Sunset

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Negotiations?”

  “Yes. Last year, Your Majesty sought to open negotiations with Yang Wen-li. Why not realize that aim now, and welcome the leadership of this ‘Iserlohn Republic’ as honored guests rather than criminals?”

  Hilda viewed this proposal as a compromise, but it was an easy one for Reinhard to accept. He could release the political prisoners before negotiations began and then, if progress was not forthcoming at the negotiating table, simply open hostilities anew. This would allow him to correct the course that von Oberstein had forcefully set them upon.

  “Kaiserin, I have not once felt any affection for von Oberstein. And yet, looking back, it seems to me that I have followed his counsel more often than any other’s. He always insists on the sensible thing, the correct thing, to the point that there is no room left for refutations.”

  Reinhard’s recollections sparked a vision in Hilda’s mind. A stone tablet, engraved with things that are right—only things that are right—in an eternally frozen wasteland. Incontrovertible as the words on that tablet might be, no one would feel moved to approach it. Centuries later, however, later generations might objectively—which is in a sense to say, irresponsibly—praise its rightness.

  “That man…if I ever become a liability to the empire, he might just depose me.”

  “Your Majesty!”

  “A joke, mein Kaiserin. But how beautiful you are when indignant!”

  Hilda doubted that Reinhard had spoken entirely in jest. He was as awkward with jokes as he was with compliments, but there was no point trying to change that now.

  Nor could Hilda put aside her concern for Reinhard’s health. If matters had been severe enough to cancel the garden party for his birthday, an interstellar journey of thousands of light years was nothing to take lightly.

  At one time, Hilda’s cousin, Baron Heinrich von Kümmel, had been deeply jealous of Reinhard—or more precisely, of the fusion of graceful beauty and splendid vitality that he embodied. That jealousy had been von Kümmel’s undoing, but had he survived, what would he think of the kaiser’s frequent bouts of fever and confinement to his sickbed? An ailment of the flesh alone was one thing, but what if physical weakness dragged Reinhard’s mental state down also, weakening his spirit and vitality? Hilda could just imagine the baron’s cold smile from beyond the grave.

  If matters reached that point, the luster would fade from Reinhard’s very life. Compared to the fear that Reinhard would cease to be the Reinhard she knew, concern over the risks of prolonged travel hardly seemed worth bringing up.

  Had Hilda still been Reinhard’s chief advisor and nothing more, he would surely have departed with an enormous fleet that very day. But she was his wife, and knew well that this was what held the golden-haired conqueror back.

  “You must go, Your Majesty. There is no other way to restrain Minister von Oberstein or resolve his differences with Your Majesty’s admirals. Go—but please return as quickly as you can…”

  For a moment, Reinhard was silent. “I am sorry, kaiserin,” he said finally. The words betrayed nothing of the complex interactions of his thoughts and his undulating emotions. The light that filled his ice-blue eyes showed that his essential nature was unbowed.

  “I shall leave Kessler to take care of matters while I am away. Have your father stay in Stechpalme Schloß with you.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I must decide on his successor soon. To think that the count should opt for a peaceful retirement while still in his mid-fifties! I wonder if I shall feel the same way once I pass the midpoint of my life.”

  It was hard for Hilda to imagine Reinhard as an old man. Of course, it had been hard to imagine him as a father, too, and yet this was in the process of coming to pass. However, as is well-known, old age was something the kaiser was not permitted to experience.

  Once more, Hilda rued the loss of Siegfried Kircheis. No one could have objected to him filling at least one of the roles under discussion—commander of the expedition to Heinessen, or successor to her father as minister of domestic affairs.

  It was not constructive to think this way, but, as she was unable to accompany Reinhard to Heinessen in her condition, Hilda could not help it. Her faith that Kircheis would act in a manner consistent with his talents and capacities had outlived the wise young redhead himself.

  Reinhard kissed her on the forehead before summoning his attendant Emil von Selle and ordering him to prepare for a visit to Imperial Headquarters, where he would formally announce to Mittermeier and the other admirals his intentions to lead an expedition to Heinessen.

  Hilda, sitting on their canopied bed, let out a quiet sigh.

  She was a newlywed, only two months into her marriage, and pregnant. Her husband was the most powerful and admired man in the galaxy, and unrivaled in his beauty besides. As the old fairy tales would put it, her “happily ever after” had already arrived, but there was more to come. She would soon be a mother, charged with raising the heir to the entire galaxy, as well as managing the court—which was, admittedly, a relatively minor matter.

  If Hilda’s wisdom had not been combined with beauty that matched Reinhard’s own, would he have been drawn to her? Some posed that question, but none viewed it as having much importance. Reinhard had met more than his share of beautiful and accomplished women both inside and outside the imperial court, but he had never felt the slightest attraction to any of them but Hilda.

  “They are beautiful on the outside, but their heads are filled with cream butter. I have no interest in romancing a cake.”

  So he had said to his dearest friend and confidant Kircheis as a teenager. Clearly, women who had nothing but beauty to offer left him utterly cold. Hilda had made an impression on him above all by her outstanding insight in matters of politics and war. Whether Hilda herself, as a woman as opposed to a human being, was happy about this is difficult for others to say. However, if fulfillment is one of the elements that make up happiness, it certainly existed inside her. Her mental landscape was not far from Reinhard’s own; she shared many of his values, and was able to understand and accept those she did not.

  Putting this aside, then, another riddle: was Marshal von Oberstein loyal to Reinhard?

  This was a grave and highly unusual question.

  As minister of military affairs, von Oberstein was invaluable to the empire. Even those who loathed and avoided him were forced to concede this. To reframe the matter, despite his prodigious talent, he was almost universally disliked. He himself did not seem bothered by this. As a result, perhaps, he did at least command respect and obedience in all matters from officials in the Ministry of Military Affairs. Ruled by order, diligence, and tidiness, the vast organization he led managed the empire’s military administration without a micron’s deviation or delay. Though it might also be noted that the Bureau of Social Insurance had found stomach pain to be highly prevalent among the ministry’s employees.

  Now von Oberstein had imprisoned thousands of former alliance officials living on Heinessen, and was planning to use them to force the Iserlohn Republic to surrender without bloodshed. Victory over the republic might also be achieved by a frontal attack, but lives would be lost by the millions. Von Oberstein’s plan, however, would ensure that no lives were lost at all—at least on the imperial side. Countless husbands and fathers would return to their families alive. This was not to be taken lightly.

  And yet all those who learned of von Oberstein’s intentions recoiled, seeing more cowardice in them than respect for life, more ugliness than beauty. Why was that? There could be no doubt that von Oberstein, through his uncompromising principles, was working to establish a new order across the galaxy.

  A new order!

  Hilda shook her head. Since the wedding, she had started growing out her dark-blond hair. Her boyish beauty had been joined by a roundness and gentleness, creating a maternal presence that made
an impression on people. But mentally she tended less toward mother than wife, and less toward wife than trusted lieutenant.

  How many people were there in the galaxy whose fates had been changed by Reinhard? Hilda was certainly among their number. This was not inconsistent with the fact that she had always set her own course through her choices and her judgment. You might say that Reinhard had blown away the winter clouds of the Goldenbaum Dynasty, and Hilda had been the most beautiful flower to bloom in the sunlight that followed.

  At the outset of his life of conquest, Reinhard had gained Kircheis; as his imperial rule drew to a close, he had gained Hilda. Although the two never met, both were remarkable lieutenants who supported him at either end of his life. To Reinhard himself, moreover, this phenomenon was undeniably the most natural thing in the world.

  II

  Somewhere in Heinessenpolis, a tall, muscular, and feral beast wearing a splendid black and silver uniform howled at the moon in rage. Although under house arrest, Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld was “restrained” only in the strictest legal sense, employing the full breadth of his vocabulary and the full capacity of his lungs to denounce the hated von Oberstein. Beyond the high walls, three platoons of armed soldiers stood guard, and Wittenfeld’s vituperations were so florid and wide-ranging that it took several of these soldiers simply to keep track of them all.

  The citizens of Heinessen had, of course, learned of the situation through leaks in the information controls. And so, in a certain hotel room, two men were discussing the situation privately.

  “What a bizarre development. I doubt even the great Yang Wen-li ever foresaw a situation like this.”

  The speaker was Boris Konev, who still took great pride in calling himself a Phezzanese free trader.

  “In any case, conflict within the empire can only be good news for Iserlohn,” said Boris’s administrative officer Marinesk, running his fingers through hair grown thin with worry.

  “I’m not sure it will be that simple. Perhaps if the minister resigned his post, but I doubt he will. Wahlen and Müller are both reasonable people, too, and they’ll surely do their best to avert catastrophe.”

  In this Boris was entirely correct. Had Müller and Wahlen not been on Heinessen, order in the imperial military would have surely collapsed already.

  It was easy to imagine what the results would be if the Black Lancers got out of control and clashed physically with von Oberstein’s forces. Fighting on land was not the Lancers’ main occupation, but von Oberstein’s troops would be no match for their ferocity and toughness—not to mention their numbers. They could free their commander by brute force alone.

  However, if this came to pass—if the kaiser’s duly appointed representative were harmed—Wittenfeld and his staff officers would be doomed. The Reuentahl Revolt of the previous year had shown the suffering that internal strife could bring. Neither Müller nor Wahlen would be able to bury those unpleasant, painful memories for some time to come.

  They had to find a way to rescue Wittenfeld and his Black Lancers from catastrophe. Unlike the genial Müller, the cautious and sober Wahlen had never been especially close to Wittenfeld, but now he did all he could to release him from his confinement and avert a standoff within the imperial military. Were their positions reversed, Wittenfeld seeking to rescue Wahlen would no doubt be interpreted as an attempt to thumb the nose at von Oberstein more than anything else. Each admiral’s habitual behavior dictated how they were seen by others.

  Meanwhile, the Black Lancers were quite fond of their volatile, passionate commander, and their resentment and loathing of von Oberstein grew by the day. The recent transfers from the former Fahrenheit fleet had more nuanced feelings on the matter, but it can be safely said that not a single Lancer felt inclined to take von Oberstein’s side.

  Admiral Halberstadt, deputy commander of the Black Lancers, and Admiral Gräbner, Wittenfeld’s chief of staff, sought meetings with the minister, but were coldly refused. Requests for permission to visit Wittenfeld himself met with the same response.

  Rear Admiral Eugen came to Müller and Wahlen for help. Both Müller and Wahlen were willing, but neither of them knew what to actually do. Whenever they tried to meet with von Oberstein, Commodore Ferner—his chief secretary of the ministry of military affairs—simply repeated, “The minister will not see you.”

  “Above all, make sure the Black Lancers don’t lose their temper” said Müller. “I’ll contact Kaiser Reinhard and Marshal Mittermeier and make sure they take action. You and the others keep the Lancers in line. Take whatever measures are necessary to ensure they don’t do anything hasty.”

  “We’ll do what we can. But where our powers fall short, we’ll have no choice but to rely on you and Admiral Wahlen. Please help us.”

  After Rear Admiral Eugen left, Wahlen turned a rueful smile on Müller.

  “Wittenfeld doesn’t deserve him. Who would have thought that an officer so worthy could be nurtured under a raging bull?”

  However, it seemed that Wittenfeld’s influence was stronger on his more highly-ranked subordinates. After Eugen left, Halberstadt appeared before Wahlen to vent his fury at the minister.

  “If Commander Wittenfeld is treated unjustly, there will be no persuading the troops to meekly accept it. Please keep that in mind.”

  “Watch what you say, Admiral Halberstadt,” Wahlen said sternly. “Do you mean to threaten us? Do you perhaps hope to see more strife between His Majesty’s troops this year?”

  Halberstadt stiffened and apologized for his rudeness. He knew that if Wahlen gave up on Wittenfeld and the Black Lancers, their case would be hopeless.

  Wahlen himself felt at a loss before von Oberstein’s wall of ice. “He won’t accept the hand of conciliation—not even a bionic one,” was how he put it.

  Even as the senior admirals grappled with this problem, sparks of resentment and antagonism smoldered in the imperial military, and one was soon fanned so strongly that it caused an actual fire, though not a large one.

  On April 6, the military police under von Oberstein’s direct command clashed with the Black Lancers in what became known as the Downding Street Riot.

  Each side had its own story, but the disturbance began when the military police saw a group of junior officers from the Black Lancers emerging from a bar on Downding Street in defiance of a prohibition on drinking that van Oberstein had imposed. This infraction should have been minor enough to overlook, but the military police decided to throw the book at the group. This may have been because they were with women, and also possibly because they had written von Oberstein’s name on their empty liquor bottles and were kicking them down the street. They were questioned, an argument ensued, and within two minutes a brawl had broken out. When the fight began, a small squad’s worth of men was involved, but in thirty minutes the crowd had grown to the size of a regiment, and more than a hundred had been injured. Eventually, both sides drew their guns and began erecting barricades in the street.

  News of the disturbance soon reached Wahlen and Müller, who, already tense over the prospect of intramilitary conflict, were forced to come up with immediate countermeasures.

  “This idiocy could escalate into urban warfare. If that happens, we’ll be the laughingstock of not just the Imperial Navy but everyone on Heinessen—not to mention the republicans.”

  Müller headed for von Oberstein’s office while Wahlen had one of his officers drive him to Downding Street in an armored landcar, which he had halted at an intersection in the middle of the conflict. To his right were the Black Lancers; to his left, von Oberstein’s troops. Both sides bristled with firearms.

  Wahlen disembarked from the car and climbed onto its gun turret. He sat down, placing his blaster on his lap, and remained there, watching both sides closely. Whenever either looked too close to doing something foolish, he sent them a sharp look that made them back down. Both sides w
ere in such awe of his commanding presence that they did not dare fire.

  While Wahlen’s iron will kept the situation in check, Müller sought an audience with von Oberstein. This was finally granted, on the condition that it take no more than ten minutes. He explained the situation to the minister and asked for his assistance in averting a crisis.

  “Surely Wittenfeld’s house arrest should be lifted, at least. The Black Lancers are losing their heads out of concern for their commander. I ask that you calm them down.”

  “I govern by imperial decree and force of law,” said von Oberstein. “If the Black Lancers slip their bonds, they commit treason against imperial authority. I see no need to offer them the slightest compromise or accommodation.”

  “What you say is quite true, Minister, but is it not also our responsibility as the kaiser’s officials to prevent such disturbances and cooperate with each other? As Wittenfeld was indeed discourteous, I will persuade him to apologize for it. Will you not grant him an opportunity to do so?”

  The man who had caused of all this trouble on Heinessen was living in peace and tranquility akin to the blue skies at the eye of a typhoon—although he showed no gratitude for this whatsoever.

  “Hey,” Wittenfeld asked the guard who brought him his lunch. “Is that minister you think so highly of still alive?”

  “The minister is in fine health, sir.”

  “He is, huh? Funny—I spent all last night cursing him. I suppose a viper like von Oberstein must be immune.”

  The guard set down Wittenfeld’s food and left, a conflicted look on his face. Wittenfeld ate everything provided to him, even drinking the coffee down to the last drop. When asked later if he had not felt at risk of being poisoned, his answer was, “Poison? After all those years working alongside von Oberstein, I’ve long since built up an immunity to it.”

  Half an hour after lunch, a guest three years Wittenfeld’s junior arrived.

  “Admiral Müller! Nice of you to come by. Did you bring me a nightstick or something I can use to knock out von Oberstein?”