Desolation

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  However, Reinhard did not hold all the cards necessary to move history and the people who made it. And the same, of course, could be said of his formidable opponent.

  It was April 19 when ill tidings arrived on seismic waves from Phezzan. Terrorists had bombed the residence of the planet’s acting secretary-general. Secretary of Works Bruno von Silberberg had been killed. Marshal Paul von Oberstein had been wounded, along with Nicolas Boltec, acting secretary-general, and Senior Admiral Kornelias Lutz, fleet commander for the Phezzan region. Forty-one other casualties had been recorded. Already embarked on his expedition of conquest, the golden-haired kaiser was silent as the news arrived by FTL transmission. His ice-blue eyes glittered with a dark intensity.

  The details of the terrorist attack that threatened to contain Reinhard’s single-minded advance with filthy, unseen shackles soon became clear.

  On April 12, Senior Admiral Wahlen had landed on Phezzan en route to Iserlohn and had been temporarily reunited with Lutz. The two men had served as Siegfried Kircheis’s right and left hands during the Lippstadt War, playing no small part in the empire’s victory, but now Wahlen was to continue on to Iserlohn to join the fray while his spirits and sense of fulfillment were high, while Lutz would be forced to stay planetside, still smarting from his defeat.

  As the newly appointed fleet commander for the Phezzan region, Lutz was responsible for the security of one of the new empire’s largest transportation, distribution, and communication routes. The appointment was not ignominious by any means, but, as a warrior, Lutz sorely rued his withdrawal from the front lines just before the final clash with Yang Wen-li. He would have no opportunity to regain the honor he had lost in allowing Yang to recapture Iserlohn Fortress through trickery. His liege and fellow officers would clean up after that mistake in his stead.

  Wahlen could not banish the sympathy he felt for his friend. He shared Lutz’s humiliation at having fallen for Yang’s ruse, which had undone everything they had achieved on the battlefield. To openly express that sympathy would only risk wounding Lutz more deeply, but Wahlen had accepted Boltec’s proposal—despite his distaste for its open flattery—and agreed to attend a joint welcome and farewell gathering for the two of them because it had seemed an opportunity to offer at least some comfort to his friend. The party began at 1930 hours, but Wahlen was having trouble with his artificial hand that evening, and by the time he had made the necessary adjustments to his prosthesis and arrived at the venue, it was 1955.

  The military-grade high explosives had detonated just five minutes earlier. In a sense, Wahlen’s hand had saved him from martyrdom at the hands of the terrorists. Going further back, an observer might give that credit to the fanatic who had wounded Wahlen with a poisoned blade during the subjugation of the Church of Terra’s headquarters the previous year.

  In any case, Wahlen arrived at the horrific scene five minutes after the explosion and immediately set about giving orders to the shocked and dazed survivors, successfully keeping the situation from sliding into panic as it had threatened to moments earlier. To the terrified crowd, the miraculously unharmed admiral must have seemed like the only thing they could rely on.

  Von Silberberg had been taken to the hospital immediately, but with severe blood loss and shrapnel impacted in his skull, he failed to regain consciousness and his heart stopped at 2340 hours.

  The Lohengramm Dynasty had lost one of its top technocrats to this act of terrorism. Von Silberberg’s ambition had been twofold. First, he had intended to perfectly balance the social capital and economic foundation of the new dynasty and usher in an age of economic construction to follow the conquest. Second, he had intended to place himself at the center of the technocracy overseeing that construction and one day rise to the position of chancellor.

  “Hardly an outrageous dream,” he would say, brimming with confidence, and, indeed, his goals were far from unrealistic. But now that ambition, along with the man who had harbored it, had vanished from the face of the planet.

  The assassination prompted Wahlen to delay his date of departure from Phezzan so that he could, after reporting the situation to Reinhard, organize a makeshift memorial service for von Silberberg and direct the search for the terrorists responsible.

  If those incompetent assassins had to murder someone, they could have at least made it von Oberstein. They might even have attracted some sympathizers there.

  Although Wahlen did not voice these thoughts aloud, there was an unmistakable difference in his attitude toward Lutz and the two other officials. He visited von Oberstein in the hospital, affording the marshal the respect due a superior, but—partly on doctor’s orders—left immediately. His visit to Boltec he had an aide perform on his behalf while he headed for Lutz’s ward instead. Lutz had no serious internal injuries, as if to demonstrate that his fate lines were on an upward trajectory, and the doctors expected to discharge him in two weeks. If anything, he was in higher spirits than before, despite being in a hospital bed. “Die before von Oberstein?” he said. “Never! I’ve only made it this far, through all those battles, by looking forward to mouthing an insincere eulogy at his funeral while my soul dances on his grave.”

  Not a very popular man, our minister of military affairs, thought Wahlen, his own opinion of the man notwithstanding. He well understood how Lutz felt, of course. The man’s anguish over the death of Siegfried Kircheis three years before had become an arrow aimed at von Oberstein’s back.

  One week later, Wahlen finally departed Phezzan. On Reinhard’s orders, protection of the planet and the hunt for the perpetrator had both been delegated to Lutz’s lieutenant, Vice Admiral Holzbauer. Von Oberstein and Lutz would, no doubt, be pleased to take over this responsibility themselves once they had recovered completely.

  “Church of Terra diehards, no doubt,” was Holzbauer’s frowning assessment. “Or loyalists to the former landesherr Rubinsky, perhaps, gone to ground. How dare they trouble His Majesty the Kaiser’s thoughts at such an important juncture?”

  Of course, it was precisely because things were at “such an important juncture” that the perpetrators had sought to throw the Imperial Navy off-balance by striking at them from behind. At this goal, however, they could only be said to have failed. The true target of their murderous designs had surely been the three top navy officials rather than von Silberberg, but von Oberstein and Lutz had sustained only light wounds, while Wahlen was entirely unharmed.

  Kaiser Reinhard regretted the death of the priceless human resources he had appointed, but did not delay the progress of his fleet toward Iserlohn for a moment. He simply instructed Hildegard von Mariendorf to announce a day of mourning along with the promotion of Undersecretary Gluck to acting secretary of works.

  “After Iserlohn Fortress falls, von Silberberg will be granted a state funeral. Until then, Wahlen’s memorial service will have to do.”

  Reinhard explained this to Hilda, but it was not the entire truth. Certain details of the bombing—von Oberstein and Lutz escaping with light wounds, Wahlen delaying his departure in response, Reinhard’s refusal to interrupt his journey of conquest—invited speculation regarding the perpetrators, and the possibility of a second attack was something the kaiser clearly foresaw, or even anticipated. He knew that he could rely on von Oberstein and Lutz to demonstrate the skill and composure necessary to deal with that eventuality. If circumstances on Phezzan deteriorated to the point of rebellion rather than terrorism, he would send Wahlen back with his fleet to quell the uprising. If even Wahlen could not contain the situation, Reinhard would be required for the first time to decide how to react. Until things reached that point, however, Reinhard had absolutely no intention of turning Brünhild’s bow from its course.

  As Reinhard’s secretary, Hilda saw no reason to object to these conclusions. She did, however, urge him to spare a thought for von Silberberg’s family.

  Reinhard misread her expression slightly—or pe
rhaps only pretended to, in order to provoke her into revealing her strategic judgment clearly.

  “You seem to have something you wish to say to me, Fräulein von Mariendorf,” he said.

  As he spoke, she realized that she did, in fact, want to draw his attention to a certain matter. “Your Majesty,” she said, “what if Yang Wen-li sorties from Iserlohn Fortress into imperial territory? If he breaks through Admiral Mecklinger’s defensive line, nothing but uninhabited space will lie between him and Hauptplanet Odin.”

  “An interesting idea. Yang Wen-li might indeed hit upon such an idea, but at present he lacks the resources to carry it out successfully. How unfortunate that the skill of a great general should be restrained by mere circumstance!”

  Reinhard’s elegant lips curved wryly upward. It was not clear who his sarcasm was aimed at—for who, after all, had engendered the harsh conditions that now hemmed Yang in?

  “I almost feel like giving him half a dozen battalions to play with, and seeing what magic he works with them. Now that would be interesting!”

  “Your Majesty…”

  “Fräulein, I cannot rest until my score with Yang Wen-li is settled in full. Once I have his submission and the galaxy is unified, that will mark the true beginning for me.”

  In the face of this masterfully crafted remonstration, Hilda fell silent.

  “And even that prospect does not satisfy me,” Reinhard continued. “Would that I might face that magician on equal strategic ground!”

  Hilda offered her first counterargument. “In that case, Your Majesty,” she said, “I beg you, do not bring the battle to him just yet. Return to Phezzan, and then to Odin. Allow Yang to grow strong, and challenge him for supremacy once his power is greater. There is no need to fight him now, when he is at the end of his options.”

  Reinhard did not reply. He simply toyed with the pendant on his breast, as if to help him endure the sting of her reproach.

  III

  Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier’s lively gray eyes shone with a rather complex quicksilver brilliance. It was in his nature to favor action, agile and swift. To pause for thought in the shadow of unease went against his inclinations. He had agonized at length before seeking the hand of his wife Evangeline in marriage, but the unease he felt now was of a different quality.

  His reaction to the tragic incident on Phezzan was caustic in the extreme. “So von Oberstein didn’t die?” he said. “Pity—it would have been an excellent way to prove that he was human. Well, at least Lutz wasn’t badly hurt.”

  Mittermeier’s friend Oskar von Reuentahl was even more biting. “Von Oberstein is a walking disease. Speculating purely on the possibilities, if he turned out to have arranged the whole thing for some nefarious purpose, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. And, if so, a second act is coming.”

  The malevolence of this slander left even Mittermeier speechless.

  Mittermeier’s loathing of von Oberstein was a matter of temperament. He knew that the minister of military affairs, he of the white-streaked hair and cybernetic eyes, had valid reasons for his behavior, and important responsibilities to fulfill. But Mittermeier could not smother his own tastes and principles, and he had no interest in harmonizing his own worldview with the other man’s.

  He suspected, however, that von Reuentahl’s animosity toward von Oberstein was somewhat different in nature. After all, were the two men not fighting over the same jewel? Both of them expected Kaiser Reinhard to embody their own ideals perfectly—and if those ideals were different in tone, was not a clash between the two inevitable?

  Mittermeier was perceptive enough to realize all this, but he recognized with gloom that the truth of his insight was incompatible with its utility. He could share his thoughts with von Reuentahl, but he doubted the other man would accept his conclusions without argument. To von Oberstein he felt no desire to convey anything. It was clear to him that von Oberstein rejected any prospect of compromise or change in his relationship with von Reuentahl, despite understanding well the meaning of the conflict between them. If so, it was perfectly natural, if not inevitable, that von Oberstein should attract misunderstanding and hostility. And what about von Reuentahl? Mittermeier was confident that his friend’s sagacity surpassed his own, but he also had the strong suspicion that von Reuentahl was suppressing his thoughtful side intentionally and letting the flow of events take him where it would. Even though the end of that flow was likely a waterfall plunging into the abyss…

  “It felt like a much longer battle than it was,” said Mittermeier. “In any case, this will put an end to it.”

  “A desirable end for us, I hope,” said von Reuentahl.

  This exchange marked the conclusion of the strategy discussion between the two men aboard von Reuentahl’s flagship, Tristan. It was not that they were tired of fighting. In fact, it was precisely because their energies were not exhausted that they could not stop their thoughts from racing ahead to what would come afterward. Of course, their focus was slightly different from their young ruler’s.

  Hesitantly, Mittermeier asked, “By the way, whatever happened to…?”

  Von Reuentahl turned his infamous heterochromiac eyes directly on his friend. “No idea,” he said, somewhere between spiteful and indifferent. “Nor do I care to find out. You have some interest in the woman?”

  “What interests me is how you have dealt with her.”

  The two fell silent, both thinking of Elfriede von Kohlrausch, the woman who was reportedly pregnant with von Reuentahl’s child. Pushing further in this direction seemed unlikely to lead to anything but fruitless argument. Von Reuentahl had no interest in children, while Mittermeier and his wife were childless. Neither could help feeling injured in his own way at the injustice of the situation.

  On April 20, Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld held a meeting aboard his flagship, Königs Tiger. Under his command, the vanguard of the Imperial Navy had almost reached Iserlohn Corridor. The enemy was within hailing distance. At some point they would have to halt their advance and await Kaiser Reinhard’s arrival from Heinessen, so it was necessary to ensure that the entire fleet was of one will.

  One of the officers at the meeting made a sly proposal. “Suppose we offer peace terms to Yang,” he said. “Guarantee safe passage for his men if he swears allegiance to His Majesty the Kaiser and surrenders Iserlohn Fortress as an offering. We could even throw in recognition of the right to self-governance on El Facil or somewhere—say that we’ll permit a republic to exist there within the bounds of the empire.”

  Wittenfeld frowned silently. Deputy commander Admiral Halberstadt and chief of staff Admiral Gräbner conducted a furtive, wordless conversation with their facial expressions.

  “It doesn’t matter what conditions we offer, because we won’t have to follow through with them,” the officer continued. “Once Yang strolls out of the fortress for peace talks, visions of sweet success already starting to give him psychic toothache, we simply capture him. His Majesty takes possession of the entire galaxy without spilling a single drop of blood. How does that strategy sound?”

  “You want my answer to that question.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  Wittenfeld bellowed loud enough to empty his lungs. “I never want to hear such idiocy from you again! If the kaiser had the slightest interest in deceitful scheming of that nature, he would have had Yang Wen-li executed at their meeting after the Vermillion War and been done with it! His Majesty wants to defeat that impudent magician on the battlefield, not force his submission by any means available!”

  The fierce, orange-haired general’s overwhelming glare bore into the officer.

  “If His Majesty were to dismiss me as incompetent, that I could bear. But were he to castigate me as a coward, it would render all of my service before that day meaningless. Is even that beyond your feeble understanding?”

  Scoured by Wittenf
eld’s vituperation, the officer left the room a half-dead wreck. As Wittenfeld struggled to steady his breathing, Halberstadt and Gräber exchanged a look of shared understanding: Thus always with our commander.

  The meeting finally adjourned without any original ideas being given voice. Of course, Wittenfeld had not been granted full strategic discretion in any case. As much as it went against his own temperament, it seemed they could do nothing but quietly fortify the front lines until new orders arrived from the kaiser.

  During his regular comm channel conversation with his friend and fellow senior admiral Adalbert Fahrenheit, Wittenfeld joked about the tedium at the front and asked if there wasn’t anything the two of them could do about it. “If only the enemy would attack first, we could start the war without waiting for the kaiser to arrive,” he said wistfully.

  Fahrenheit did not immediately reply. Like Wittenfeld, he was an aggressive tactician, but he was older than the other commanders and understood the authority that had been vested in him in the kaiser’s absence. He would have to rein in Wittenfeld’s restless spirit and ensure that no grave errors were committed before Kaiser Reinhard’s arrival. To the staunch blue-eyed general, this duty was also a way of keeping his own spirit under control.

  Eventually Fahrenheit made a proposal: they would urge Yang Wen-li to capitulate. Yang would never agree, of course, but there was no need to waste the time remaining before the kaiser’s arrival, even if combat itself was out of the question. It was worth making the attempt to probe their enemy’s inner emotions.

  In truth, Fahrenheit had not made this suggestion with any great enthusiasm. He himself was distracted by the countless scout ships that needed to be dispatched to their intended battlefield. The Dagon Stellar Region, where the Imperial Navy had suffered an ignominious defeat a century and a half ago, was close to their route, and its name aroused his interest in the task of battlefield reconnaissance.

  Accordingly, when Wittenfeld actually put the proposal into action, Fahrenheit was as surprised as anyone else. And there was certainly no way he could have foreseen the remarkable events that would be set in motion as a result.