However, even if judgment were passed against both men, Hilda did not believe that von Reuentahl would call off his revolt. Ultimately, she suspected, he sought a position higher than either of them currently held.
The existence of sycophants and petty tyrants like Lang was an unavoidable flaw in the autocratic state. Throughout history, even the greatest rulers and wisest kings had placed such malefactors in positions of authority, time and again. Because they were not worthy of the ruler’s attention, they were underestimated and ignored until they grew into a severe threat to their fellow subjects. The animus against Lang among Reinhard’s court could become sympathy and empathy with von Reuentahl’s betrayal. Hilda had to make Reinhard see this much at least.
She turned her gaze on the ice-blue suns that smoldered in his eyes, and opened lips as beautiful as his own to speak.
“If I may, Your Majesty—Minister von Oberstein aside, Lang’s crimes against the state, and against you personally, far outweigh any good he might do. Surely Your Majesty is aware of the enmity his deeds and character attract?”
Reinhard, his fury seemingly dampened, put a hand to his shapely chin and thought. “As you say, fräulein, I am well aware that Lang and men like him are of little worth,” he said. “But a single mouse helping himself to the storehouse grain does little real damage. The Galactic Empire must be large enough to tolerate even irritations like this.”
These were not necessarily Reinhard’s true feelings on the matter. Reinhard had a peculiar complex about being seen as a just ruler. Since ancient times, the sages had agreed that a king must be tolerant and broad-minded enough to accept even the most worthless wretch. Aware of this idea, Reinhard could not banish Lang, who had after all not broken the law or committed lèse-majesté. Beyond that, Lang simply did not command Reinhard’s attention. The kaiser might admire a winter rose, but fail to notice the pests that troubled it.
Lang was well aware that his life was lived on these terms. In Reinhard’s presence, he showed scrupulous deference; in his position at the ministry, he worked diligently to carry out the imperial will. Indeed, this was the reason for his sycophancy. On this point he differed radically from von Oberstein, who spoke his mind with almost callous frankness, even when this meant contradicting Reinhard directly.
Privately, Hilda wanted to urge Reinhard to remove von Oberstein from his position as well. But precisely because she knew how different he was from Lang, she could not take advantage of her special bond with Reinhard to criticize the minister.
“There are any number of capable officials, not to mention those not currently in official service, who could take Junior Minister Lang’s place,” she said. “Dismissing him would immediately eliminate one of Marshal von Reuentahl’s excuses for rebellion. The other admirals will surely accept the measure.”
Reinhard’s golden hair was almost imperceptibly ruffled by the air in the room. “But Lang has committed no crime,” he said. “I cannot punish him simply for being despised.”
“No, Your Majesty, his crimes are very real. Please consider this report.”
The document she held out had been compiled by Senior Admiral Kessler in his capacity as military police commissioner. Its topic was Nicolas Boltec, former acting secretary-general of Phezzan, and his suspicious death after being arrested and imprisoned for his alleged role in the explosion that killed Secretary of Work Bruno von Silberberg. Specifically, the document showed that the accusations against Boltec had been falsely concocted—by Lang.
“Did you commission this report, fräulein?” Reinhard asked.
“No, Your Majesty. Before his death, Marshal Lutz took note of Lang’s domineering ways and, recognized the danger he posed to the empire, requested that Admiral Kessler investigate him.”
“Lutz…I see.”
A shadow passed over Reinhard’s eyes. He began to read. As he turned the pages, his fair cheeks turned crimson, like the glow of the evening sun appearing in virgin snow. When he finished the report, he sighed deeply. His monologue came after a short, almost mystical silence.
“Lutz never gave up on me, I see. And then, in the end, he cast away his life to save my own.”
His fair fingers went from his chin to his brow. Their slight trembling expressed without words what lay in his heart.
“I was a fool. To think that I protected the rights of that nullity while capable, loyal retainers were left dissatisfied and discontent.”
He bit his lip with pearl-white teeth.
“In von Reuentahl’s case, it is already too late. But we can still ensure that Lutz’s loyalty was not in vain. Will that suffice, do you think, fräulein?”
Hilda rose from the sofa and saluted. In that moment, she was not entirely free of the desire to be kissed and embraced, but Reinhard’s expression of faith in her felt like an even greater reward.
V
As she left Reinhard’s room, Hilda felt a sudden nausea rise within her. Her hand went hand first to her chest and then covered her mouth as she ran into the restroom, feeling the curious stares of the soldiers who saluted her as she passed.
She leaned over the white porcelain basin and vomited. After washing the result down the sink, she cleansed her mouth with a cup of water. The physical urgency had passed, but mental agitation had taken its place.
Surely not—not after just one night… But what else could it be?
Then she remembered that her menses had been absent the previous month. Her mouth dropped open in shock. It had been two months since her night with Reinhard—not too early for the first signs of morning sickness. She wanted to believe that it was just mild food poisoning, but she had been so anxious and eager to see Reinhard safely back today that her only breakfast had been a glass of milk. Even if that had not been the case, her reason would have rejected such escapism.
Hilda was at a loss. Becoming a mother, Reinhard becoming a father—these were far beyond the horizon of her imaginative powers. But she did make one decision: to keep this from Reinhard for the time being.
Bringing her breathing and facial expression under control, she left the bathroom at an even pace and walked back to her office.
Not far from this reunion, a separation was at hand. Evangeline Mittermeier did not like to think it might be permanent, but after just two months with her husband following a year of living apart, they were to be dragged from each other again.
“I won’t be coming home for a while,” Mittermeier said. It was not the first time this apologetic tone had been heard in their household. He was not just a warrior but the commander of a great navy, and it was not rare for him to lead expeditions across hundreds, even thousands of light years.
But the circumstances this time were unique. A simple “Be careful” would not convey her feelings, and so she spoke to her husband in the living room of the new residence they had just settled into.
“Wolf, I have nothing but affection and respect for Marshal von Reuentahl. He is a close friend of yours, after all. But if he becomes your enemy, then I can despise him unconditionally.”
Her emotions were too high to say any more.
Wolfgang Mittermeier felt his wife’s small hands placed lightly on his cheeks. His grey eyes gazed into her violet ones, which brimmed with tears.
“Come back safely, Wolf,” Evangeline said. “If you do, I promise to cook bouillon fondue for you every day. Your favorite.”
“Make it once a week,” Mittermeier said. “I don’t want to get fat.” His body was trim and muscular, without a hint of obesity, and this awkward joke failed to make his wife laugh. Removing her hands from his cheeks, he gave her a kiss that was rather more adroit than any Yang Wen-li might have ever been able to manage.
“There’s no need to worry, Eva,” he said, even as he considered the possibility that she might have more than sufficient reason to loathe von Reuentahl before long. He embraced her girlish form. “After all, it’s not even certain there’ll be combat. His Majesty has taken Lang into custody
. Von Reuentahl might be satisfied with that.”
It seemed that deception was sometimes unavoidable in love. But the next request he made of his wife was sincere to the molecular level.
“So if you do pray, I hope you’ll pray that all this will end without any fighting. That’s all I want, Eva.”
November 14, year 2 of the New Imperial Calendar.
The sectors around Schattenberg were filled with ships under Mittermeier’s command. There were 42,770 in all, with 4,608,900 troops aboard. The two senior admirals under Mittermeier were Wittenfeld and Wahlen.
I
MARSHAL WOLFGANG MITTERMEIER, commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada, invited senior admirals Wahlen and Wittenfeld to a strategy meeting aboard Beowulf, his flagship. Their basic course of action, of course, was already decided. They had been dispatched to bring von Reuentahl to heel; their only option was to seize the initiative and strike a single, decisive blow before their enemy (an unpleasant term, under the circumstances) could develop his strategy. Von Reuentahl’s forces were already pushing against their physical and mental limits. An initial victory would decide the conflict’s final resolution.
The meeting was concluded in short order and coffee brought in. Wittenfeld chose that moment to raise an important if somewhat tactlessly put question: “Strategic matters aside, what has made von Reuentahl so disgruntled with the kaiser that he would commit such an outrag—pardon me—engage in such reckless behavior?”
Wahlen sent Wittenfeld a sharp glance and a low rebuke. Given the friendship between von Reuentahl and their commander in chief, the latter’s pain was all too easy to imagine. Wittenfeld’s line of questioning seemed less ruthless than simply insensitive.
“Thank you, Admiral Wahlen, but your solicitude is unnecessary,” said Mittermeier. “My friendship with Marshal von Reuentahl is ultimately a private matter, and one which my official duties far outweigh.”
Those who did not know Mittermeier personally could never have guessed at the depth of emotion in every word of this mild response. Wahlen was so affected that he could not even bear to look Mittermeier in the eye.
“That’s right, Admiral Wahlen,” said Wittenfeld. “Our commander in chief is doing his duty. To tiptoe around what we imagine he might feel privately would be frankly insolent, in my opinion.”
The force of this assertion surprised Wahlen, but he realized that his fierce, orange-haired colleague was, in his own way, just as concerned about their commander as he was. This did not go unnoticed by Mittermeier, either, and something just short of a wry smile appeared on his face as he answered his own questions internally.
Von Reuentahl will bend the knee to one man in all the galaxy, and that is His Majesty Kaiser Reinhard. He will not abide being made to kneel before the minister of military affairs first. Nor do I blame him…
It was said that von Oberstein had called von Reuentahl a caged bird of prey, and Mittermeier had to concede the accuracy of this assessment. Was it simply that this particular eagle, after swearing loyalty to a single white swan in all the galaxy, was now trying to fly away from that other on the winds of a storm?
After Wahlen and Wittenfeld left Beowulf, Mittermeier stood by the observation window for some time. As a subject of that beautiful white swan, it was his duty to bring down that eagle. He had never imagined that their friendship might end this way. His honey-colored hair gleamed in the starlight as he wondered just how many mistakes had been made throughout the history of the Galactic Empire—not excluding, of course, his own.
Would the sagacious Siegfried Kircheis have been able to untangle the snarl of wire between Reinhard and von Reuentahl, had he lived to this day? Or had the present situation always been inevitable, beyond the power of even Kircheis to avert?
Immediately after Mittermeier’s forces departed, Kaiser Reinhard left Phezzan himself, traveling aboard his flagship Brünhild to the sectors around Schattenberg. Senior Admirals Eisenach and Müller accompanied him as his staff. ”Iron Wall” Müller’s wounds were not fully healed, and his right arm was in a sling.
Reinhard had offered him the Siegfried Kircheis Distinguished Service Award and a promotion to marshal, but the sandy-haired young admiral had respectfully declined. “I cannot accept the marshal’s rod before I have proven myself worthy of it,” he said. “With Your Majesty’s permission, I look forward to gratefully receiving it at a later time, once my achievements merit such an honor.”
Reinhard nodded. It was true that, unlike Lutz, Müller would have more opportunities to distinguish himself in battle. “Is there no other way I can reward your valor?” he asked.
“In fact, Your Majesty, I do have one request…”
“Oh?”
The expression that came down over the kaiser’s fair, graceful face like silk gauze was less cynical than miserable. But that, too, was but a storm passing over one corner of the ocean, and did not compromise the young conqueror’s beauty. (Was it the aftermath of the storm, perhaps, that sent a ripple through his golden hair?)
“I believe I know what you intend to ask of me,” Reinhard said. His voice retained its musical rhythm despite the bitterness in his words. “You would have me spare von Reuentahl’s life.”
“Your Majesty’s powers of observation remain unsurpassed.”
The kaiser stirred with obvious displeasure. Ice-blue sparks seemed to fly from his eyes.
“Müller, you are one of my most experienced admirals, and I owe you my life. I would grant you any wish within my power. But this one is not.”
“Your Majesty…”
“The difficulty does not lie with me. Von Reuentahl is the man you should ask. Not about what he has already done. No, you must ask him what he means to do in the future.”
“In the future, Your Majesty?”
“He has raised the flag of rebellion. When the fight is over, is he willing to come to me, head bowed, and beg for his life? Should you not be asking these questions of him, not me?”
Müller was both chastened and shocked. At times like this, he could not help wishing that Countess von Mariendorf were there. She would surely agree with him, and appeal to both reason and emotion in helping to persuade the kaiser. How unfortunate that the beautiful high counselor had been too ill to leave Phezzan!
Müller could not know the real reason for her absence. Indeed, not even Reinhard knew it. She had remained on-planet to protect the child in her womb from the effects of warp…
Reinhard’s feelings regarding Wolfgang Mittermeier were based on deep faith in his abilities and character. How he felt about von Reuentahl was more complicated—a helical tangle of emotion. Von Reuentahl presumably suffered from an even graver version of the same psychology, but Reinhard had recognized his gifts and placed deep trust in him all the same. The sense of betrayal was searing. On Urvashi, Reinhard had sought to reject Lutz’s argument for von Reuentahl’s responsibility for the attack, but after Lutz’s sacrifice, Reinhard seemed to have inherited his opinion. Reinhard began by reproaching himself over Lutz’s death, but when that feeling turned toward von Reuentahl, a subtle chemical reaction began.
But will bringing down von Reuentahl bring peace to my heart?
The answer, Reinhard knew, was nein. But when he asked himself if that meant he should let von Reuentahl be, the answer remained negative. The first answer was born of emotion, the second of reason. If he forgave von Reuentahl unconditionally, Reinhard’s authority as ruler would be lost. The hierarchy of the empire would crumble. What standing would he have to punish the next person who rebelled or otherwise broke the law?
All he has to do is come to me in humility, and I would be spared the obligation to bring him down. The greater responsibility for this situation is his.
To protect the authority of the kaiser and the order of the state, Reinhard had no choice but to bring von Reuentahl to heel. This much was solidly within the bounds of rationality and principle, but in the abyss of emotion beyond, another question boiled: Wh
y is he so unwilling to humble himself before me?
Yang Wen-li had maintained his equal footing alongside Reinhard without any particular fanfare, and Reinhard had never found it unpleasant or unnatural. This was partly due to Yang’s personality, but also because he had never accepted a fief from Reinhard. Not so for von Reuentahl. Was he simply tired of showing deference? Or could it be (could it possibly be?) that he was doing as Reinhard had suggested he should, three years ago? If so, was the fault Reinhard’s own? But no—even if the rebellion had been inspired by Reinhard’s words, he had no obligation to concede victory to the rebel commander. Conquest must be achieved by superiority of ability; amicably transferred supremacy was a laughable idea.
Meanwhile, 11,900 ships under the command of Senior Admiral Ernest Mecklinger were approaching Iserlohn Corridor from the empire’s traditional territory. Their mission was to force a two-front war on von Reuentahl. To do so, they would need to petition Iserlohn Base for safe passage through the corridor. Mecklinger was acting not only as fleet commander but also as ambassador and diplomat, invested by the kaiser himself with full authority to negotiate.
Admiral Grünemann, along with the fleet whose command he had inherited from Lutz, was posted to keep the peace in the old imperial territory that Mecklinger had vacated. Injured almost fatally in the Vermillion War, Grünemann had finally recovered enough to resume active duty. Lutz’s faithful lieutenant, Vice Admiral Hotzbauer, had requested a transfer to Marshal Mittermeier’s command. No one needed to ask him why.
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