Sunset

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  During this period, Müller also freed a former alliance figure named Aubrey Cochran from a different detention camp, eventually receiving the kaiser’s permission to take him on as a staff officer. However, this story has nothing to do with the events before our notice here.

  III

  April 17. Frederica Greenhill Yang and Julian Mintz, representing the Iserlohn Republic’s civilian and military administrations respectively, had exited Iserlohn Corridor and were entering a sector patrolled by the empire.

  They were traveling in the warship Ulysses, fleet flagship of the Revolutionary Army. With them was a small force of three cruisers and eight destroyers. The main fleet, under Admiral Merkatz’s command, remained hidden in the corridor, in case of unexpected developments. This was a perfectly natural precaution to take, and had they expected to encounter imperial forces deployed in significant numbers outside the corridor. This prediction, however, proved incorrect. Spreading out in front of Ulysses was an undefended lake of stars.

  This gap in the imperial military’s defense network had been opened due to the standoff between von Oberstein and Wittenfeld and the Ragpur Prison riot, but Julian and his companions had no way of knowing this. Attenborough and Poplin regretted not bringing the main fleet along with them, while von Schönkopf suspected some devious trap. Julian reserved immediate judgment, slowing the pace of their advance to gather more information. Soon he had learned of the bloodshed at Ragpur Prison, following which the planet Heinessen was all but under martial law.

  After protracted debate, von Schönkopf made a proposal.

  “Let’s return to Iserlohn for the time being. Under the circumstances, going to Heinessen would be like cheerfully jumping into a tiger’s den.”

  There did not seem to be any other choice. Julian ordered the Iserlohn ships to come about, and this was in the process of being executed when one of the cruisers reported a malfunction in is engine which caused its speed to drop precipitously. Technicians were mobilized from other ships as well, and repairs were complete shortly after midnight.

  Then it happened.

  “Enemy at eight o’clock, angle of depression 24 degrees!”

  An imperial warship appeared on a subscreen, closing in from the port rear. And it was not alone. Behind it they could see massed points of illumination. At perhaps a hundred ships, it was not a large fleet, but it outnumbered them by far.

  Almost at once, warning signals that brimmed with hostility began to arrive.

  “Halt where you are. Fail to comply and we will open fire.”

  “Now that takes me back,” murmured Poplin.

  Glancing sideways at him, Attenborough raised his voice. “Not to worry. This is Ulysses, the luckiest ship in the fleet. That’s why we made her flagship.”

  “Aren’t you worried she might have already used up all her luck?”

  “Since when are you an expert on the conservation of fortune, Admiral von Schönkopf?”

  “It just seemed to me that Fortune might have a thing or two to say after listening to you two ruminate about her.”

  “Better hurry it up,” said Captain Nilson, casting a stone into the pool of their ruminations, “because a rather unpleasant fortune is approaching us disguised as a warship.”

  “So what?” said Attenborough, glaring at the screen as he spat out the most powerful expression known to man. Despite the image of carelessness he cultivated, he was a rare military talent, evident from the fact that he had risen to the rank of admiral while still in his twenties. As the alliance had been stabbed in the back while in the act of strangling itself, he had ended up a self-styled revolutionary, but had the alliance still existed, he might have made marshal in his thirties. This would have added a marshal rather unlike Yang Wen-li—one who balanced strength and tenderness more evenly—to the roll of alliance personnel. As is well-known, however, the last two marshals of the Free Planets Alliance were Alexandor Bucock and Yang Wen-li, and this combination of old man and young had monopolized more than 92 percent of the glory and popularity in the final days of the alliance military.

  Attenborough was remarkably skilled at deflecting the brunt of an enemy charge and then falling back, as he had proven many times in combat with the Black Lancers. Today, with just twelve ships to face down a hundred, the scale was rather smaller than he preferred, but through exquisite fleet coordination he maintained a retreat for two hours before the advancing enemy. Just when the imperial fleet believed it had completed a semi-encirclement, Iserlohn’s ships sprung away like a snapped rubber band and disappeared into the corridor. If the ability on display did not quite reach the domain of the magician, it was certainly worth the title of prestidigitator.

  With assistance from Merkatz, Julian’s little fleet established a secure position within Iserlohn Corridor. However, Julian made a point of not returning to the fortress, instead stationing Ulysses near the corridor’s entrance, keeping the full Iserlohn fleet ready for action, and spreading it out more broadly through the area.

  It was difficult to predict how the situation would evolve. Once Frederica had returned to Iserlohn Fortress by cruiser, Julian felt a wave of relief and focused his attention on what lay ahead.

  He was considering two potential responses—call them the hard one and the soft one. He would also have to call the Imperial Navy to account harshly on its responsibility for the tragedy at Ragpur Prison. They had chosen to take hostages, then failed to protect them from harm; criticism was only natural.

  Above all, though, Julian was worried about Admiral Murai. And what fate had come to Marshal Sitolet, who he understood to have been imprisoned the previous year? Julian had Captain Bagdash make contact with Boris Konev, currently embedded on Heinessen, to see if the free merchant could help improve the quality and quantity of information available to him, but after days of waiting all he learned was that not even Konev was all-powerful.

  “There were pieces missing from this jigsaw puzzle from the start,” said Poplin. Neither sarcastic nor sympathetic, the sheer abstractness of his imagery moved few. Even Julian only smiled politely before returning to the task of putting his own thoughts in order.

  How could they use the information they had as a weapon to break out of their present circumstances? He finally decided to inform the Imperial Navy of the connection between Phezzan’s old leadership and the Church of Terra, and watch their reaction. For one thing, there was no point in the Revolutionary Army keeping this a closely guarded secret.

  When he heard Julian’s intentions, Bagdash crossed his arms and frowned. “Do you think the kaiser will even believe it?” he said. “Even if he does, his minister of military affairs is sure to be suspicious.”

  “If they don’t want to believe it, they don’t have to. We’ll just tell the truth, and they’ll be free to interpret it as they please.”

  Acerbic as Julian’s opinion was, he was under no illusion that it was sharp enough to oppose von Oberstein. In any case, the entire plan would soon be set aside temporarily as he failed to find the right timing for it.

  To remain prepared for both peace and war, Julian busily flew back and forth by shuttle between Ulysses at the corridor’s entrance and Iserlohn Fortress at its center. He used communications channels too, of course, but he preferred to attend discussions and events in person to ensure that he grasped the situation.

  “You have to learn to delegate!” Karin snapped at him once. This was her characteristically undiplomatic way of urging him to get enough rest, driven by worry that he was working himself too hard.

  Yang had never given those around him the impression of diligence, even as his responsibilities grew weighty and his achievements vast. Julian could still see him sipping tea with that vaguely out-of-it look on his face, as if peering through fog.

  “I’m so sleepy these days, Julian,” Yang had once said. “Must be summer fatigue.”

 
“What you have is every-season fatigue,” he had said. “Don’t try to make it summer’s fault.”

  As he lacked Yang’s reputation, Julian in a sense had no choice but to sell himself on diligence. What put him in a somewhat bitter mood was the feeling that he was laying the groundwork for excuses if things did not ultimately work out. Be that as it may, Julian had to deal with things in his own manner.

  IV

  Kaiser Reinhard was en route to Heinessen, accompanied by Marshal Mittermeier and Senior Admirals Mecklinger and von Eisenach.

  He led a fleet of 35,700 ships. Mittermeier commanded the vanguard, von Eisenach the rear, and the kaiser directed the fleet as a whole from the center. His chief advisor Mecklinger was aboard the fleet flagship Brünhild with him, and—on a new recommendation from the navy’s chief surgeon—had made sure to bring six military doctors aboard in case the kaiser should need them. Reinhard made no secret of his displeasure at being viewed as an invalid, but when informed that both Hilda and Annerose had requested this medical entourage, he had no way to refuse. Of course, no matter how many doctors were present, they could hardly examine him by force if Reinhard rejected their ministrations.

  It was April 17 when word reached Reinhard of the “Day of Blood and Flame” on Heinessen the previous day. He was incensed to a degree that those around him had not seen in some time. No matter how elegant and calm they may seem while dormant, volcanoes ultimately erupt.

  “What were you thinking, von Oberstein? Did you think it would suffice to throw the republicans behind high walls and lock the gate? Setting aside the virtues of hostage-taking itself, hostages are only useful if they are kept alive!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Von Oberstein’s reply was a simple, stark admission of his failure. He bowed to the kaiser on the low-resolution FTL screen. Reinhard suspected that his expression would have been unreadable even at a much higher resolution.

  Ending the unpleasant call as quickly as he could, Reinhard sank into silent contemplation.

  Fighting to unify the galaxy, whether against the Coalition of Lords or the Free Planets Alliance, had been thrilling. But fighting now that that unification was complete took a mysterious toll on him both physically and mentally. Now, particularly since he had lost his matchless foe Yang Wen-li, Reinhard’s psychology was gripped by an inexpressible desolation that, in the end, he was unable to banish.

  It seemed that Reinhard’s energies—particularly his psychological energies—were a burden partly borne by his enemies. As Yang Wen-li had once observed, Reinhard’s vital force was a flame that had burned down the Goldenbaum Dynasty, reduced the Free Planets Alliance to cinders, and was now consuming Reinhard himself.

  After a time, Reinhard retired to his bedchamber, accepting the reverential salutes of his staff officers as he left the bridge.

  Mecklinger, the Artist-Admiral, wrote thusly:

  Had the kaiser’s infirmity been visible to the eye, we would surely have noticed it. But his beauty and his vitality were not diminished in the slightest, at least not on the surface. Because he had on many previous occasions taken to bed with fever, it seems we had at some point grown accustomed to the kaiser’s bouts of illness, compared to the days of the former dynasty. Furthermore, even in the grip of fever, his clarity never appeared to flag.

  In later years, however, when he examined his recollections more closely, Mecklinger would realize that his memories of the kaiser in poor health became more frequent as time wore on.

  The key figures from imperial headquarters aboard Brünhild with Reinhard and Mecklinger were Vice Admiral von Streit, Commodore Kissling, and Lieutenant Commander von Rücke. All of them, as well as Reinhard’s attendant Emil von Selle, viewed the kaiser’s health with concerned eyes. Von Streit made an observation not unlike Yang Wen-li’s, if somewhat less poetic:

  “His Majesty’s drive is like stomach acid. When it has nothing to act on, it begins to dissolve the walls of the stomach instead. I cannot help feeling that this has been the case for His Majesty since the middle of last year.”

  Von Streit’s interlocutor on this occasion was von Rücke, who was the same age as the kaiser. He did not, of course, repeat von Streit’s words to anyone, but he did make a daily habit of asking Emil about Reinhard’s appetite.

  Meanwhile, on Heinessen, preparations were underway for the kaiser’s arrival.

  “Before His Majesty makes landfall, we will clean house,” said von Oberstein to Rear Admiral Guzman, who was acting chief secretary while Ferner recovered. As a military official directly subordinate to von Oberstein, he was by no means incompetent, but his dealings with the minister had a more passive nature than Ferner’s. In other words, he was nothing more than a precision machine for carrying out von Oberstein’s orders unquestioningly, with little ability to make his own judgments or think critically. To von Oberstein, this was sufficient; it was Ferner who was unique.

  On April 29, von Oberstein’s “housecleaning” began in a manner that shocked everyone. The ministerial decree was the picture of simplicity:

  The Imperial Navy has today arrested and jailed the fugitive former landesherr of Phezzan, political criminal Adrian Rubinsky. This individual will be transferred back to the imperial capital on Phezzan for trial and, most likely, execution.

  No other details were offered, so the empire’s military leadership was just as surprised as the residents of Heinessenpolis. Wahlen asked von Oberstein how he had found Rubinsky’s hiding place, but Guzman, on behalf of the minister, politely declined to reply.

  Müller finally got his answer from Ferner, who was still in the hospital. Von Oberstein had been searching for Rubinsky since Operation Ragnarok, and had finally located him this year through rather unorthodox methods. Specifically, the minister had checked the patient records of medical institutions throughout the galaxy for names that did not exist. After a volume of work that Müller shuddered even to imagine, Rubinsky’s whereabouts had finally come to light.

  “It seems that Rubinsky has a malignant brain tumor, giving him a year to live at most,” Ferner explained from his hospital bed. “Perhaps he was in too much of a hurry to cover his tracks.”

  So Ferner opined from his sickbed.

  On May 2, Kaiser Reinhard landed on Heinessen. It was his third visit to the planet, and would also be his last. Müller and Wahlen met him at the spaceport. In the warm light and mild breeze of late spring, he cut an even more fragrant and dazzling figure than usual.

  The museum where Reinhard had once issued the Winter Rose Garden Edict had already been designated as his headquarters. Marshal von Oberstein and Senior Admiral Wittenfeld awaited him there together, but with very different expressions on their faces.

  Wittenfeld was known as the “Imperial Navy’s living, breathing destructive impulse.” Had he lost his temper, he might well have sprung at von Oberstein, even in the kaiser’s presence. Wary of unexpected developments, Marshal Mittermeier had told Senior Admiral von Eisenach, “If Wittenfeld flies off the handle, I’ll trip him up and you can punch him in the back of the head”—or so the rumors went; this was in fact nothing but irresponsible humor among the troops. Reinhard’s staff officers knew well that in the presence of the kaiser, that savage tiger became a meek housecat.

  As expected, once he caught sight of the kaiser, the burly Wittenfeld seemed to shrink as he offered an apology. He expressed his remorse at the rift that had opened between himself and von Oberstein, creating discord within the imperial military that had been visible to outsiders. But he did not stop there. He also turned a hostile gaze to von Oberstein and denounced his failings, stridently decrying the minister’s insulting mockery of the imperial admiralty’s defeats at the hands of Yang Wen-li.

  “That is nothing that should anger you,” said Reinhard. “After all, I myself was ultimately unable to achieve a tactical victory over Yang Wen-li. I regret this, but do n
ot consider it a source of shame. Do you?”

  Microscopic particles of laughter were present in Reinhard’s expression and voice, which mortified the commander of the Black Lancers even more. At the same time, a surprising thought came unbidden to him. As the imperial admiral who most frequently aroused Reinhard’s wrath, he was what one might call accustomed to the kaiser’s reprimands. In the past, Reinhard’s anger had assaulted him like a fiery dragon, seizing up his heart to crush it in its talons. But that was no longer the case, he realized. Whether or not the change boded well for the kaiser and his empire was not easy to say.

  Before Reinhard had become kaiser, when he was still Imperial Marshal von Lohengramm, supreme commander of the Galactic Imperial Navy, his beloved friend Kircheis—by then a senior admiral himself—had expressed mild criticism over how Reinhard had treated one of his senior officers. Wounded, Reinhard had turned his ice-blue glare on Kircheis. “You say I mistreat him, but that would imply that he is a talented man who deserves better. This is not the case. He has no talent, and I am treating him just as he deserves. He should be grateful that I allowed him to keep his job at all.”

  But, after Kircheis’s death, when Reinhard was reorganizing the military’s entire command structure after becoming de facto ruler of the entire galaxy, he had given that same man a position with a generous salary, if little real authority. This was clearly an act of compensation directed at his deceased friend; it was not until the final part of his short life that the flower of magnanimity would bloom in the soil of Reinhard’s psyche. That his true nature was rather to be found in merciless ferocity would soon be proven in bloodshed.

  After Wittenfeld apologetically joined his colleagues in line, Reinhard was asked whether he wished to meet with Adrian Rubinsky, who was currently in prison. The young kaiser shook his head irritably. He had far less interest in Rubinsky—and a far lower appraisal of him—than he had had in Yang Wen-li. Rubinsky might be a brute, but he had never commanded a large army, and his capabilities were, in Reinhard’s view, vastly inferior to Yang’s.