Sunset

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Müller said, unable to suppress a wry smile. He had not even been permitted to wear his own sidearm into the room, let alone bring a nightstick for Wittenfeld. On the other hand, it was an act of unexpected magnanimity on von Oberstein’s part that he had been allowed to visit Wittenfeld at all.

  Rather than feeling gratitude, though, Müller could not help wondering about the minister’s true intentions. It crossed his mind that von Oberstein might have granted him access to Wittenfeld in order to accuse them both of some plot together. Even Müller, by this point, viewed von Oberstein as a man who would use any means he deemed necessary to achieve his objectives. There was also the danger of eavesdropping, though von Oberstein seemed unlikely to resort to a trick that cheap.

  “Remember, they might be listening,” Wittenfeld said loudly. He smirked. “It’s too late for me, but you’d better watch out. Make sure they can’t frame you for anything later.”

  Was he brash or just insensitive? Looking out for Müller’s interests, or doing exactly the opposite? It was difficult to tell. After he finished laughing, Wittenfeld spoke again.

  “I’ll grant that von Oberstein doesn’t act out of private ambition. I’ll give him that much. The problem is that he knows he has no private ambitions, and has made that his greatest weapon. That’s what irritates me about him!”

  Müller conceded that there was something in this. But dwelling on it would not improve their situation.

  “Nevertheless, Admiral Wittenfeld, the fact is that you attacked the minister physically. Why not apologize for it and ask him to lift your house arrest?”

  He explained the storm that was raging outside Wittenfeld’s residence, but Wittenfeld only crossed his arms and stared off to one side. When he finally spoke, stroking his chin, it seemed to be on an entirely different topic.

  “The minister hopes to draw Iserlohn’s leaders to Heinessen using the lives of the political prisoners as shields. Now, Admiral Müller, this is just me thinking, but do you think those guys from Iserlohn would ever actually set foot on Heinessen alive?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m sure you understand, Admiral Müller. It isn’t that wretched Church of Terra that concerns me. It’s the possibility that the minister himself might send men disguised as them to murder the Iserlohn leadership in transit.”

  “Surely not,” Müller said, though he felt an all-too-chilly wind blow through him. Nevertheless, he still felt that von Oberstein would be more likely to have the Iserlohn leadership executed for high treason in broad daylight than to resort to secret murders.

  “I was not aware you were so concerned for the lives of Iserlohn’s leaders, Admiral Wittenfeld,” said Müller, somewhat jocularly.

  Wittenfeld shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’m not worried about them,” he said. “I just don’t want that snake von Oberstein to have his way. Besides, I won’t be satisfied until I smash Iserlohn to pieces myself.”

  Wittenfeld kicked the wall with a combat-booted foot, then immediately frowned slightly. He shook his foot nonchalantly, not making a sound of complaint. Müller pretended not to see, and tried another tack.

  “It isn’t that I don’t understand how you feel,” he said. “But if this quarrel between the two of you continues, it will only add to the kaiser’s troubles. His Majesty is frequently taken ill these days, and Her Majesty the Kaiserin will soon deliver her child. As their servants, are we not called to put aside private grudges?”

  At the mention of Reinhard, even Wittenfeld looked ashamed. After a short, grumpy silence, the flame-haired admiral uncrossed his arms. “Fine,” he said. “I don’t want to make trouble for you, either. If I just think of it as apologizing to His Majesty, it shouldn’t be too infuriating. It’s only because we think of von Oberstein as a human being that he angers us so. Don’t you agree?”

  Müller was unsure how to reply.

  III

  A threatening mood clung to the walls and ceiling like condensation. Whether damp, gloomy environments make for damp, gloomy people or the other way around is difficult to say, but for this environment, for these people, either explanation seemed convincing.

  Somewhere in a dark corner of the galaxy, a group that opposed the order Reinhard von Lohengramm sought to construct had gathered. They did not voice their opposition publicly, like those at Iserlohn. Nor was their quarrel with the autocratic government of the empire as such. Their ideals, their values, were old and narrow, rejected by the majority of humanity, and ignored by an even larger majority. But the subjective sincerity of that tiny minority was undeniable.

  This was the current headquarters of the Church of Terra. Specifically, the offices of Archbishop de Villiers, under whose guidance several recent intrigues had succeeded since the previous year. It was he who appeared to have seized the real power within the church. Several dozen believers, including a few bishops of lower rank, were demanding to see him. They had come to petition for an audience, but the scene looked more like a negotiation.

  “Where is the Grand Bishop? We wish to see him.”

  There was a serious obstinacy in their voices and faces. It was not the first time they had petitioned for this audience, but de Villiers had always brushed them off with some reason or other: the Grand Bishop was meditating, or resting from the fatigue of work.

  “Unease and doubt are spreading among the faithful. His Holiness has not shown himself before the faithful since our church’s headquarters was destroyed by the imperial military.”

  This complaint was made so frequently that it did not stimulate the cells of de Villiers’ face even a whit.

  “If His Holiness would only deign to appear, just once, the faithful would be reassured,” one petitioner said in a trembling wail. “Why, then, are our requests for an audience refused? In former times, were we not blessed with His Holiness’s wisdom nearly every day?”

  Their distrust of de Villiers seeped into his eardrums, and the able young archbishop replied with malice.

  “I trust you do not believe the bizarre and nonsensical rumors that His Holiness passed away last year.”

  “No, Your Grace, I assure you. I simply wish, as one believer among many, to be blessed with a glimpse of His Holiness.”

  “You do, do you? That’s well and good, however—”

  Skilfully wielding the invisible dagger of majesty in one hand and that of intimidation in the other, de Villiers backed the believers against the wall.

  “—Kaiser Reinhard is married, and his kaiserin, the von Mariendorf girl, is pregnant. The child, which will be born in June, may one day inherit the throne. At this crucial juncture, one that could determine the fate of the very galaxy, what possible justification could there be for coming in groups like this to disturb His Holiness?”

  “It is precisely because this is a crucial juncture that we wish to see His Holiness’s blessed face and receive His Holiness’s wisdom. The Grand Bishop is not the private property of a handful of high-ranking clerics. His teachings and mercy are bestowed on everyone who upholds the tenets of the faith. From the highest archbishop to the humblest believer, we are all supposed to be equal.”

  Privately, de Villiers found it highly amusing to hear this band of fanatics invoking democratic principles in their arguments. Keeping his cold smile beneath his skin, he was about to speak when he saw waves of shock and emotion ripple across the expressions of the petitioners. As if pushed down by a vast, invisible fist, they fell to their knees. De Villiers did the same, as if a chill blade were pressed to his neck. The object of the petitioners’ obedience and awe stood before them in the gloom. He looked like a shadow, completely wrapped in his black, hooded robe.

  “The Grand Bishop!”

  “All those who abandon Terra must perish. If, indeed, any may cut his own roots and yet live.”

  There was a strange hint of a
rtificiality to the chanting rasp, as if it were being read aloud from a script.

  “De Villiers is my most trusted confidant,” the Grand Bishop continued. “Follow his methods and contribute to his success. That and that alone will hasten the restoration of Terra to her rightful glory.”

  As one, the faithful prostrated themselves.

  De Villiers, too, was on his knees with head his hanging low, but his psychological landscape was an unusual one. It was incongruity fused with isolation, topped up with a few CCs of rage and mockery and then placed on the burner. As would be discovered later, de Villiers was not even on speaking terms with the tenets of the Terraist faith. He was a man of secular ambition and a gift for conspiracy, with nothing of the fanatic about him except, perhaps, overconfidence in his own dark gifts. He was cut from much the same cloth as men like Job Trünicht and Adrian Rubinsky. Just as Trünicht had used the structures of democratic republicanism and Rubinsky had used the levers of Phezzan’s economy, de Villiers was using the Church of Terra to advance his private ambitions. One result of this was that, to the average person, his ambitions were easier to understand, if not to admire. Ultimately, however, how he would unite those ambitions with historical significance once he had achieved them would remain an open question, fodder for the ponderings of historians.

  IV

  News of “Von Oberstein’s Scythe” reached Iserlohn rapidly and in rich detail. In an obvious ploy to rattle the Iserlohn Republic and its Revolutionary Army with the facts, the imperial military had refrained from censoring information on this topic. No doubt they also hoped that the republic might be torn apart by internal debate over whether to surrender.

  These calculations by the Imperial Navy—or, more accurately, by von Oberstein himself—proved accurate, at least at first. Iserlohn erupted with concern, and representatives of the government and military, from Frederica and Julian down, gathered in a conference room to debate their response—although little was recorded in the first thirty minutes except several hundred colorful vituperations directed at von Oberstein.

  However, once they had traversed the road of indignation, they found themselves at the gate of deep vexation. The problem von Oberstein presented them was not of a sort that that could be dismissed in toto with a single word like “despicable.”

  Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein, minister of military affairs for the Galactic Empire, was known as a capable, severe official and a schemer with ice in his veins. Julian and the other members of the former Free Planets Alliance did not view him in a flattering light. It was no small shock for Julian to realize that, this time, von Oberstein had posed a question that cut very deep: would it be a greater contribution to history for them to stand and fight, spilling the blood of a million, or achieve peace and unity while keeping the sacrifices to a minimum?

  It was more than clear what von Oberstein’s values were. Was that what Julian was going to have to oppose?

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Julian,” said von Schönkopf, in a voice that combined irony and concern. “It is the Galactic Empire that will be blamed for this, particularly Marshal von Oberstein, who executed this plan, and Kaiser Reinhard, who approved it after the fact. Not you.”

  “I know that. But I still can’t accept it. If we abandon the people who were captured on Heinessen…”

  It would leave a very bad taste in our mouths, thought Julian.

  Von Schönkopf spoke again, this time with more or less undiluted irony.

  “Isn’t it every democratic republican’s dream to be imprisoned by an autocratic ruler as a political criminal, though? Particularly those who held high office in the alliance, and beat the drum among the citizens and soldiers for a just war in the name of democracy?”

  Similar thoughts had momentarily occurred to Julian, in fact. But the list of prisoners delivered by Boris Konev had left him incapable of such sanguinity.

  “Vice Admiral Murai was among those arrested. We can’t just abandon him.”

  This sent ripples through the conference room. Iserlohn’s young staff officers looked at the list again, eyes wide with fresh surprise.

  “What?! They caught the walking reprimand? That must have taken some courage, I’ll give the imperials that.”

  “I didn’t think anyone in the galaxy could stand up to that old grump. That puts the Empire’s minister of military affairs one up on Iserlohn’s chief of sstaff.”

  “I’d rather keep my distance from both of them. Let’s just say it all happened in another world.”

  The discussion began to head in a peculiar direction.

  “Remember, if we save him, he’ll owe us one,” said Julian. He meant it as a joke, but the expression that crossed Attenborough and Poplin’s faces was between 16 and 72 percent serious.

  “So, commander, what do you plan to do?” asked von Schönkopf.

  Julian shook his head. This was not a question to rush his answer to. The fundamental spirit of democracy would not allow them to abandon people whose lives were in danger, no matter how few. But would they be forced to give up the galaxy’s sole remaining bastion of democracy in exchange? Would they have to surrender to the empire without even a fight?

  Glancing at Julian, now deep in thought, the thirteenth commander of the Rosen Ritter spoke again.

  “Our greatest ally in this matter may be on Phezzan.”

  Von Schönkopf did not name this ally, but Julian understood at once who he meant: Reinhard himself. The kaiser’s pride would surely frown on any attempt to use hostages to force a surrender. That very pride could be what came to the defense of Iserlohn and the principles of democratic republican governance. If so, perhaps they should seek to negotiate with Reinhard himself. But who should their intermediary be?

  According to Boris Konev’s information, the admirals who had arrived with von Oberstein were Müller and Wittenfeld. Julian had met Müller before. He had come to Iserlohn the previous June to convey the kaiser’s condolences when word of Yang Wen-li’s death had reached the empire. Could they rely on his goodwill and good faith again today? However trustworthy he was as an individual, he was still a senior imperial official, and surely required to put the empire’s interests first. Relying blindly on Müller might result in weakening his own position.

  Julian’s thoughts careened in tangled spirals. Suppose they did go through Müller to reach the kaiser—was he truly the man they should seek to negotiate with?

  When the Free Planets Alliance had collapsed, Reinhard—then still the Duke von Lohengramm—had not treated Yang Wen-li or Marshal Bucock as war criminals. They were his enemies, but he had been courteous with them. If that attitude of his had continued, perhaps there was hope.

  But how was pinning their hopes on the kaiser’s pride any different from appealing to his magnanimity or mercy? This was what made Julian hesitate. To bend the knee to von Oberstein would be unbearable—was it all right, then, to bow his head before the kaiser? Was he not, perhaps, motivated only by fear of harm to his own wretched ego? Would he achieve anything more than a temporary gesture toward resolving the situation?

  It might give him some small satisfaction to ensure that Reinhard rather than von Oberstein received the credit, but the result would be the same: submission to the empire. He had to keep that in mind, lest he fall into strange illusions and bring about a bizarre finale in which he surrendered to the kaiser gladly.

  Perhaps Marshal von Oberstein had calculated all of this when he sharpened his scythe. If so, Julian was no match for him. He felt his limits keenly. What would Marshal Yang do? How would he deal with von Oberstein’s breathtakingly cynical gambit?

  Yang Wen-li had not been a superman, and there were many problems he had been unable to resolve. Julian knew this, of course, but impatience at his own failings always seemed to exaggerate his admiration for Yang. While this psychological tendency did ensure that Julian never grew
overconfident in his own abilities, it may also have narrowed the possibilities for his inborn talents. He had just turned nineteen, and his self-control was still imperfect. But his awareness of that, and the way his fundamental posture never wavered as he used his guardian and teacher as mirror, was why people thought him exceptional.

  Human lives, and the human history woven from the accumulation of countless such lives: an antinomous helix reaching into the twin eternities of past and future. What value to place on peace, and how to situate it in its historical context? Such were the questions to which this endless spiral extended in search of answers.

  Were methods like von Oberstein’s the only way to achieve peace and unity and order? The thought was difficult for Julian to bear. If that were so, then what need had there been for Kaiser Reinhard and Yang Wen-li to shed so much blood? Yang Wen-li in particular had despised war, and agonized over the question of whether bloodshed could turn history in a constructive direction—even as he himself saw his hands stained red again and again. Was von Oberstein’s approach the way to overcome the anguish and doubt Yang had felt? Surely not. That could not be. Julian could never concede such a thing.

  If the methods that felt the most unworthy were also the most effective at minimizing bloodshed, how could humans suffer in search of the righteous path? Even if von Oberstein’s scheme succeeded, the people would never accept it—at least, not the citizens of the former alliance.

  And that, exactly, was the problem. Suppose that von Oberstein’s designs were successful and republicanism was extinguished as an independent force. What would be left in the galaxy? Peace and unity? On the surface, certainly, but currents of hate and enmity would still flow underneath. It would be like a chain of volcanoes, groaning under the pressure of the bedrock, sure one day to erupt and scour the surface with lava. The greater the pressure, the more calamitous the eventual eruption. Such a result could not be allowed to occur, and that was why von Oberstein’s intrigue had to be rejected.