of the interior and chief of the Domestic Safety Security Bureau. As a key conspirator in both the Reuentahl Rebellion and the death in prison of Nicolas Boltec, former acting secretary-general of Phezzan, there was little chance he would escape execution. But it would be inauspicious to carry out this sentence too near the kaiser’s nuptials, and so he had been granted a reprieve until after spring.

  Surrendering his bangs to Felix’s tiny fingers, Mittermeier thought on Lang’s minor stroke of luck with displeasure. Felix smiled at him, and in that smile he saw the face of Oskar von Reuentahl, once his closest friend, now deceased. Surprised, Mittermeier looked again, but he had been mistaken: Felix’s eyes were both the cerulean blue of the upper atmosphere, with no sign of von Reuentahl’s blue and black heterochromia.

  Reinhard had made his home in a private chamber tucked away within Imperial Headquarters, but as the head of a new household he could do so no longer. The thirty-room mansion that had been offered to Mittermeier as residence was still unoccupied, so urgent renovations had been carried out to make it suitable for the kaiser and his family. The property was named Stechpalme Schloß, meaning “Holly House,” and was viewed as a temporary residence to be used only until Löwenbrunn completed construction. As is well-known, however, Reinhard would end his life without ever setting foot in Löwenbrunn.

  As Hilda was already five months pregnant, interstellar travel for their honeymoon was out of the question. Even interplanetary travel would have been risky. Accordingly, the newlyweds reserved a mountain villa in Ferleiten Valley, known as one of the most picturesque parts of Phezzan, planning to spend a week there. By the standards of the previous dynasty’s emperors, this was a ludicrously plain itinerary. Reinhard’s interest in luxury in his personal life was almost nonexistent.

  Even the wedding, after all, had been held in the Hotel Shangri-La’s ballroom, used by many an average citizen of Phezzan in the past. The security was tight and the food superb, but the only truly dazzling aspect of the affair was the rank of those attending. More than half of the guests wore military uniforms. Though not intentionally arranged, the sight was a strong indication of the military nature of the Lohengramm Dynasty.

  At 1540, as the ceremony was coming to an end, the disturbance began.

  An officer from the Military Intelligence Bureau at the Ministry of Military Affairs ran to the venue and, with some difficulty, had von Oberstein summoned. Expressionless, von Oberstein rose from his seat, went to listen to the officer’s report, and returned. After five and a half seconds of thought, stroking his chin with his bony palm, he strode without further hesitation toward Reinhard.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. “I have news I must report. The Ministry of Military Affairs has sent word that anti-government riots have broken out on Heinessen.”

  Sharp, electric light flashed in Reinhard’s ice-blue eyes. Beside him, Hilda unthinkingly clutched her bouquet to her breast, watching the expression on her new husband’s face. Reinhard’s admirals were watching from a short distance away, and when after a slight delay they learned of the situation, they could not hold in tuts of disapproval—not of the riots on the former capital planet of the Free Planets Alliance, but of von Oberstein’s behavior.

  “You could have waited until the wedding was over, at least!” snarled Wittenfeld.

  Mittermeier nodded. “He’s right. This is an auspicious day. There was no call for boorishness.” Privately, he wondered if von Oberstein had acted out of spite, but did not voice the accusation aloud.

  Von Oberstein bore this concentrated barrage of criticism from his colleagues without a hint of discomfort. “Auspicious events can be put off till later, but inauspicious ones require immediate attention. The security of the empire might be at stake. Whatever His Majesty may decide to do, he must at least know the situation.”

  Von Oberstein was correct. History shows that a ruler’s downfall begins when he cuts himself off from unpleasant information and luxuriates only in pleasure. Every fallen empire leaves records of high officials complaining about the news they are brought. The guests at Reinhard’s wedding knew this, of course—but this joyous event would come only once in His Majesty’s life!

  “Mein Kaiser, there is no need for personal involvement from Your Majesty in settling this minor disturbance,” said Mittermeier. “Admiral Wahlen is stationed in that territory. Should worse come to worst and the situation develop beyond what he can handle himself, Your Majesty may rest assured that we will lead an expedition to assist him.”

  Reinhard’s eyebrows, well-formed as any work of art, furrowed. Beside him, Hilda chose to remain silent. Had she still held the title of chief advisor, she would likely have offered an opinion, but, as of a few moments earlier, she was now formally his wife. This meant exercising restraint in word and deed before the public gaze.

  Reinhard shifted his line of sight to the new kaiserin for a moment, then looked away.

  “Very well,” he said. “The matter shall be left to Wahlen for the time being. But do not neglect your preparations for departure.”

  IV

  The so-called “Heinessen Uprising” that broke out at the beginning of year 3 of the Neue Reich, SE 801, was not initially viewed with great concern.

  Heinessen was, after all, part of the Neue Land, where Senior Admiral Samuel Wahlen had been stationed since December, tasked with restoring and maintaining order following the defeat of former governor-general Oskar von Reuentahl’s rebellion. Wahlen was a reliable soldier in terms of character and ability, and enjoyed firm support from his troops. He had served the Lohengramm Dynasty since its inception and was one of its finest military commanders. Indeed, Wahlen’s ability to balance swiftness with patience and firmness with flexibility was one of the key factors that had kept political and military disturbances to a minimum in the aftermath of the Reuentahl Rebellion.

  In the days between Reinhard and Hilda’s engagement and their wedding, a highly bizarre rumor had begun to circulate on Heinessen: The kaiser is dead!

  When he first heard this, Wahlen felt as if his heart and lungs had frozen solid. The thaw came when he confirmed that the “kaiser” in question was not Reinhard but Erwin Josef II of the former Goldenbaum Dynasty.

  There was a kernel of truth in this rumor.

  In November of the previous year, as the Reuentahl Rebellion was reaching its end, a youth had been arrested for suspicious behavior in Kramfors, a frontier town on Heinessen. The Neue Land governorate police officer who made the arrest had suspected the youth of being a republican diehard, but in fact he turned out to be Count Alfred von Lansberg, a noble of the Goldenbaum Dynasty who was wanted for the kidnapping of the young Emperor Erwin Josef II.

  Von Lansberg was carrying the mummified corpse of a child, wrapped in a blanket. Asked who it was, his sunken eyes had gleamed in an oily manner as he replied, “It is His Majesty the Emperor of the Goldenbaum Dynasty.” The arresting officer had, naturally, been stunned. The meticulously kept diary that von Lansberg also carried with him recorded that
Erwin Josef II had begun to refuse food and finally starved to death in March of that year. After the rebellion was put down and funerals held for von Reuentahl and his forces, the matter was reported to Wahlen, and von Lansberg was sent to a sanatorium due to the signs of derangement he evinced.

  In this way, the imperial kidnapping case from the twilight of the former dynasty was formally closed. It was rare, however, for the resolution of a mystery to leave such an unpleasant taste in the mouths of those concerned. No one had actively sought to end the life of the deposed young emperor. Even the enemies that wanted to imprison him had not sought his murder. Von Lansberg’s goal had been to protect him from the “evil designs of the Lohengramm faction,” one day restoring him to the throne of the Galactic Empire. But things had gone differently. At the age of five, an unwanted crown had been forced on the boy; at eight, he had left the world of the living. His remains were interred at the Heinessen Public Cemetery, marking the demise of the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s line of succession.

  Or so it seemed at the time.

  Wahlen, no doubt, also wished to put the whole unpleasant business behind him. Nor did he have time to spare for a deposed child from the former dynasty. As the third year of the New Imperial Calendar dawned, Heinessen faced a larger problem: stark shortages of everyday supplies. Someone or something appeared to be interfering with their distribution systems. At the end of January, the entire planet of Heinessen exploded into riot. Military storehouses were ransacked by rioters, and the situation became grave very quickly.