Murai was still in the hospital. During his recovery from the injuries sustained at Ragpur, he had come down with peritonitis. His situation had been quite serious at one point. That danger now past, he had progressed steadily from a stable condition to recovery, and expected to be discharged at the end of June. He welcomed Julian to his hospital ward, seizing his hand and eagerly asking for all kinds of news.
“You’ll be abandoning Iserlohn, then?”
“I think we will. I haven’t discussed things with the kaiser yet, but I don’t see what other bargaining chips we have.”
“It’ll be the end of an era. Brief as it was, it was one you and I and the others shared: the Iserlohn Era. For me, it was my final posting, but for you and the rest, I hope it will prove the first step toward a new age.”
As usual, Murai’s tone gave Julian the impression that he was being scolded, but he did not find it unpleasant. The older man’s unfailing preference for order had allowed the Yang Fleet’s talent and individuality to shine. He had been an irreplaceable ingredient, a kind of unblended malt whiskey in the cocktail known as “Yang Wen-li and His Gang of Outlaws.”
It never hurt to have someone like Vice Admiral Murai around, Julian thought. Though less warrior than consummate military professional, he had given his all for Iserlohn. Julian did not intend to ask him to return to active-duty service again.
On the same day, Julian met with Senior Admiral Wahlen of the Imperial Navy to discuss the treatment of the Iserlohn troops “stationed” on Heinessen.
Wahlen studied Julian’s face with interest. “I believe we met on Terra,” he said. “Unless I misremember.”
“No, your memory is quite correct.”
“Ah, now I remember!” Wahlen nodded. “It was in the Church of Terra’s headquarters.” Two years ago, Julian had traveled to Terra in the guise of an independent trader from Phezzan. There he had met Wahlen, who had been sent to eradicate the Church.
“I apologize for deceiving you on that occasion,” Julian said.
“Nothing to apologize for,” Wahlen said. “Everyone has his own situation.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. It was his left hand—the one he had lost while carrying out his mission to Terra.
“Still,” he continued, “I cannot help but think on how many companions we have both lost.”
These words put Julian in a sober mood which further deepened when he spoke to Neidhart Müller.
“I wonder, Herr Mintz, which of us is the more fortunate. You did not realize that you would lose Marshal Yang Wen-li until he was already gone. We have been given time to prepare ourselves for the loss of His Majesty. But while your sadness began from the starting line, we must first reach our goal, and then set out once more in order to fill our starved hearts. For us, the survivors…”
Müller pointedly left out the rest of the sentence, but Julian’s heart resonated in sympathy with his. Yes—for the survivors, the journey continues. It continues until the day we join our departed companions in death. Forbidden to fly, we must walk on until that day.
Julian was happy to have forged these personal connections with Müller and the other admirals of the Imperial Navy. He was aware, however, that future generations might view his actions less charitably. “A bloody handshake over tens of millions of corpses—a shameless embrace between mass murderers,” some might say.
Others might go further. “If this was how it would end, why not simply make friends from the beginning? What of the millions who died? Were they nothing but disposable tools used by their leaders to enact an entente that had been planned from the beginning?”
Criticism along these lines would simply have to be accepted. In particular, whatever abuse he received from the families of the war dead would be justified.
For Julian, however, fighting had been the only way to bring about their current situation. Had they simply accepted the authority of the Galactic Empire immediately after the fall of the Free Planets Alliance, Yang Wen-li would have been murdered, and republican democracy would have been extinguished without a trace. So Julian thought, but of course those were Julian’s values; others approached life with different ones.
One of those others was currently in his hotel room, feverishly doing sums of some sort before his reunion with Julian. Seeing this, one of his employees could not resist a curious inquiry:
“What are you doing, Captain Konev?”
“Calculating compound interest.”
Boris Konev‘s lucid answer only intrigued Marinesk, the other man, further.
“Compound interest on what?”
“The fee for all the information I’ve provided those Iserlohn fellows.”
“You’re charging a fee?!”
“Of course I am. After all, they wouldn’t feel right receiving unpaid service.”
“I wonder.”
“At the very least, I don’t feel comfortable rendering it. Unlike Dusty Attenborough, I didn’t risk my life out of ‘foppery and whim.’ ”
“I wonder.”
In order to avoid a protracted argument, Konev’s loyal and reliable administrative officer stopped just short of disagreement.
Once Konev finished his calculations, he nodded, as if he had caught a glimpse of his own future. “I’ve made up my mind, Marinesk,” he said. “If Iserlohn comes out on top in this cruel game, I’m going to go into the intelligence business. A new kind of trade for a new age.”
“Well, in any case, selling high-quality product to gain trust and expand your business never hurts,” said Marinesk, keeping his response carefully general in nature.
Konev set out for the cheap hotel where Iserlohn’s military leadership was lodged. Julian and Attenborough had gone to see Admiral Wahlen of the Imperial Navy about procedures for sending the troops who had “returned alive” back home to Heinessen, while Olivier Poplin and Kasper Rinz were playing a listless game of 3-D chess in the parlor. As soon as Poplin saw Konev’s face, he hurled some sarcasm his way.
“Well, if it isn’t the smartest man on Phezzan. How’s your compatriot Rubinsky?”
“Oh, he’s all but dead.”
“What?”
“I heard it from a source at the hospital. Rubinsky has a brain tumor. He had less than a year to live in the first place, but since the kaiser’s return to Heinessen he’s been refusing to eat. Only a matter of time now.”
“A hunger strike? That doesn’t sound like the Black Fox I know. He’d have stolen food right off his neighbor’s plate to keep himself alive.”
This was indeed the general view of Rubinsky. Whether this was just or not was a question to which they would soon receive at least a partial answer. What is certain is that on that day, Konev won two games of 3-D chess and lost two more without managing to find another opportunity to bring up the fee for the information he had provided.
IV
At 2000 on June 13, a hospital in the Inglewood district of Heinessenpolis lost a patient. That patient was Adrian Rubinsky, age forty-seven, who was suffering from brain tumors and under surveillance by the military police. Treatment by laser irradiation had proven futile in his case, but his death still came earlier than expected. It seemed he had seen no beauty in living out his remaining months strapped to a hospital bed.
Rubinsky had disconnected his life support with his own hands. By the time the nurse on duty discovered this, he had already lapsed into a coma. His brazen, utterly unruffled expression was drawn and lean by then, but is said to have still radiated a curious amount of vitality.
Rubinsky’s brain waves stopped at precisely 2040. News of his death was quickly conveyed to the Imperial Navy, where hasty military bureaucrats began putting the materials and records concerning him in order. With the kaiser gravely ill, Rubinsky’s death provoked little emotion, but in fact it had only been a prelude to something far greater in scale.
There came a rumbling. The hospital floor shook violently both horizontally and vertically. Many stumbled and fell; beds on casters rolled off; shelves toppled; bottles of medicine shattered on the floor.
It was not an earthquake. There had been a subterranean explosion. This was proven by the seismic analysis computers at the Geological Bureau, whose activities had continued unaffected by politics since the days of the Free Planets Alliance. Reports were quickly made to the Imperial Navy’s leadership, which responded by treating it not as a natural disaster but as sabotage on a grand scale. Such were the structures that had been in place in the imperial military since Oskar von Reuentahl had been secretary-general of Supreme Command.
“The alliance’s High Council Building has collapsed!”
This report was the first of many as the ground in that area caved in and buildings fell by the dozen. It was too dangerous for even the Imperial Security Corps to enter the area. And this was just the first of a series of disasters that kept the war-weary Imperial Navy rushing back and forth across the city all night.
Fires broke out across the metropolis. Explosions roared, flames leapt into the sky, and spreading clouds of smoke added density and depth to the darkness of night. It was evident that this was no natural disaster. What was more, the State Guesthouse at the National Museum of Art, where Reinhard was staying, was located near the center of the areas that were now ablaze.
The admirals and marshals of the Imperial Navy could not help thinking back on the explosions and fires on the night of March 1 the previous year. Even as they raced to extinguish the flames, render emergency aid, maintain the peace, and protect the transportation system, they took action to evacuate the kaiser.
When Wittenfeld arrived at the provisional imperial headquarters in the National Museum of Art—already threatened by the flames—he found Reinhard in his salon. He was dressed in his uniform, but lay on the couch with Emil von Selle by his side. His pale, exquisite face wore an expression that was difficult to read.
“If I must die on Heinessen, I will die here. I have no wish to scurry about like a refugee.”
It was true that this room overlooking the Winter Rose Garden was Reinhard’s favorite place on Heinessen. But that he should declare his intent to die here like a child throwing a tantrum was, perhaps, evidence that his illness had begun to undermine his psychological stability.
Wittenfeld lost his temper. “How can Your Majesty say that?!” he shouted. “Your kaiserin and the prince await your return on Phezzan! It is my duty as your subject to ensure that Your Majesty arrives home safely, and I intend to do so.”
With this declaration, Wittenfeld turned to the Black Lancers who had accompanied him and had six burly soldiers hoist the couch into the air with Reinhard still on it. They carried him like a priceless work of art out into the Winter Rose Garden, where Rear Admiral Eugen was waiting with a landcar. Eugen had secured a route out of the blaze, and Reinhard, Emil, and the rest of his entourage were transported to the safe zone.
The writings of the “Artist-Admiral” Mecklinger on this incident survive to this day:
Wittenfeld deserves the credit for the successful evacuation, but it is perhaps worth noting that his swift response was made possible only by the fact that he had utterly no interest in art, and the plastic arts in particular. Concern over losing the museum’s collection to the fire would surely have delayed his response, with grave results. We are truly fortunate that this was not the case…
It is clear that, despite his praise for Wittenfeld’s heroic rescue of the kaiser, Mecklinger could not put aside his grief over so many irreplaceable paintings and sculptures being reduced to ash. However, art was not all that burned that night.
The fires raged across Heinessenpolis for three more days. When they were finally extinguished, 30 percent of the metropolis had been lost to the flames. More than five thousand people had died or gone missing, and five hundred times as many had suffered loss or injury. At one point, when the flames reached the central spaceport, even the unflappable Mittermeier had considered ordering the vessels that had just arrived on Heinessen to take refuge in the skies once more.
Von Oberstein carried out his duties with a coldness that seemed like it might keep even the raging inferno at bay. He had the ministry’s papers removed for safekeeping in an orderly fashion, and directed the military police to arrest those who acted suspiciously during that period. The presence among those arrested of Dominique Saint-Pierre, Rubinsky’s mistress, proved the key to unraveling the entire incident. The explosion and fires on June 13 had been linked to Rubinsky’s death.
“So, this whole catastrophe was just a bloody bouquet for the kaiser from Adrian Rubinsky…?”
Shuddering, the military police began a detailed investigation into the matter.
It was eventually determined that Rubinsky had implanted a device for controlling ultralow frequency explosives in his own cranium. When he died, the cessation of his brain waves had triggered the detonation of a bomb buried deep beneath the High Council Building of the former alliance. Presumably, Rubinsky’s “suicide” had in fact been an attempt to take the kaiser with him while the latter was on Heinessen. This seemed rather un-Rubinsky-like in its futility, but it appeared that the deterioration of Rubinsky’s reason as his tumor worsened had caused him to adopt the methods not of a meticulous conspirator but a desperate terrorist. Rubinsky’s body burned up along with the hospital in Inglewood, thus determining even the manner of his funeral.
“That his challenge to the Galactic Empire should end in this way was surely not what Adrian Rubinsky wished. But I have no sympathy for him. He was not the sort of man to appreciate sympathy in any case.”
Thus spoke Dominique Saint-Pierre. She did not become agitated, she did not weep, she did not offer self-justifications; her unfailing composure left a strong impression on the military police, several of whom left records both public and private concerning her. One went as follows:
“The minister of military affairs, present at the interrogation, suddenly asked the subject where the mother of Marshal von Reuentahl’s child was. Ms. Saint-Pierre looked at the minister with mild surprise—the first she had shown—and said that she did not know. The minister did not press her further.”
The materials provided by Dominique Saint-Pierre brought to light an underground triple entente between the former Phezzan government, the Church of Terra, and Job Trünicht. It was a scheme rooted in mutual self-centeredness, with each party seeking to use the others, rather than a framework for true collaboration. Particularly after Adrian Rubinsky’s health began to deteriorate, the organic fusion between the three began to warp, change, and disintegrate, which would provide many intriguing research questions for the historians and political scientists of later generations to pursue. Ultimately, the calamity that befell Heinessenpolis came to be known as “Rubinsky’s Inferno.”
Dominique Saint-Pierre was held by the military police for two months before the decision was made not to prosecute her. Upon her release, she immediately disappeared.
V
Julian would never forget the day of his first formal audience with Kaiser Reinhard von Lohengramm. It was the afternoon of June 20, but with the season running slightly behind the calendar. The sky was somewhat cloudy, and the air was chilly. Julian wore the full dress uniform of a sublieutenant in the Free Planets Alliance Navy. This was partly because he was sure that the kaiser would be in uniform too, and partly because Yang Wen-li had been in uniform for his meeting with the kaiser as well.
Reinhard received Julian in the hotel’s inner garden. Emil von Selle guided Julian to the shade of an elm tree, where Reinhard sat at a round white table. Carefully regulating his breathing and heartbeat, Julian offered a salute. Reinhard did not stand, instead indicating that Julian should sit too. Julian doffed his black beret, bowed, and lowered himself onto the chair offered him.
“I am informed that you are nineteen years old,” Reinhard said.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am.”
“When I was nineteen, I was a full admiral of the Goldenbaum Dynasty. My surname was not yet von Lohengramm, and I thought I could do anything. With my closest friend beside me, I even thought I might conquer the entire galaxy.”
“Your Majesty has done exactly that.”
Reinhard nodded, but was not, perhaps, conscious of doing so. On the contrary, the nod seemed to pull him back to reality.
He changed the subject. “At our first encounter, you made extravagant claims. You said you had medicine for the Lohengramm Dynasty. This is your opportunity to make good on those words.”
“No, Your Majesty, at our first encounter I only saw you and sighed.”
Seeing the doubt in Reinhard’s face, Julian explained. Two years ago, he had seen the kaiser passing by in a landcar on Phezzan. Reinhard could not have been expected to remember this “encounter,” of course, so it had meaning only for Julian.
Emil placed two cups of coffee on the table, and its fragrance rose up and drifted between them like summer haze.
“And what medicine do you propose to treat the Galactic Empire with, to preserve it from mortal illness?”
This was the question Julian had come to answer. A nervous chill swept through his consciousness, but it was not an entirely unpleasant situation.
“First, Your Majesty, you must promulgate a constitution. Next, you must open a parliament. These two things will shape the vessel of constitutional governance.”
“A vessel, once formed, must then be filled. What wine do you propose to pour into this one?”
“Wine must be aged to come into its own. It will take some time before the right talent emerges to govern most effectively.”
Realizing that this was time the kaiser did not have, Julian closed his mouth. Reinhard raised his eyebrows slightly, then flicked the delicate porcelain of his coffee cup with one finger.
“I think your true aim is somewhat different. I think you wish to pour the wine of constitutional governance into the existing vessel of the Galactic Empire. This might indeed allow those ideas of democracy you prize to take control of the empire from within.”
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