Sunset

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Like sheep scattering before the storm, Waagenseil’s ships broke ranks and attempted to flee. The Iserlohn forces paid them no heed, beginning an exchange of fire with the Wahlen fleet instead. But Iserlohn’s ships could not withstand Wahlen’s ferocious return fire for long, and soon they began their retreat.

  Had the battle continued for another hour, Wahlen would undoubtedly have surrounded the Iserlohn fleet completely and sealed their doom. But, of course, Julian had no intention of continuing the battle. The goal was simply to lure the Wahlen fleet within range of the Hammer, just as they had done to Waagenseil’s ships.

  Wahlen divined these intentions, but elected to enter the danger zone anyway to cover Waagenseil’s withdrawal.

  If I can just get close enough to Iserlohn Fortress while the weapon is still charging…

  This was the idea on which Wahlen staked all his hopes, and at first it seemed that his wager had paid off. At his command, the front ranks of his fleet charged toward the Hammer’s blind spot at a speed that would have impressed even the Gale Wolf himself.

  And then beams of light by the hundreds pierced the imperial forces’ left flank.

  A chain of explosions flared down the ranks of the fleet, momentarily turning it into a vast dragon of light writhing in the void. Warships were rent asunder, cruisers reduced to balls of flame, destroyers scattered in every direction. When the operator’s hapless cry of “Enemy incoming at nine o’clock!” reached the bridge of Salamander, Wahlen could only groan wordlessly in response.

  The incoming detachment was led by Merkatz, and had been lurking in space extremely close to Iserlohn Fortress, which was a blind spot for the Wahlen fleet’s search systems. It had not gone unnoticed by the Waagenseil fleet, but they were so desperate to retreat that warning Wahlen had not been high on their list of priorities. With communications so thoroughly jammed, it might have been pointless even to make the attempt. Still, given Wahlen’s unstinting efforts to help the Waagenseil fleet withdraw to safety, the consideration they showed in return was a paltry sum indeed.

  Retaining his composure, Wahlen took control of the situation, reconstructing the crumbling formations of his fleet and preventing the total destruction of his forces even in the face of Merkatz’s ferocious assault. However, he was forced to abandon all hope of further combat. His ships were now at fully at the mercy of Thor’s Hammer.

  Wahlen ordered the ships under his command to exit the Hammer’s firing range at full speed, and it was a rare thing indeed for an order to garner such earnest response. Gripped by terror, they desperately brought their vessels around and began to flee.

  But Thor’s Hammer was already fully charged. At 2015, Vice Admiral Walter von Schönkopf, who had command of Iserlohn’s defenses, raised his right hand, formed a blade with his fingers, and swept it down.

  For a few moments, the imperial troops may have hallucinated the grim reaper throwing off his cloak and swinging his great sickle. That illusion was soundlessly shattered by a mass of white light of truly monstrous ferocity. On bleached viewscreens, the imperial ships became a mass of dark shadow-pictures, swallowed up in an instant by the frothing torrent of light. Some vaporizations were instantaneous, some explosions lasted for seconds; the carnage continued, scattering globes of light across the darkness of space; just outside the main blast zone, wave after wave of brutal energy buffeted ships with terrifying force.

  Two hundred seconds passed, and Thor’s Hammer roared again. A column of light, this silent roar pierced the infinite darkness, destroying thousands more ships. Tumbling balls of flame collided with allied vessels behind them, tearing them in two; these halves spun off in different directions, taking out still more allied ships. The dazzling dance of death and destruction spread through the void, and continued to expand.

  “Get out of there, please! Run!”

  In the commander’s seat aboard Ulysses, cold sweat chilled Julian’s heart. His nerves were not woven from steel wire, and he could not remain impassive in the face of death in such vast quantity. He would have been even more shaken, even more disgusted with himself had he been granted a vision of the imperial troops who had escaped immediate death—had he seen the crewmen who were blinded by the flash, who staggered through ships engulfed in flames before new explosions ruptured their abdomens, who called for their mothers as they died in agony, gore and organs spilling from their wounds…

  At 2045, Wahlen ordered a full withdrawal.

  Even as the battle descended into slaughter, he managed to retain the judgment required of a senior imperial admiral. When he was satisfied that there was no hope of victory, and that the Waagenseil fleet had successfully vacated the battlefield, he gathered his surviving vessels into a new formation and did the same.

  Of this engagement, Julian later wrote the following:

  In a sense, the laws of the galaxy operated fairly in this case. Defeat was dealt to the side able to accept it with dignity. In this battle, at least.

  He respected Wahlen as an enemy. And while respect for the enemy may itself be paradoxical—hypocritical even—the fact remains that those who show such respect are evaluated more favorably than those who do not. Perhaps this is proof that military figures are judged by standards that are themselves the product of paradox and hypocrisy.

  At 2140, after confirming the complete withdrawal of the enemy, Julian returned to Iserlohn Fortress.

  “We just kicked the kaiser right in the shins!”

  It was not clear who shouted this first, but cheers exploded in response, and a mass of black berets with white five-pointed stars danced in the air. The festivities on Iserlohn were already in full swing. It was the first time since Yang’s death that the republic had achieved a military victory over the empire. The empire’s losses were estimated at four hundred thousand souls. That this was at best a minor victory was indicative of the irredeemable cruelty of war.

  Though the goddess of victory had favored him with a flirtatious smile, Julian had no innocent grin of his own with which to answer. Tactically, he had been victorious. He assumed that the operation had had the desired political effect as well: they had shown the republicans in the former alliance territories that Iserlohn was unbowed. Bagdash and Boris Konev were eagerly planning covert missions to spread the word.

  But what about the strategic side of things? A tactical victory by the weaker side would only spur the stronger side to seek vengeance. It was difficult to imagine Kaiser Reinhard accepting his “kick in the shins” with good grace. Lightning would flash in his ice-blue eyes, no doubt, and he would order his entire fleet to strike Iserlohn down. This was what Julian was waiting for, just as Yang had in his time. But could Julian attain the same legendary invincibility that Yang had? One victory demanded another from the victor, and then another. Endlessly, greedily, until that victor’s death.

  “What’s on your mind, Julian?”

  Karin’s light-brown hair swayed as she leaned closer to peer into his brown eyes. Julian was slightly flustered. He had known von Schönkopf’s daughter for some time, but every time he encountered her he felt emotions rise anew within him.

  “We won that battle,” Julian said. “But what happens next? Maybe I worry too much.”

  “I don’t see any problem. If you’d lost, that would have been the end of it. But you won, so you can fight again. Next time, let’s kick the kaiser right in the heart.”

  Whether she meant to be or not, Karin was like a psychoanaleptic drug for Julian, easing his mind and restoring his mental balance. He let out half a laugh, nodded, then looked around the room. Realizing who he was searching for, Karin answered his unspoken question.

  “Frederica went to report our victory to Marshal Yang. She’ll be back in time to give a speech.”

  Meanwhile, Karin’s father was toasting Iserlohn’s victory with Attenborough and Poplin.

  “I do feel for you, though, A
dmiral von Schönkopf. You were restricted to such a small part.”

  “Spare me your false sympathy. I’m happy to leave rehearsals to you second-rate players while I save my energies for our upcoming performance in the imperial presence.”

  “In the imperial presence?”

  “The day we take Heinessen, of course,” von Schönkopf said with dauntless confidence. “It can’t be too far away.”

  Attenborough and Poplin drained their light beers and muttered in unison, “Save me a place on that stage, too.”

  I

  “A TASTE FOR WARFARE is in the kaiser’s character”: this assessment of Reinhard von Lohengramm was entirely uncontroversial among both his contemporaries and later historians. Reinhard’s own words and deeds continually affirmed it. Some historians criticized him severely on these grounds: “Take a bit of militarism, add gaudy gold plating, and there you have it: a statue of Kaiser Reinhard.”

  However, fairness surely demands that the historical circumstances surrounding Reinhard be taken into account. The Goldenbaum Dynasty had been an entire society build on unjust plunder. Some of its great rulers had pursued reforms, but by Reinhard’s time the corruption and atrophy had already progressed beyond any hope of recovery. All that lay ahead of the dynasty was its downfall.

  Most historians agree that if the great man known as Reinhard von Lohengramm had not made his appearance at this time, the Galactic Empire would have fractured into several smaller kingdoms, each with a powerful noble family at its core. Frequent popular rebellions would have driven further fragmentation until the former empire dissolved into ungovernable chaos. Reunification would have been a distant prospect, and civilization would have regressed on each isolated world. It was Reinhard who had averted this fate, and to do so he used military force to scour away five centuries of accumulated grime.

  In February of the New Imperial Calendar’s third year, Reinhard was, as a private individual, husband to his kaiserin Hilda, who carried his child in her womb. Intellectually, he understood this, but he struggled to cross the great, misty river that seemed to separate this understanding from true realization.

  When speaking with Hilda, he tried to restrict himself to the role of husband, but here too he failed, still seeking her counsel on political and military matters as a trusted advisor. For Reinhard, of course, this amounted to seeking counsel on every aspect of life.

  “The republicans on Iserlohn have made the first move this time, then,” he mused aloud one day. “An unexpected development, I must admit.”

  The previous year, when the Iserlohn Republic had refused to join von Reuentahl in rebellion, Reinhard had assumed that his next opportunity to go to war with them would not be for some time.

  Clad in loose clothing tailored for her condition, Hilda smiled as if to soothe his conquering spirit.

  “Your Majesty, why not begin by sending a diplomatic mission to them? I see no reason for the empire to force a hasty resolution.”

  “Kaiserin, your counsel is well taken, but one cannot sleep soundly if even a single mosquito lurks near one’s bed. The republicans have thrown down the gauntlet, and I mean to pick it up.”

  The exchange took place in Stechpalme Schloß, but it might well have been heard at Imperial Headquarters. Reinhard was by no means lacking in sensitivity, but his manner of expressing it was rather prosaic. Of course, not all the blame for this can be laid at his feet. Hilda, too, still showed a certain hesitancy in her role as kaiserin. They were a young couple of rare beauty and insight, yes—but also rare awkwardness.

  To the highest-ranking officers of the Galactic Imperial Navy, Wahlen’s disastrous defeat all but guaranteed an expedition in response, most likely to be led by the kaiser himself. To discuss the matter, they gathered in a conference room at Imperial Headquarters. They were six in all: Mittermeier, Müller, Wittenfeld, Kessler, Mecklinger, and von Eisenach.

  “Such masterful tactics,” Wittenfeld said in wonder as scenes from the battle recorded on optical disc played on the screen. “The ‘Revolutionary Army,’ was it? If this is what their commander can do, we had best not underestimate him.”

  Mittermeier shook his head slightly. “That is true, of course, but that flanking attack bears the mark of a veteran—Merkatz, I suspect.”

  “Of course! So Merkatz was there, was he?”

  “Be sure to keep that in mind, Wittenfeld. He’s a skilled and knowledgeable strategist—so much so that even the late Yang Wen-li welcomed him as an honored guest.”

  “And yet, had Merkatz served the kaiser, he would be a pillar of the imperial military now, with all the status and glory he could wish for. He chose poorly.”

  “I suppose he did.” Mittermeier uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his honey-colored hair. “But how dreary our battles would be if our side had a monopoly on talent. The loss of Yang Wen-li has made the galaxy a lonely place. Hearing that Merkatz is alive and well is, if anything, happy news. Do you not feel the same?”

  “I do—and I fear this shows I am beyond salvation,” said Mecklinger, Hilda’s successor as chief advisor at Imperial Headquarters. His rueful laugh drew similar chuckles from Müller and Kessler, while von Eisenach tapped the surface of the strategy desk without moving a single cell in his face. Wittenfeld just grunted, apparently torn between agreement and irritation.

  “In any case,” said Mittermeier, “Wahlen made the best he could of a bad situation, but our forces on this side of the corridor were thoroughly humiliated. We cannot simply let this go.”

  As head of the Imperial Navy’s operational forces, the Gale Wolf could not allow the matter to pass without some response. The rift between marshals and senior admirals on the one hand, and the rest of the admiralty on the other, was glaring. Grillparzer had had the brightest outlook among the younger admirals, but he had died betraying both his colleagues’ expectations and his own aspirations. Thurneisen had been given a sinecure after his error during the Vermillion War, and his bright star had dimmed dramatically. Bayerlein still needed to build experience, broaden his perspective, and nurture deeper insight. Until he did, it fell to the marshals and senior admirals to hold the line firm. On the other hand, they were not yet weary of the fight, and this was a cheering prospect for their spirit.

  At this time, Mittermeier was considering the construction of a military base at the entrance to Iserlohn Corridor that would be on the scale of Drei Großadmiralsburg, intended to reinforce the navy’s strength in the core imperial territories. He was also tempted by the prospect of overseeing this project personally.

  As future historians would aver: “There was no group that had traveled so far and wide across the galaxy as Kaiser Reinhard and the admirals under his command, storming back and forth across the sea of stars. Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier in particular will surely remain known to history for some time as the military officer who traveled the greatest total distance in his life.”

  But Mittermeier knew nothing of how history would judge him. He would turn thirty-three this year, and was still young and fierce, with no desire to dedicate himself to desk work. The position of commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada satisfied both his abilities and his ambition, so that when Count von Mariendorf put his name forward for minister of domestic affairs, he felt not gratitude but reluctance. Had his friend Oskar von Reuentahl still been alive, Mittermeier would surely have recommended him to serve as the kaiser’s most important lieutenant—though that selflessness was, in fact, one of the qualities that made Mittermeier a worthy successor in the count’s eyes.

  On February 18, Kaiser Reinhard announced his intention to lead an expedition to Heinessen.

  The expedition, however, was ultimately postponed due to the kaiser’s health. On February 19, he came down with fever for the first time that year, but it was the worst bout yet, and his doctors were pale with anxiety for some time. On February 22, the fever fina
lly broke, and the kaiser drank apple juice with honey brought to him by the kaiserin herself.

  II

  “Shall I send for your sister, Your Majesty?”

  It was the evening of February 22, and Hilda was by Reinhard’s sickbed. The tinge of red in his porcelain-white cheeks was not the color of his blood showing through but the aftermath of his fever.

  Reinhard shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “With you by my side, there is no need to trouble her.”

  His words warmed Hilda’s heart, but she knew that they were spoken partly out of concern for her feelings, and as such she could not obey them without argument.

  “I think I will send for her,” she said, mopping the beads of sweat from his brow. “She is already on Phezzan, after all.”

  A weak smile was the young and comely invalid’s only response.

  Reinhard’s older sister Annerose was still on Phezzan, the new capital planet of the empire. The unrest in the former alliance territories had disrupted transport and communications there for some time now, and there were concerns that these disruptions might spread into the empire’s older territories. Of course, it was obvious to all that Reinhard was in large measure using this as an excuse to delay her departure, and that he secretly wished for his sister to remain on Phezzan permanently.