“Reinhard’s feelings aside, though, as long as we’re holed up in the fortress with significant military force at our disposal, the empire and its military are going to be uneasy. At some point, Iserlohn will become a burden not to them, but to us.”
“Do you mean we should abandon Iserlohn?”
“Let me put it this way: if we cling to it too long, it’ll just end up narrowing our options, both political and military.”
Yang had kept the discussion at an abstract level, but it was clear to Julian that he’d had no intention of maintaining Iserlohn Fortress as a permanent base for democratic governance. The question that fell to Julian now was how to maximize the tactical advantage of holding Iserlohn at the moment.
Julian had inherited Yang’s respect for Kaiser Reinhard’s magnificent ability and ambition. But he had also inherited his guardian’s habit of unceasingly analyzing and monitoring the dangers that ability and ambition concealed. That could be hazardous, however, just as looking directly at the sun was hazardous to the eye.
Aboard Ulysses, Julian explained his thinking to von Schönkopf, Attenborough, and Poplin. Reinhard was probably willing to negotiate with the Iserlohn Republic, he told them, but not before at least one battle. Willingness to shed blood for their ideals was one of the yardsticks by which the kaiser measured his adversaries.
Von Schönkopf and those under him in the military hierarchy welcomed the prospect of a battle. Attenborough was also convinced by Julian’s reasoning, but had a question of his own.
“Does this mean that history will condemn the kaiser as too bloodthirsty and ruthless in his ambition?”
“No, most likely, he’ll be viewed as a great man whose methods were justified by his achievements.” Perhaps from fatigue, Julian was in a bitter mood, and his voice left barbs in the ear canals of all present. “Historians judge bloodshed by its efficacy. If a hundred million more die before the galaxy is unified, all they’ll say is, ‘The epochal feat of galactic unification was achieved at the cost of only a hundred million lives.’ ”
Julian sighed. There was a brief silence.
“It isn’t like you to talk this way, Julian,” von Schönkopf said finally. “What’re you, turning cynic on us? Gonna write a book of witty barbs for future generations?”
“Sorry,” Julian said, blushing. “I just got a little worked up.”
In truth, however, he had said nothing that called for an apology. His embarrassment had been at the sheer audacity he had shown in analyzing the psyche of Kaiser Reinhard, who outclassed him (if not Yang) in ability, experience, and achievement. Above all, Julian’s own occupation at that time was not historian but military leader. Regarding the efficacy of bloodshed, it fell to him not to judge but to be judged.
Reinhard summoned his commanders ranked senior admiral or higher, along with all staff officers directly attached to HQ, to the temporary headquarters on Heinessen. Although this took the form of an imperial council meeting, Reinhard was past the point of any willingness to discuss the pros and cons of mobilizing troops. On the contrary, Reinhard’s goal was to ensure that his desire for war, his will to do battle, was shared in full by every admiral under his command.
“If they come at us with military force, we have no reason whatsoever to evade that challenge. That is why I led this expedition here in the first place. The very day that they provoke us, I will lead you all from Heinessen to strike them down.”
Surveying his assembled admiralty, Reinhard detected a desire to speak in Neidhart Müller’s gaze. He indicated with his eyes that this would be permitted, and the sandy-haired, sandy-eyed admiral spoke with plain sincerity.
“I do not mean to underestimate Your Majesty’s enemies, but this matter does not strike me as one on which the survival of the empire depends. It hardly seems necessary for Your Majesty to take to the battlefield personally. I humbly beseech Your Majesty to remain on Heinessen while we, your subjects, take care of the fighting.”
Reinhard’s gaze turned ironical, the light in his ice-blue eyes dancing like shooting stars. “For what purpose have I led the empire’s forces here? To reward the republicans’ insolent provocations with a welcoming smile? I think not. Your concern for my person, Müller, is noted, but on this occasion it is unnecessary.”
At this, Mittermeier sought leave to speak, which was also granted.
“If I may, Your Majesty. Her Majesty the Kaiserin and the Archduchess von Grünewald both await your safe return on Phezzan. I too would prefer that Your Majesty direct this battle from the rear.”
“Why, Mittermeier, I thought you had a wife and child praying for your safe return as well. What makes exposure to danger acceptable in your case, but not in mine?”
Reinhard’s words were barbed, but not unreasonable, robbing Mittermeier of any further counterargument. The imperial marshal fell silent.
In the Imperial Navy, there was no such thing as a valid reason to avoid combat. Defeating Iserlohn would finally allow the unification of all humanity under the Goldenlöwe. The Imperial Navy had deployed more than five times the military strength of the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army both around Heinessen and throughout the Baalat System. They were better equipped, and better supplied. If Iserlohn sought war, the empire would have to seize on this opportunity to forge a shorter path to peace and unification.
If there was any cause for concern, it was the fact that the supply, transport, and communication networks across the Neue Land were still somewhat unstable. However, since the arrest of Adrian Rubinsky, the degree of disruption had fallen sharply. Von Oberstein’s decisive action as minister of military affairs had pulled the tangled conspiracy up by the root, as even Mittermeier had to concede.
Wahlen, partly because the forces under his command were still reduced by half, was ordered to guard Heinessen. This would mean staying behind with von Oberstein, which was an unwelcome prospect in many ways, but the kaiser’s orders could not be refused. Von Oberstein had also indicated his opposition to Reinhard’s personal presence on any military expedition, but without any strong insistence, and he accepted his orders with a silent bow.
Reinhard had his attendant Emil bring in a bottle of wine and wineglasses, then went around the room himself pouring each of his generals a glass. When he was finished, he poured himself a glass of the 424 vintage as well.
“Yang Wen-li never fought unless there was a chance of victory. I respected him for that, but what, I wonder, of his successor?”
The question was not directed at his admirals, but neither was it a private musing. Suddenly, he raised his voice.
“Mittermeier!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You shall leave one day before me and prepare a suitable stage for our decisive battle with the republicans. The entire front line shall be yours to command. The left wing shall be von Eisenach’s, the right Wittenfeld’s, and Müller, you shall command the rear. Mecklinger, you are to accompany me as my chief advisor. Now—prosit!”
Reinhard lifted his glass of vivid, blood-red wine high, then drained it in a single draught and threw the glass to the floor, where it shattered. His admirals followed his lead, and soon the floor was carpeted with glittering fragments, calling to their recollection the galaxy of stars they had crushed beneath their boots.
II
Reinhard was floating in infinite space.
The bridge of the Imperial Navy flagship Brünhild formed a vast hemisphere, and its entire upper half was a display screen. Scattered by the galaxy, innumerable particles of light and darkness poured through this screen and onto Reinhard in the commander’s seat. With his whole body immersed in the stream and the interplay of light and dark synchronized with his heartbeat and breathing, he felt at one with the galaxy itself. These moments were the pinnacle of joy for him. He felt the shower of stars at the root of his soul, felt every cell in his body move in accordance with the
cosmic order. Brünhild was currently docked in the stellar region of Shiva, twelve days out from Heinessen, but in this moment, such names meant nothing. He was part of the galaxy, the galaxy was all of him, and none could rend the two asunder.
At this time, Reinhard knew that he was running a mild fever, but he had not spoken of it to his chief vassals or his personal attendant. Had they known, they would surely have locked him up in his residence overlooking the Winter Rose Garden on Heinessen until he recuperated. The very idea of himself as an invalid could find no seat in his consciousness, and was ejected from his body entirely.
“Better to fight and rue the outcome than rue not fighting at all.” Although attributed to Reinhard in later ages, this aphorism cannot be found in any reliable historical sources concerning him. Nevertheless, it appears to have made a deep impression on many people as a vivid representation of the kaiser’s Mars-like aspect.
Reinhard was just sipping a cup of coffee with cream that Emil von Salle had brought him when the tense voice of an operator filled the bridge.
“Enemy sighted! Distance 106.4 light seconds, approximately 31.92 million kilometers. Earliest red zone breach estimated at 1,880 seconds from now.”
A gigantic, unseen fisherman cast his net of worry over the Imperial Navy. Not even those who had cut swathes through countless battlefields and faced innumerable deaths had grown accustomed to the trembling, cold hand that touched their stomachs, lungs, and hearts.
Eventually the enemy fleet appeared on-screen as a clump of glowing points in the endless darkness. The computer calculated their formation and projected it holographically. After a few seconds of observation, Reinhard allowed that it was up to his standards.
“They lack experience, but there is something about them worth watching,” he said. He had begun his military career six years before Julian, and his martial accomplishments were incomparably superior in both quality and quantity. This June would mark ten years since he completed his principal education and experienced battle for the first time. How long that decade had been, and how short! As the things he had lost and the things he had gained passed before his mind’s eye, he spoke into the microphone to his troops.
“Before combat begins, a reminder for all of you. Whatever may have been the case under the Goldenbaum Dynasty, so long as the Lohengramm Dynasty endures, its kaisers will always lead the Galactic Imperial Navy from the front.”
The kaiser’s voice filled the bridge like water fills its vessel.
“I speak for myself and my son as well. No Lohengramm kaiser shall ever hide behind his men, directing wars from the safety of the palace. This I vow to you all: the Lohengramm Dynasty shall never be led by a coward.”
The moment of stillness that ensued was shattered by wild enthusiasm.
“Sieg Kaiser Reinhard! Sieg Prinz Alec!”
These cries dominated the navy’s communications circuits, beginning on Brünhild and spreading to the entire fleet. Mittermeier and the other admirals nodded, each on the bridge of his own flagship, each wearing a different expression. How proud they were that their kaiser always kept his back to his allies and his chest bared to his enemies!
And then—
“Feuer!”
“Fire!”
At 0850 on May 29, the Battle of Shiva began.
It started as a relatively orderly exchange of fire. Spears of light tore through the skin of the ancient night to bounce off the energy fields of opposing ships, creating a spectacle like a million birds of fire dancing together. Such a mysterious, phantasmagorical sight could not exist in this world except as the formal raiment of Death.
After fifteen minutes of cannon fire, the left wing of the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army fell back. As if drawn toward its opponent, the Imperial Navy’s right wing began to drift forward, but the wing’s commander leapt in to put a stop to it.
“Don’t give them what they want!” Wittenfeld said. “They can only win by luring our forces within firing range of Thor’s Hammer. Don’t be taken in by such obvious deceptions.”
The forbearance in this order may have been out of character for him, but it spread through the Black Lancers’ entire formation and slowed its advance. When the Iserlohn forces halted their retreat and launched a counterattack, the Black Lancers took the opportunity to fall back themselves.
At 1010, after several repetitions of this advance-and-retreat pattern, Attenborough made an irritated noise and gave up on trying to lure the Black Lancers into Iserlohn’s crosshairs. Pulling off his black beret with its white five-pointed star, he turned to his staff officer Lao and shrugged. “Looks like our reckless boar Wittenfeld has added a few words to his dictionary, like ‘prudence’ and ‘caution.’ What does he hope to achieve by playing the intellectual at this point?”
The imperial forces that participated in the Battle of Shiva included some 51,700 ships and 5,842,400 troops, while Iserlohn had 9,800 ships and 567,200 troops. The empire’s numerical advantage was overwhelming, and the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army was forced to field ships with skeleton crews. This was a weakness, but it was also the matrix from which a new ruse was generated.
Julian ordered Ulysses forward. He had not made an announcement of intent like Reinhard, but the youthful, flaxen-haired commander had also decided to stand at the head of his forces, accepting the danger. This was, of course, due to Yang’s influence, but at that time Julian may have had some boarlike tendencies himself.
Vast fireballs bloomed like flowers in the sector ahead.
Ulysses plowed right into the swelling tangle of energy without even slowing her pace. The ship’s frame groaned and shuddered, but finally Ulysses emerged, seemingly hurled out by the energy storm, at a different angle from the one she had entered by. Directly ahead, an unfortunate imperial cruiser was exposing her starboard flank.
Thick bolts of white-hot energy roared from Ulysses’s main cannon, tearing the cruiser apart even as she desperately began to come about. A new flash of light pierced through the iridescent explosion. Ulysses’s energy-neutralization field glittered like a thin, jewel-spangled robe, but her luck remained strong and she changed course to dodge additional cannonry as she returned fire.
Six kilometers to port of Ulysses, an allied vessel was showered in imperial fire. The vessel continued to advance as she disintegrated, becoming a cloud of particulate metal and energy in seconds, and disappearing in a flash of light. The energy of destruction and slaughter spiraled through the void in torrents, creating balls of fire and light like holes punched in a black wall.
The Iserlohn fleet’s minor advance all but bounced off the impenetrable wall of the Imperial Navy. Neither Mittermeier at the front, von Eisenach on the left, nor Wittenfeld on the right allowed their formation to falter as they continued to parry the Iserlohn fleet’s attempts to penetrate their ranks. This was not a passive strategy. Under the kaiser’s orders, they were storing up the energy that would enfold and crush the Iserlohn forces in steel and flame and rage. But Reinhard somehow could not find the right moment for a frontal attack.
“Yang Wen-li’s successor is quite skillful,” he muttered to himself. “Or is this Merkatz’s handiwork?”
The flush of crimson in his porcelain cheeks was not from excitement alone. His mildly feverish body craved water. He also felt a slight chill. His condition was now too poor to ignore, which was unpleasant in itself. His spirit and passion had not weakened in the slightest, but his concentration did appear to be flagging. Irritated, Reinhard put a white finger to his dry lips and examined the screen.
“Your Majesty. Your Majesty!”
The voice entered his awareness after several disorderly intertwinings of light and dark had imprinted themselves on his retinas. Reinhard shifted his gaze to see the faces of Senior Admiral Mecklinger, chief advisor at Imperial Headquarters, and Vice Admiral von Streit, his senior imperial aide. Their faces bore a range of un
familiar expressions: worry, anxiety, and above all, that look worn by the healthy when watching over the ill. Reinhard replied with a smile, but it was somewhat lacking in mildness and generosity, and indeed came within millimeters of a sneer.
“What is it? Do you see the shadow of some curse on my face?” he joked. “Billions might have tried to place one on me, not least Marquis von Braunschweig.”
Mecklinger acknowledged the kaiser’s unskilled attempt at humor with a solemn salute.
“My apologies. It appeared that Your Majesty was off in a different galaxy entirely…”
Reinhard sighed hotly. It was not his heart that was hot, however, but his lungs and airway.
“I see,” he said. “Before I think of other galaxies, I had best seize total control of this one. I will be relying on your assistance.”
The kaiser closed his mouth, and the businesslike atmosphere of Imperial Headquarters appeared to be restored to Brünhild’s bridge.
III
Julian Mintz may have been bolder, or perhaps brasher, than he himself realized. Once he had determined that Iserlohn’s forces would not be able to return to the fortress without a clash with the Imperial Navy, he decided to embrace the situation. His intention from the beginning had been to match wits and valor with the vast might of the empire using only the minimal forces available to him. There had never been any possibility of a perfectly prepared environment. This left him with no choice but to push ahead with the combat and search for a path to victory as it progressed.
By nature, Julian may have been more tactician than strategist, and in that sense he was not a “mini-Yang” so much as a “mini-Reinhard.” But Yang had been to him the kind of mentor that Reinhard never had, leaving no small mark on his reason as well as his sensibility. Julian had sought to become a military man, but only as Yang’s subordinate or lieutenant—never as his successor. Iserlohn’s forces were the Yang Fleet to Julian, and this somewhat biased view was quite understandable given the life he had led.
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