The galaxy was alive with will, with action, countercurrents swimming across the void. Strategically, the situation must have been a fascinating one, providing rich fodder for the analyses and discussions of historians in later generations.
“How would the Magician have turned this situation to his advantage?” Reinhard mused aloud. Without waiting for his two senior admirals to reply, he pursued the thought further. “Yes, I see. How his successor answers that question will reveal his true capacity.”
In truth, there were more pressing matters to consider. If the Iserlohn Republic came to an agreement with von Reuentahl so that both left their rears unguarded, they could launch a war on two fronts, however imperfect. The imperial forces coming the long way from Phezzan would be met head-on by von Reuentahl, while the Iserlohn fleet would advance from the corridor into imperial territory. The kaiser would have to return first to Phezzan and then to the heart of imperial territory to battle the invading army. It seemed unlikely that the old capital of Odin would fall to Iserlohn’s forces, but if the unlikely event did occur it would severely harm the new dynasty’s authority.
“My apologies for raising such an ominous scenario, Your Majesty, but how would you respond in that case?” asked Müller, who may have had Yang’s successor Julian Mintz somewhere in his mind.
“In that case…” Reinhard’s ice-blue eyes glittered so fiercely with internal light and heat that they were hard to look on directly. “In that case, I would simply treat it as a hostile act directed at my person and therefore justifying an attack on Iserlohn Base. After eliminating von Reuentahl, I would turn immediately to crushing Iserlohn with our full military might. The temporary tactical disadvantage we would be under is not worth considering.”
Müller and Eisenach exchanged glances. The kaiser’s conquering spirit burned bright as ever. He was not even considering the possibility that he might lose to von Reuentahl. His field of vision was so broad and his sight so far-ranging that it covered the entire galaxy.
“If Yang Wen-li’s successor lacks strategic vision and simply seeks to profit from the confusion unfolding before him, he surely will throw his weight behind von Reuentahl. Either way, the decision is his to make.”
With this observation, the kaiser turned his ice-blue gaze to the stars.
II
On November 16, the Galactic Empire issued a decree in the kaiser’s name stripping Oskar von Reuentahl of his rank of marshal and position as governor-general. Having lost his authority to lead the five million troops under his command as a result, he was now a perfect traitor in the legal sense too.
Had Lang been a free man, he would surely have clapped his hands with glee, but at that time he was in military police custody being interrogated about his role in Nicolas Boltec’s unjust arrest and death. Von Reuentahl was not aware of this, but even if he had been it would have been unlikely to persuade him of the justice of fate. He had never viewed Lang and himself as the same class of being.
When he heard about the imperial decree stripping him of his rank, a wave of wry amusement washed across his mismatched eyes. It was the first time he had been without rank or position since entering officer’s school. It felt odd not to have a status backed by power. Before the wryness had faded from his eyes, an FTL transmission arrived from Tristan, the warship of his “enemy,” Wolfgang Mittermeier. For Mittermeier, the new circumstances meant that he could finally speak to von Reuentahl directly.
After a moment’s consideration, von Reuentahl directed his communications officer to patch the transmission through to his private chambers.
In his chambers, the grayish-white on his screen gave way to his friend’s grim expression.
“Von Reuentahl. Sorry to bother you at such a busy time.”
A strange greeting, considering.
“Nothing to apologize for. It’s you and me we’re talking about.”
There was no irony or sarcasm in von Reuentahl’s tone. Mittermeier had been the one man with whom he could remove the armor from his heart when they spoke. Von Reuentahl had thrown this bond away with his actions, but he was happy to see it restored, however briefly and in whatever form.
“What do you say, von Reuentahl? Will you come see the kaiser with me? I don’t want to fight you. I’m sure it’s not too late.”
“I don’t want to fight you either, Mittermeier.”
“In that case—”
“But I will anyway. Why, you ask? Because unless I fight you, and win, the kaiser won’t deign to fight me himself.”
The casually offered remark left Mittermeier speechless. Quiet but fierce emotion shone in von Reuentahl’s eyes, making their odd colors even more vivid.
“For a long time, I didn’t know why I’d been born into this world,” von Reuentahl continued. “I knew the melancholy of a man without wisdom. But now I finally understand. I’ve lived my whole life in order to go to war with the kaiser, and find my satisfaction there.”
Mittermeier tried to argue, but found his throat blocked by a formless door. After a few seconds of struggling that felt like an eternity, he finally forced the door open and tried another appeal to common sense.
“Think it over one more time, von Reuentahl. You can trust me to make sure your rights are protected, even if it’s at my own expense. The kaiser’s had Lang taken into custody. Things are getting better. Slowly, but surely. Now it’s your turn to accelerate that process through your sincerity. You have my promise. Trust in me.”
“A promise from the Gale Wolf. That’s worth more than gold.” There was gratitude in von Reuentahl’s voice, but he shook his head as if to cut it away. “But no, Mittermeier. Your life is worth too much to trade it for my continued existence. You always tread the righteous path. I can’t do that. All I can do is…”
Von Reuentahl closed his mouth. He felt the impulse to reveal all to his loved and respected friend. What had happened after the Lippstadt War and the tragic death of Siegfried Kircheis, when von Reuentahl had brought the news of Duke Lichtenlade’s capture to then-Marquis Reinhard von Lohengramm. The words Reinhard had spoken, as an inorganic smile filled exquisite features that seemed carved from crystal: “If a conqueror lacks ability, it’s only natural that he be overthrown himself. If you have the confidence and you’re ready to risk everything, go ahead. Challenge me anytime.” Von Reuentahl had understood in that moment what Reinhard craved most of all: enemies. Powerful, competent enemies…
The moment passed. Adopting an intentionally ambitious expression, von Reuentahl changed the subject. “What about you, Mittermeier?” he asked. “Are you ready to join me?”
“Even by your standards, that’s a terrible joke.”
“It’s no joke. I’ll be kaiser and you can be viceroy. The other way around would be fine too. Or we could divide the universe up and rule separately. Even Trünicht managed that one.”
On the screen, he saw a mournful shadow appear in Mittermeier’s gray eyes. His friend’s youthful face, always so vital and spirited that it gave the impression of a willful boy, now seemed to fill with achromatic clouds.
“You’re drunk,” Mittermeier said.
“Stone cold sober.”
“Not on liquor. On blood-red dreams.”
Now it was von Reuentahl’s turn to be speechless. Mittermeier sighed so deeply that von Reuentahl felt it through the screen. Then he continued.
“We have to wake up from our dreams eventually. What happens when you wake from this one? You hope to find satisfaction in war with the kaiser? And if you win, what then? When the kaiser is gone, how will you feed your starving heart?”
Von Reuentahl closed his eyes and opened them again. “Maybe I am dreaming,” he said. “But either way, it’s my dream. Not yours. It doesn’t look like we’re going to find common ground here, so there’s no need to waste any more of each other’s time.”
“Wait, von Reuentahl. Hear me out just a little more.”
“So long, Mittermeier. Take care of the kaiser. Ho
wever strange that sounds under the circumstances, I mean it sincerely.”
The transmission cut out. Mittermeier, about to say more, swallowed his words and silently exhaled his frustration and sorrow before hurling the entire boiling mass of his emotional state at the screen, shouting, “Reuentahl! You imbecile!” It was the voice not of an imperial marshal but a newly minted officer. Mittermeier glared with genuine loathing at the screen, which had faded back to ashy white, as if this merciless barrier were what stood between him and his friend.
Mittermeier knew he would remember von Reuentahl’s face the moment before he cut the transmission for the rest of his days. It was a memory that, along with his own life, he would be forced to take back to Phezzan.
Mittermeier left his private chambers and returned to the bridge to sit in the commander’s chair. A student orderly brought him a coffee. He thanked the orderly mechanically, sinking into thought. The thought of a tactician.
Von Reuentahl’s weakness is his lack of trusted lieutenants. He’ll have no problem coming up with plans for battle, but will he have the admirals to execute them?
Mittermeier had seen the truth of the situation. The issue was not some flaw in von Reuentahl’s personality but the fact that his rebellion was against the kaiser and the empire itself. Forcing his subordinates to join him in it risked robbing their loyalty of its direction.
Given von Reuentahl’s character, there was a chance he would divide his own forces, swap his main force with a diversionary force, and lure Mittermeier into a vast trap. In that case, too, though, he would need a second—someone to act as another von Reuentahl. Mittermeier mentally ran down the list of officers who might play this role. Bergengrün? Barthauser? Dittersdorf? Sonnenfels? Schüler? Or one of the two admirals who had been posted to the Neue Land at its establishment, Grillparzer and von Knapfstein?
Thinking, brooding, moving at a pace that no would-be pursuer could possibly match, Mittermeier led his fleet deeper into the Neue Land.
On the bridge of von Reuentahl’s flagship Tristan, the Goldenlöwe still hung on the wall, catching every visitor’s eye with its splendor.
Von Reuentahl had received the banner from the kaiser himself, and had no intention of taking it down. Perhaps he wanted to believe that he was the true defender of the new dynasty’s standard. This way of thinking was one point on which he had to recognize that he was beyond redemption, and one reason why his rebellion was glorious to behold but ultimately hollow.
His troops picked up on these ideas in their commander’s mind, and took to debating the justice of their cause and their reasons for fighting right where they stood, weapons still in hand.
“We’ll just have to follow where Marshal von Reuentahl leads. What else can we do?”
“So you’re going to fight the kaiser? That kaiser?”
In this case, the demonstrative “that” expressed a sense of mythic awe. Young and beautiful, the kaiser had piled victory upon battlefield victory, led vast armies across the sea of stars, and now ruled more territory than anyone in the history of humanity. To his troops he was a martial deity.
“Won’t fighting against His Majesty make us traitors?”
“We’re not fighting against His Majesty. We’re freeing him from the disloyal and treacherous courtiers that have his ear and twist his wishes.”
“Like the minister of military affairs? I don’t like the man, but they say he’s not the type to act out of selfish motives.”
“How do we know that? I hear that lately His Majesty has been ill, and the minister has started running the empire as he pleases.”
“Either way, our first opponent isn’t His Majesty or the minister. It’s the Gale Wolf.”
At this the soldiers fell silent. As they exchanged glances, they sensed something resembling excitement rising hotly within each other.
“A terrifying thought…” somebody whispered.
“When the Twin Ramparts clash, who wins?”
In the abstract, the question would surely have interested every single recruit in the Imperial Navy. But the prospect of seeing it played out from within the formations involved turned their shudders from hot to cold.
At this point, von Reuentahl’s forces had not yet produced deserters in any great number. Von Reuentahl himself had shown his mettle as a commander and warrior. But that had always been as the kaiser’s warrior. Whether the troops he commanded would willingly follow him as an independent warlord was a different matter. Having explained to them that they were not betraying the kaiser but freeing him from the disloyal courtiers that troubled him, he would next have to raise their morale by securing a victory on the field of war.
III
In November of year 2 of the new imperial calendar, the galaxy seemed to exist for the sake of von Reuentahl and Mittermeier alone. Yang Wen-li’s demise had not, it seemed, sounded the death knell for battles between great commanders at the height of their powers.
Von Reuentahl’s initial strategy was roughly as follows:
1. Reorganize the troops stationed across the Neue Land into multilayered defensive lines to slow the advance of Mittermeier’s fleet while forcing the heaviest losses possible upon it.
2. Draw the main enemy force toward Heinessen, and then either cut off its rear or feign such a maneuver so plausibly that it began to retreat anyway.
3. Bring together disparate forces to block the enemy’s main route of retreat, coordinating to form a pincer formation whose other point was von Reuentahl’s main force, to be scrambled from Heinessen.
It was a sweeping but fine-grained operation that would stand as testament to von Reuentahl’s strategic vision and tactical prowess for generations to come. However, perfect success could only be achieved on two conditions. The first was that no enemy forces arrived from the direction of Iserlohn to open up a second front. The second was that von Reuentahl could find people to lead and then reintegrate the individual units to be stationed across the Neue Land.
To ensure that the first condition was met, von Reuentahl sent an emissary to Iserlohn Base. And not just any emissary. The individual he selected was, in a sense, an extreme symbol of both von Reuentahl’s strengths and his weaknesses.
Turning to the second condition, von Reuentahl assigned this duty to a man in whose character and ability he had the utmost faith: Bergengrün. Bergengrün silently set about preparing to play his role—but in the end these preparations were all for naught.
This was because Mittermeier, true to his sobriquet, advanced at a pace that would have been utterly impossible for other tacticians, denying von Reuentahl any time to lay the groundwork for his ambitious strategy.
None knew better than von Reuentahl the true value of Mittermeier’s preternaturally rapid maneuvering. He had expected Mittermeier to move swiftly, but the reality exceeded his most pessimistic predictions. On the other hand, no one but von Reuentahl could have responded so adroitly to Mittermeier’s arrival, recalling the ships in the process of separating from the main fleet and reuniting the whole into a dense formation just in the nick of time. As a result, von Reuentahl’s forces entered their first battlefield with far higher offensive potential than Mittermeier’s.
The Duel of the Twin Ramparts was fought on a higher level than lesser commanders could even imagine. Terrible sparks began to fly before the two sides had even physically met.
When von Reuentahl received a report that Mittermeier’s fleet was already halfway through the Neue Land, his heterochromiac eyes first flashed with admiration: “His maneuvering, his development—the sheer pace of it!” But when he saw how thinly Mittermeier’s fleet was stretched, this admiration was replaced with a hard gleam more befitting a tactician. “Only to be expected, I suppose,” he muttered. “Those mediocrities can’t keep up with the pace he sets.”
Von Reuentahl decided to defeat the enemy in detail.
He felt an exquisite excitement at the prospect of facing a worthy opponent on the battlefield. His affection and r
espect for Mittermeier had lessened not a molecule, but coexisting with those emotions was genuine elation—clear proof of just how far beyond salvation those beings known as tacticians are.
Mittermeier felt the same excitement. A voice whispered inside him, asking, Isn’t it the heart’s desire of every warrior to square off with a brilliant commander like von Reuentahl? But, in addition to the bitterness of fighting to the death with a friend, Mittermeier had concerns of a different nature.
The troops under von Reuentahl were all subjects of Kaiser Reinhard. Mittermeier hoped to avoid killing them as far as that was possible. The alternative, after all, was to slaughter brothers and colleagues who should be their allies. There was an officer of Mittermeier’s acquaintance with two sons. The older served beside him under Mittermeier’s command, but the younger had been posted under von Reuentahl in the Neue Land. Who knew how many others were in similar situations?
Mittermeier expected von Reuentahl to throw his entire fleet into the coming battle. There were two reasons for this. The first was positive: if von Reuentahl could overwhelm Mittermeier with sheer military might, the tactical victory would position him better for a strategic victory in due course. The other reason was negative: if he left part of his fleet on Heinessen, and they mutinied against him—or, from the empire’s point of view, ceased their participation in the rebellion—von Reuentahl would lose his home base. Von Reuentahl’s need to use his full fleet together was a stark representation of his Achilles’ heel in this fight: a lack of allies he could truly trust.
November 24.
The Reuentahl and Mittermeier fleets confronted each other in the Rantemario Stellar Region, where Free Planets forces had once held the line under Alexandor Bucock (now deceased) against Reinhard’s Imperial Navy. This was not a coincidence. The strategic importance of the region was clear at a glance.
At 0950, when the two sides had approached to within 5.4 light-seconds of each other, a half moment of silence filled their communications circuits before fierce cries pushed this into the past.
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