There was an awkward side to Reinhard that was stubborn almost beyond redemption. He had proposed to the countess; this was unshakable fact. Whatever her answer might turn out to be, it would show a lack of integrity to have relations with other women while waiting for it. Of course, he had always viewed such affairs as more trouble than they were worth in the first place, so it may be objected that this talk of integrity was simply a way of justifying his existing position.
“Some insist that, because the kaiser was attractive, he must—should—have been a playboy,” Ernest Mecklinger once observed. “How they explain the existence of ugly yet libertine men, I cannot say.” A cynical view, but it was true that few would have guessed the poverty of Reinhard’s romantic life from his evident beauty and power.
In any case, Reinhard made no attempt to pluck any other blooms from the gardens available to him.
In a development that drew a rueful but sympathetic smile from Count von Mariendorf, it eventually became common for Reinhard to go out after completing his official duties for the day. He discovered the worlds of theater, music, and art, in which he had never before shown any interest. Solitude, it seemed, he now felt as a burden.
The kaiser’s new interests were greeted with less enthusiasm by the admirals he pressed into service as his companions, although their complaints remained private. Senior Admiral Wittenfeld was dragged to a classical ballet performance in perhaps the most egregious example of suboptimal deployment. Lutz found Wittenfeld’s plight hilarious, but was soon ordered to attend a poetry recital himself, from which he returned in despair. Wahlen waited with dread for his turn to come around, giving serious thought to how he might trade places with Mecklinger, the “Artist-Admiral,” who was posted to the worlds of the old empire and therefore unavailable.
“His Majesty is himself a masterpiece. Why should he take an interest in more forced expressions of the artistic impulse at all? The only relationship the powerful should have with the world of art is as sources of funding. Their presence in the audience is superfluous and their opinions unnecessary. Such things only breed charlatans, who flatter the tastes of the powerful while claiming to be great masters.”
This was Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier’s critique, although this disinterested perspective was perhaps only possible because his duties at the head of the Imperial Space Armada excused him from the kaiser’s outings.
“If you know so much about the art world, by all means accompany His Majesty in our place,” lamented Müller. “This evening I am to endure some kind of avant-garde concert I have no hope of understanding. Even a war or revolt would be preferable.”
This was not, of course, meant as a prophecy. But, in days to come, Müller would recall these words with sadness.
II
As Reinhard applied himself to the tasks of governance, brooded over the uncharted territory he faced in his private life, and swept his admiralty up into an impromptu “Autumn of Art,” something was burgeoning deep in the soils of conspiracy.
The rootstalks in question had snaked across the galaxy to reach the bowels of Phezzan. That they had not taken a direct route was unsurprising. This was no single root; it was a tangle that had reached toward the same sun. And the eerie growth was greedy for nourishment.
Junior Minister of the Interior and Domestic Safety Security Bureau Chief Heidrich Lang and former landesherr of Phezzan Adrian Rubinsky were engaged in a discussion. Had Oskar von Reuentahl seen the pair, he would have been gripped by the urge to shoot them on the spot, but their meeting was not a public affair. The venue was a room in one of Rubinsky’s many safe houses in which the deaths of several people had been decided in the past. The lighting in the room shone through crystal glass, illuminating key tones of green like an artificial forest. The two conspirators differed in appearance and age, but they did share one thing: mutual contempt. Although Rubinsky was, perhaps, more aware of this than Lang.
Lang mopped his brow with a handkerchief. This was one of the many ways he concealed his expression from those he spoke to. Not allowing his sneer to reach the surface, Rubinsky continued to explain.
“If the kaiser does not visit the Neue Land, it will be difficult to ensure that Marshal von Reuentahl launches his revolt. As I am sure that you appreciate, minister, we must bait the marshal with an opportunity so inviting that it clouds his reason.”
“That may be so, but is it wise to prepare such advantageous circumstances for the man?” Lang replied. “What if—what if, you understand—his revolt succeeds?” He could not help feeling apprehensive about this prospect, which must be prevented at all costs. Lang was not noted for objective self-assessment, but even he knew that if von Reuentahl carried off a regicide and seized control of the galaxy, Lang would be the first to be purged. It would be both tragedy and farce.
“No need to worry,” Rubinsky said. “The assassination attempt on the kaiser will only be for show. A performance. Everything has been precisely calibrated to ensure that he will escape unscathed and determined to strike von Reuentahl.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Would you like it in writing?”
Lang replied with pointed silence.
His aim was to devour the sumptuous dish that was the Galactic Empire, with his loathing of von Reuentahl as knife and his greed for power as fork. In an age where military force reigned supreme, achieving this goal would not be possible without borrowing the authority and power of the Kaiser.
If Reinhard became suspicious of his loyal admirals and made his enlightened rule a reign of terror, Lang would wield absolute power as the kaiser’s special prosecutor—and executioner. Rebellion by von Reuentahl would be an unmissable opportunity to bring about this state of affairs.
After all, how could Reinhard maintain his faith in Mittermeier and the others after a rebellion, even if it were put down? Mittermeier was von Reuentahl’s closest friend, and would be the greatest tactician alive once he was dead. If Lang could somehow maneuver Mittermeier and von Oberstein into mutual annihilation, nothing would remain to bar him from power. Hildegard von Mariendorf was just a girl, with no power of her own. Her father was a sincere but talentless nonentity. And, away from the battlefield, the senior officers from Müller on down worried him no more than a box of toy soldiers.
But there were certain things that Lang did not realize.
First, that his plan, or rather fantasy, had been conjured up and nurtured within his psyche by Rubinsky’s subtle machinations. Second, that he was to Rubinsky nothing but a tool, useful enough in his way but cheap, vulgar, and entirely disposable. Rubinsky had taken care not to allow Lang’s attention to alight on these facts.
If anyone was aware of them, it was not Lang but the Galactic Empire’s minister of military affairs, Marshal Paul von Oberstein. Certainly von Oberstein’s artificial eyes, with its onboard optical computers, saw far more than Lang did. Equally certain, however, was that even von Oberstein did not understand everything he saw. If Lang was a tool Rubinsky used to advance his intrigues, he was also a tool von Oberstein used for political purposes. Rubinsky, of course, considered both of them part of his tool kit. Van Oberstein was his superior and the benefactor who had appointed him to his current position, although this was not widely known. But van Oberstein’s most generous act as Rubinsky’s benefactor was yet to come—when he would be the sacrifice that ensured his protégé’s success.
Both Rubinsky and Lang wanted von Reuentahl’s rebellion to take place, but their motivations and goals were entirely different. Where Lang expected a controlled fire, extinguished according to plan, Rubinsky hoped to spark an all-encompassing inferno. Rubinsky was aware of this gap between them, but Lang was not. He had his suspicions, but had failed to confirm them. He was no more a match for Rubinsky than he was for von Oberstein. Rubinsky could at least sneer at himself in the mirror. For Lang, this was impossible.
In the end, Lang would go down in history as a dishonorable and unfaithful minister to the
Lohengramm Dynasty. He was not devoid of redeeming qualities—at home, he was a good husband and a caring father—but these were not nearly sufficient for him to avoid criticism of his acts as a public figure.
It was undoubtedly the Age of Ambition that some later labelled it. Kaiser Reinhard himself, born to a poor household that was noble in name only, had risen to become an admiral of the old dynasty while still a teenager, and been crowned emperor in his early twenties.
For the past five centuries, humanity had been ruled by the descendants of Rudolf von Goldenbaum—some enlightened, some less so; some direct descendants, others members of branch lines. Only two men in history had defeated the despotism of that bloodline: Ahle Heinessen and Reinhard von Lohengramm. Their methods and beliefs had differed, but neither man’s name would ever be erased from history.
One original can inspire a legion of imitators. Even Reinhard’s goal of ruling a unified galaxy had been inspired by Kaiser Rudolf’s achievements. Of course, Reinhard aimed not to imitate Rudolf but to exceed him, and by the age of twenty-five he had largely succeeded.
The scale of Reinhard’s achievements filled the multitudes with awe. Lang was surely among their number, but unlike them he did not view the young, handsome conqueror as infallible or holy. An infallible Reinhard would not have let Kircheis die, or himself be defeated by Yang Wen-li.
Lang intended to make Reinhard his puppet. The first step was to rob him of his faithful and capable retainers, isolating him amid suspicion and distrust. As inexorably as the kaiser’s fortunes sank, Lang’s own would rise.
III
It was late August when bizarre rumors began to circulate on Phezzan, but in September these underground streams bubbled to the surface and an unceasing flow of ominous stories reached the ears even of imperial officials.
“Governor-General von Reuentahl plans to betray the kaiser.”
“Von Reuentahl knows he’s no match for the kaiser in battle, so he’s going to invite him to Heinessen on the pretext of inspecting the Neue Land and assassinate him on the way.”
“After assassinating the kaiser, von Reuentahl will produce the missing Erwin Josef II and declare the restoration of the Goldenbaum Dynasty—but he’ll act as regent, so that he can stay in control of the government and military. And from what I hear, not long after that he plans to crown himself kaiser.”
“No, he’s not going to assassinate Kaiser Reinhard. He’s just going to force the kaiser to write a statement of abdication and retire from public life, so that von Reuentahl can take his place.”
“In any case, the kaiser’s so afraid of von Reuentahl that he can’t even leave Phezzan.”
“I hear von Reuentahl’s going to send the kaiser an invitation to Heinessen, but of course the kaiser will never accept it.”
“If anything, he’ll probably recall von Reuentahl to Phezzan for questioning.”
Rumors of rebellion had swirled around von Reuentahl before, in late winter of the same year, but he and Reinhard had held a public dialog to ensure that they ended as just that—rumors. But would an amicable resolution be possible this time? None had the confidence to make such a prediction.
Baron Wenzel von Hassellbag, Reinhard’s grand chamberlain, was the younger brother-in-law of Viscountess Schafhausen, a friend of Reinhard’s elder sister the Archduchess von Grünewald. Von Hassellbag had inherited his barony after being adopted into the family. He was not noted for his shrewdness, but he was warm and sincere and devoid of ambition, which perfectly qualified him for his position. As grand chamberlain, he was expected not only to assist the kaiser in the realm of governance, but also to ensure that His Majesty’s private life went smoothly—although Reinhard lived so plainly that his bodyguard Emil von Salle could usually handle such matters alone.
It was von Hassellbag who brought the rumors racing around Phezzan to the kaiser’s attention. It was not a slip of the tongue. A missive arrived from von Reuentahl requesting that Reinhard visit the planet Heinessen, and von Hassellbag noticed it on the table in the library at Reinhard’s new residence and brought it to the kaiser personally. Noticing the uneasy expression on his grand chamberlain’s face, Reinhard forced him to explain. Or, at least, this is how von Hassellbag described it in the memoirs he wrote in his twilight years.
The following day—September 10, to be precise—Reinhard convened a meeting of his top navy officials at Imperial Headquarters. They arrived to find him already in a dark mood, with unseen storm clouds gathered at his brow. He reported the invitation from von Reuentahl and declared his intention to accept it.
His eyes fell on the minister of military affairs, Marshal von Oberstein, who stepped half a pace forward. “Your Majesty is, I trust, aware of the peculiar rumors circulating at court and among the people. Until it can be ascertained what truth, if any, lies behind them, would it not be better to remain on Phezzan?”
“Idiotic drivel!” Reinhard was visibly enraged, his ice-blue eyes blazing like flame through sapphire. “Von Reuentahl would never harm me. I do not doubt him. Nor do I fear him. Do you mean to drive a wedge between me and a trusted retainer for the sake of these preposterous lies?”
Von Oberstein’s cybernetic eyes gleamed.
“In that case, I hope that Your Majesty will at least consider traveling with a fleet of ships.”
“And invite further uncertainty and fear? Why should an emperor need a fleet of ships to travel within his own empire? If these useless comments are the best you can offer, keep them to yourself.”
Reinhard calmed his breathing, then fixed his gaze on another attendee.
“Senior Admiral Müller.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You are hereby appointed chief of my retinue. Begin the preparations for our departure.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Müller bowed his sandy-haired head slightly.
There was a brief silence, and then another man opened his mouth to speak: Senior Admiral Kornelias Lutz.
“Your Majesty, might I have permission to join your retinue? My younger sister is married to a civilian officer in the Neue Land governorate, and I have not seen her in some time. This would give me the opportunity to do so.”
With this attack from the flank, Lutz successfully broke through the wall of Reinhard’s hitherto impregnable fortress. One reason for his success was the fact that the official change of capital and accompanying military restructuring had rendered his temporary post as fleet commander for the Phezzan region somewhat moot. Until he received a new assignment, Lutz was effectively without duties, only active as a counselor at Imperial Headquarters and the Ministry of Defense. Under the circumstances, his request to accompany Reinhard on his journey was a reasonable one.
Later, after they had left the kaiser’s presence, Wittenfeld lamented, “What a disappointment! Why doesn’t His Majesty take me with him?”
Lutz flashed him a grin, a hint of purple in his blue eyes. “I’m sure His Majesty would take you if he actually expected to grapple with Marshal von Reuentahl,” he said. “Let’s hope this trip is a peaceful one.”
More mystifying to Lutz and his fellow admirals was the fact that Countess Hildegard von Mariendorf, usually a permanent fixture by the kaiser’s side, would be remaining behind.
“Fräulein von Mariendorf has not been entirely well of late. Exposure to warp would be inadvisable in her weakened state.”
This was the explanation offered by the kaiser himself, and so his admirals accepted it. Now that they thought about it, the sagacious countess had not been called to today’s meeting either. So that was the reason for her recent string of absences, they thought.
In truth, however, Reinhard had another, far more personal reason for not taking her with him. More than ten days had passed since their night together, and although Hilda had resumed her duties at headquarters, she had yet to give him an answer to his proposal.
She had never suffered from such indecision before, but every time she considered it, she found he
rself miserably standing before the same question, unable to find the answer: Would marrying her bring Reinhard happiness?
Reinhard summoned her to his office to inform her of his decision.
“Fräulein,” he said, adopting a crisply businesslike manner. “At the end of this month, I will depart for the Neue Land.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. The news had reached me.”
“You are to remain on Phezzan.”
A pause. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I would like you to use this time to decide on your answer to the matter I raised the other day.” The young kaiser evaded the countess’s gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on her smoky blond hair instead. “I refer to my proposal of marriage, naturally.”
This unnecessary clarification was arguably an example of Reinhard’s immaturity. But it also showed his sincerity, and in any case Hilda was just glad he had given her until his return. A more impatient man, a man who put himself above others in all things, might have demanded her answer before he left. Reinhard was, after all, an absolute ruler. He could have done anything he pleased, without regard for Hilda’s will at all. The way he had chosen to act caused the balance of Hilda’s heart to tilt more deeply in a certain direction.
As an administrator, Hilda had been as efficient as ever since returning to imperial headquarters, but her creative thinking had lost some of its brilliance. Her ability to concentrate and maintain her mental energy had not, it seemed, entirely recovered its former level.
Hilda was aware of this, and so could not argue with Reinhard’s decision to leave her behind. She had also heard the rumors about von Reuentahl, of course, but considered them an uninspired rehash of the nonsense of spring. This conclusion itself might constitute evidence of her temporarily weakened intellect and will. On the other hand, she also trusted Müller and the others in Reinhard’s retinue.
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