As he listened, a memory slowly came together in Julian’s mind, eventually forming the final piece in the jigsaw puzzle of his quest for vengeance. Julian had seen this man before, in the Church of Terra’s headquarters. He knew his name and his rank. It was Archbishop de Villiers.
The recovery of this memory led directly to action.
“This is for Yang Wen-li,” Julian said. He fired his blaster, and the beam of light bored right through de Villiers’ chest. The young archbishop tumbled over backward as if shoved by an invisible giant. As blood spurted from his wound, falling back to the ground in a crimson rain, he glared at Julian. There was no fear in his eyes, only disappointment and anger—apparently sincerely felt—over the interruption of his eloquence. Julian had no way of knowing this, but the expression was a slightly fiercer version of the one Job Trünicht had worn as he died.
The archbishop spat out blood and curses together.
“Killing me is pointless. Someone will come to topple the Lohengramm Dynasty one day. Do not think that this is the end…”
Julian felt not a single gram of emotion at this dying threat. The archbishop must have believed that he could save his life by providing the imperial security apparatus information about the Church of Terra. But Julian was under no obligation to ensure that his underhanded calculations bore fruit.
“Make no mistake about this,” Julian said. “The future of the Lohengramm Dynasty isn’t my responsibility. I killed you to avenge Yang Wen-li. Didn’t you hear me say so?”
De Villiers was silent.
“And to avenge Rear Admiral Patrichev. And Lieutenant Commander Blumhardt. And many, many others. More than your life alone could ever make up for!”
Two more blaster bolts pierced de Villiers’ body in quick succession. He twitched on the ground like a fish. With the third bolt, he was still.
“You might be the lead actor, but don’t get too carried away,” Attenborough said to Julian wryly. “You didn’t even leave us bit parts.”
Just then, they heard disordered conversations in Imperial Standard approaching. The three of them threw their blasters away, stepped back from the unmourned corpse of de Villiers, and waited for the military police to arrive.
Meanwhile, a man who had been the subject of praise and criticism both more public and vastly greater in scale than that of de Villiers was very close to death as well.
Paul von Oberstein lay on a sofa in a room downstairs, staring at the dark red crater in his abdomen as if to criticize its irrationality. Doctors were treating his grievous wound, but when they told him that he needed immediate surgery at a military hospital, he refused to allow it.
“When someone is beyond salvation, pretending to save them is not only hypocrisy, it is a waste of skill and effort,” he said coolly.
With the room stunned into silence, he continued.
“Tell Rabenard that my will is in the third drawer of my desk. He is to follow it in every particular. And tell him to feed my dog chicken meat. The poor creature is not long for this world either, so let it die in comfort. That is all.”
Realizing that the name “Rabenard” had aroused suspicion, von Oberstein explained that this was his faithful butler, then closed his eyes, shutting out the stares of those around him. He was confirmed dead thirty seconds later. He was forty years old.
Later, a surviving member of the Church of Terra would confess that he had thrown the explosive into the room where von Oberstein was in the mistaken belief that this was the kaiser’s sickroom. The minister had died in the kaiser’s place, but whether this was intentional self-sacrifice or simply a miscalculation was unknown. Those who knew him were divided into two camps on the matter, with neither perfectly confident in their position.
In any case, few remained interested in von Oberstein’s demise for long, as the kaiser remained at death’s door. This was, perhaps, just what von Oberstein himself would have preferred—to remain until death in Reinhard’s shadow.
IV
It was 2215. Feeling the storm ease, people glanced out of windows. The wind died off, the rain stopped, and stars glittered across the deep indigo span of the strangely clear sky. The center of the low pressure system was passing directly over the temporary palace.
With the weather momentarily improved and the terrorists eliminated, Evangeline Mittermeier finally arrived with her husband at the palace. Their landcar had been immobilized by flooding and, since the Gale Wolf was not willing to force his wife and child to trudge through the driving rain, they had all waited helplessly in the vehicle for a break in the storm.
“Thank you so much for coming, Frau Mittermeier. This way, please.”
Evangeline was shown into the kaiser’s room. Count von Mariendorf and various other officials and generals were there already, and motes of sorrow eddied about the grand, high-ceilinged room. Evangeline stood, Felix in her arms, until her husband took her by the hand and led her to the kaiser’s bedside.
“Thank you for coming, Frau Mittermeier,” Reinhard said, sitting up in bed. “I would like to introduce my son, Alexander Siegfried, to his first friend—your son. An empire needs a strong ruler, but I want to leave my boy one friend to be his equal. May I ask you to indulge me in this whim?”
The blond infant in Kaiserin Hilda’s arms squirmed. Instead of crying, however, he opened his blue eyes wide and stared at the Mittermeier family.
“Felix,” Mittermeier said quietly, “pledge your fealty to Prinz Alec—I mean, to His Majesty Kaiser Alec.”
A peculiar scene, perhaps, but no one laughed. The fourteen-month-old toddler and the two-month-old infant stared at each other as if in wonderment. Then Felix reached out with one tiny hand and took the even tinier hand of Alexander Siegfried.
Friendship comes in many forms. It begins in many ways, is sustained in many ways, and ends in many ways. What manner of friendship would arise between Alexander Siegfried von Lohengramm and Felix Mittermeier? Would they become like Reinhard and Siegfried, or perhaps like von Reuentahl and Mittermeier? Mittermeier could not help wondering.
Felix held the infant prince’s hand tightly. He smiled, perhaps pleased with his new toy. When his father, fearing discourtesy, tried to pull him away, Felix frowned and began to cry, and the young prince followed his example.
The lively commotion lasted only twenty seconds, after which Reinhard summoned all his strength to smile.
“You are a good boy, Felix. I hope you will always remain a good friend to the prince.”
At times like this, a parent’s words become generic, and Reinhard’s were no exception. He let his head settle back onto his pillow and surveyed the assembled crowd. A hint of suspicion crossed his face.
“I do not see Marshal von Oberstein. Where is he?”
The officers and admirals exchanged troubled glances, but Hilda calmly mopped her husband’s brow as she answered, “The minister is absent on business that could not be postponed, Your Majesty.”
“I see. That man always has a valid reason for what he does.”
The response was somewhere between acceptance and sarcasm. Reinhard raised his hand and placed his hand over Hilda’s own, still holding the towel.
“Kaiserin, you will rule the galaxy more wisely than I ever could. If you wish to move to a constitutional system, so be it. So long as the galaxy is always ruled by the mightiest and wisest among the living, all will be well. If Alexander Siegfried lacks that might, there is no need to maintain the Lohengramm Dynasty. Manage everything as you see fit—that is all I ask of you…”
It took Reinhard some time to finish this speech through high fever and labored breathing. When he did, he lowered his hand as if with exhaustion, closed his eyes, and slipped into unconsciousness. At 2310, his lips moved as if thirsty, and Hilda pressed a sponge soaked in water and white wine to them. He drank the liquid, and eventually opened his eyes slightly an
d whispered to her. Unless, perhaps, he mistook her for someone else.
“When the galaxy is mine…we shall all…”
He trailed off. His eyelids fell once more. Hilda waited. But his eyes did not open again, and his lips did not move.
It was 2329, July 26, SE 801, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar. Reinhard von Lohengramm died aged 25. His brief reign had lasted less than two years.
The silence was so total that the air itself seemed to have thrown aside its function of transmitting sound. This silence was finally broken by the soft crying of Alexander Siegfried, second Kaiser of the Lohengramm Dynasty. Of the two women at the deceased’s bedside, one rose to her feet. Hilda von Lohengramm now stood at the pinnacle of the Galactic Empire as dowager empress and regent. Count von Mariendorf, Mittermeier, and the others stood silently as her quiet voice filled the room.
“The kaiser did not die of illness. He passed away having fully used his allotted span. He was not felled by malady. Remember this, please, all of you.”
Hilda bowed her head deeply, and the first tear rolled down her fair cheek. The remaining woman at the bedside of the deceased let out a low sob.
…Thus did Welsede become a sacred tomb.
—Ernest Mecklinger
V
“A star just fell, Karin.”
Julian Mintz’s voice trembled as if he were gazing into the stellar abyss. Karin took his arm without a word. She felt as if the abyss had opened beneath her very feet, a hundred billion stars threatening to swallow her up. Julian’s hair and uniform were still damp, but this did not bother her.
Before them stood the kaiser’s emissary Neidhart Müller, who had moments earlier made his report to the representatives of the empire’s erstwhile enemy.
His Majesty Kaiser Reinhard has just passed away. His Majesty’s oldest son, Prinz Alec, will accede to the throne after the state funeral.
The words had come with an almost uncontrollable grief. Julian felt it deeply. He had known similar grief one year earlier.
“Heinessen and the rest of the Baalat system’s right to self-governance will be recognized, on the honor of His Majesty and the imperial administration. As for the return of Iserlohn Fortress to the Imperial Navy…”
“Please, don’t be concerned. In the name of democracy, the Iserlohn Republic will keep the promises it made to the kaiser.”
Julian held his voice steady, looking directly into Müller’s sand-colored eyes, then continued:
“Despite our philosophical and professional differences, as a fellow survivor of this age, please accept my sincere condolences on your loss, too. I am sure Yang Wen-li would feel the same.”
“Thank you. I will convey your kind words to Her Majesty.”
Müller bowed deeply, requested Julian’s presence at the funeral, and then turned and left.
When the door to the drawing room closed, Karin heaved a deep sigh and ran her hand through her hair. Die, kaiser! she had cried when in battle against Kaiser Reinhard’s forces. The rallying cry for democracy drew its power precisely from how brightly the kaiser’s vitality had shined. As of now, it was useless.
Karin glanced at Julian. “So, the Baalat system will remain in democratic hands, at least,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It isn’t much, when you think about it.”
“No,” Julian said with the hint of a smile. “It isn’t much at all.”
It had taken over five hundred years and hundreds of billions of lives to achieve that “not much.” If the citizenry had not grown tired of politics in the last days of the Galactic Federation—if they had realized how dangerous it was to grant one human being unlimited power—if they had learned from history how many would suffer under a political system that prioritized the authority of the state over the rights of its citizens—then, perhaps, humanity could have realized a more balanced and harmonious system more quickly, with fewer sacrificed in the process. “What’re politics to us?”—The very question proclaimed that its askers would be deprived of their rights. Politics always gets its revenge on those who scorn it. Anyone with the slightest imagination should understand as much.
“Julian, are you really not going to become a political leader? Not even a representative of the interim government on Heinessen?”
“It wasn’t on my to-do list, no.”
“What was, then?”
“Join the military. Battle the autocratic empire. After that…”
“After that?”
Julian didn’t reply to Karin’s question directly.
I want to become a historian, record the deeds of Yang Wen-li, and one day leave my memories of these white-hot past few years to future generations. This was certainly Yang Wen-li’s influence, but at the same time, it may have been the awakening of his own consciousness, as an individual who had lived through this age and known so many key figures in its history. Julian had come to believe that it was the responsibility and duty of the living to give those yet unborn more opportunities for judgment and reflection.
Olivier Poplin approached the two, walking as if his legs were too long for him.
“Julian, when will you be leaving Phezzan?”
“I’m not sure yet, but with all that I have to get done, I suppose about two weeks from now.”
“That’ll be when we say goodbye, then.”
“Commander Poplin!”
“I’m staying on Phezzan. No, don’t say a word, Julian, I’ve made my decision. And I doubt I’ll stay here forever, in any case.”
Julian said nothing. Neither did Karin. The two of them understood. In body and soul, Poplin wanted to part from their organization, and walk the lonely path of freedom. They could not hold him back. They must not. For Poplin, this was perhaps the only way he could part ways with this age.
Finally, Julian replied, with all the goodwill he could muster, “All right. We’ll hold the biggest farewell party we can.”
At this, Poplin reached out with both arms and hugged the two of them at once. The dancing sunlight in his green eyes illuminated their present and their future.
“No dying early, all right? Let’s meet up again a few decades from now when we’re old, to badmouth everyone who abandoned us by dying first.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Julian said, meaning it sincerely. What fine companions I’ve shared my life with so far, he thought. Poplin released the two of them, winked, and then strolled off with his hands in his pockets. As they watched him go, Karin tightened her grip on Julian’s arm. I’ll be with you forever—the promise was conveyed not via waves of sound but through his body and into his heart.
After attending the kaiser’s funeral, he would go back to Heinessen and return Iserlohn Fortress to the Imperial Navy. Then he would rendezvous with Frederica, the Caselnes family, Captain Bagdash and others, and head for Heinessen again to bury Yang Wen-li and everyone else. And then…
And then would begin a long, long era of building and conservation. They would continue to negotiate with the mighty Galactic Empire outside the Baalat system, and cultivate a system of self-governance and self-determination within it. The winter would be long, and there was no guarantee that spring would ever come.
And yet Julian and his companions chose democracy anyway. Refusing to grant absolute power even to a genius like Reinhard von Lohengramm, the kind seen only once every few centuries, a group of unremarkable individuals would feel their way forward through trial and error, searching for better ways to produce better outcomes. That was the Long March that Ahle Heinessen had chosen, and Yang Wen-li had inherited.
“Well, I’d better talk to Admiral Attenborough. We have a lot to plan,” Julian said, speaking aloud the name of one of the priceless friends still remaining to him.
Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier stepped out into the provisional palace’s garden with Felix in his arms.
The storm was over at last, but an unseasonal coolness still filled the summer air and froze the starlight. When dawn came, the kaiser’s death would be announced to the public and preparations for the state funeral would begin. Presumably, von Oberstein would need a funeral too. Things would be busy. But that was for the best. Without vast quantities of work to ground him, Mittermeier was not sure he could bear the grief and sense of loss that ate away at his heart.
Suddenly, the Gale Wolf heard a voice calling to him from right beside his ear.
“Vater…”
As Mittermeier stood, slightly stunned, his son impatiently seized his honey-colored hair and spoke again.
“Vater!”
On the night on which Mittermeier had lost the great ruler he cherished and respected, he now experienced a surprise that brought him very near to joy. Hard as it was to imagine, his face even showed something like a smile. It seemed to him that the kaiser’s spirit had entered the heart of his infant son and inspired him to speak his first word. Only a fantasy, of course, but Mittermeier wanted to believe it. He hoisted his son onto his shoulders and looked up at the night sky.
“Do you see them, Felix? All those stars…”
Every one of those stars had lived for billions—no, tens of billions of years. They had shone since long before the birth of humanity, and would shine on long after humanity’s demise. Seen from the stars, a human life was the merest twinkle. This had been known since ancient times. But it was humans, and not stars, who were aware of this—who knew that while stars were eternal, their own lives were fleeting.
Will you someday feel this too, my son? These frozen eons and moments of combustion—and which of those two the people will value more? The way a shooting star that shines only for a moment can imprint its course on the galactic abyss and a human’s memory?
One day, you too will look up at the stars like this. You will dream of what lies beyond them, and burn with the desire to conquer it, to throw yourself into that dazzling brilliance. When that day comes, will you set out alone? Will you take your father with you? Or will you go with Alexander Siegfried, to whom you swore fealty at the age of one?
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