Propped up in bed, Reinhard answered the question he saw in Hilda’s eyes.
“It was Kircheis,” he said. “He came to warn me.”
The youthful, golden-haired emperor was quite serious. Hilda stared at him until she realized her own rudeness in doing so. The fever had given his porcelain cheeks a pale ruddiness like the lingering trace of a kiss from the goddess of the dawn.
“ ‘No more,’ he told me. ‘End your war with Yang Wen-li.’ Still giving me advice, even in death…”
Reinhard seemed not to realize that the authority and formality he used when dealing with the living had slipped from his speech. Hilda kept her silence. It was clear that no reply was expected.
This could all be explained scientifically. From the thoughts and feelings that mingled beneath the surface of consciousness, multiple streams had risen in a tangle. Grief for friends forever lost, and the accompanying ever-growing remorse for his own mistakes. Respect for Yang Wen-li as an enemy. Self-recrimination over Fahrenheit, Steinmetz, and the millions of others who had died in the corridor. Irritation over the unprecedentedly slow pace of change in the battle overall. Professional interest as a strategist in whether there was a more effective way than war to resolve the matter.
From this chaos, the clearest parts had been unified and crystallized into the person of Siegfried Kircheis. Reinhard had subconsciously anthropomorphized the most effective way to defeat his own stubbornness in argument and change his attitude…
An analysis of the phenomenon would follow along these lines. But Hilda was well aware that there are times in this world when it is better not to analyze. Siegfried Kircheis had appeared in a dream and urged him to stop the war: though medieval, this interpretation was sufficient and indeed correct. If Kircheis had been alive, he would certainly have made the same recommendation as both a sworn friend to the kaiser and a high-ranking retainer of the empire.
“Fine, then, Kircheis. As usual, you get your way. You were only born two months before me, but you were always playing big brother and breaking up my fights. I’m the one who’s older now, because you’ve stopped aging—but fine. I’ll try talking to Yang. That’s as far as it goes, though. I can’t promise that the talks won’t break down.”
In the end, what had been impossible for Hilda, Mittermeier, and von Reuentahl, a spirit of the dead had achieved. Realizing this, Hilda felt as though she had been granted a sudden glimpse at the wavering emotions of several of the advisors that surrounded the kaiser.
Seeing that the discussion between His Majesty the Kaiser and Fräulein von Mariendorf had come to an end, the kaiser’s bodyguard Emil von Selle brought out hot milk with honey for the invalid. The fragrance did not entirely restore Hilda’s cheer.
It was not that Reinhard was disinterested in or irresponsible about governance. He was a conscientious administrator, and this could be seen in his attitude as well as his results. But he was, fundamentally, a military man. Reinhard the bureaucrat was the product of conscious effort, while Reinhard the warrior came naturally. Accordingly, wherever he wielded authority, across his entire empire, military strategy always took precedence over its political counterpart. At this time, on the boundary of his psyche, there was a part of him that rejected the idea of talks with Yang.
“Partly because of my worthlessness in falling ill, our officers and troops are exhausted and running low on supplies,” he said. “Talks with Yang do not necessarily mean compromise. We must earn time to finish preparing for the next battle.”
Some of his admirals were relieved to hear about the talks, while others thought them regrettable. Wittenfeld, who had achieved the greatest victory on the battlefield without even realizing it, struggled to control his desire for combat.
“The negotiations are bound to break down,” Wittenfeld said, publicly if not loudly. “When that happens, we go back on the offensive at once.” Those who had served under Fahrenheit and Steinmetz also had difficulty keeping their desire to avenge their fallen commanders in check. Recognizing the genuine danger that things might explode, Mittermeier decided to step in himself and set about reorganizing the two fleets. The gray eyes of the Gale Wolf had the power to silence men two feet taller than he was at a single glance.
Mittermeier would turn thirty-two that year. He had already risen to the rank of imperial marshal and, as commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada, was in the imperial military’s highest echelons of command. To most of the troops, he was dizzyingly highly placed, and yet he looked even younger than his years. He moved with lightness and agility, and was not overformal with the enlisted men and women.
More than just a tactician, Mittermeier also enjoyed strategic insight. When the remnants of the Free Planets Alliance had gathered at Iserlohn Fortress and in the El Facil system, he had known that their disadvantages would only grow. The empire had always known where its enemies were massed, and although attacking them had proved difficult, blockading them would have been easy. Mittermeier saw no reason to insist on victory through military force, especially if it would require so many to sacrifice their lives.
What was more, the forces gathered at Iserlohn were currently unified by a closely linked group of individuals centered on Yang Wen-li. If Yang ceased to exist, this group might also melt away. This was Mittermeier’s view of things. Put in the most extreme terms, the empire could simply close Yang up inside the corridor and patiently await his death.
Of course, similar issues could be seen in the Imperial Navy—and the Lohengramm Dynasty itself. If Reinhard were slain in battle, there was no leader in the military or political sphere who could take his place. For this reason, the kaiser’s fever and confinement to bed sent a chill wind through even the fearless Mittermeier’s nervous system. The admiralty had not even been forced to avoid making public the fact that their retreat from Iserlohn Corridor was due to Reinhard’s illness. If that overpaid team of doctors had correctly diagnosed it as overexertion—if the youthful kaiser was already physically overburdened by psychological energies within and obligations without—what did the future hold?
The Lohengramm Dynasty might end with its first generation, and plunge them all back into the chaos of war. Mittermeier could not help wishing that the kaiser would recover his health and marry. It had never occurred to him that a new age of conflict would give him the opportunity to seize power for himself. The very idea would have been alien to this brave general at the height of imperial command.
Meanwhile, Mittermeier’s close friend Oskar von Reuentahl had done a flawless job of overseeing the expeditionary force as the bedridden kaiser’s representative with barely a murmur of complaint. Apart from a single observation to Mittermeier to the effect that the kaiser was not the sort of man to die of illness, he would have impressed even the taciturn von Eisenach with the dignified silence in which he worked, often taking only white wine and cheese for breakfast and unwittingly giving his close friends something to worry about.
Here a minor event took place. Marshal Paul von Oberstein, minister of military affairs on distant Phezzan, offered an opinion to the kaiser regarding a certain matter. The kaiser rejected von Oberstein’s suggestion out of hand. In its details, revealed only to Hilda and the other two marshals, it was almost identical to the proposed plot that Wittenfeld had angrily rejected when a staff officer had made it. In one respect, however, von Oberstein’s vision was even more cynical. Since Yang was unlikely to simply come when summoned, a high-ranking advisor should be sent to Yang’s camp to serve first as messenger and then as hostage. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl were both too taken aback even to voice their criticisms of this notion.
Upon his arrival at the Imperial Navy, the unsuspecting Yang was to be killed to avoid any further agonizing. Yang’s side would be enraged, and would retaliate by killing their hostage. In the name of retaliation for that killing, the Imperial Navy would use military force to suppress the now leaderless Yang
faction, and the entire galaxy would be unified under the Lohengramm Dynasty. All through one man’s sacrifice…But was there a senior advisor who would willingly offer themselves as a hostage, knowing what lay in store?
“If there are no other candidates for the role of messenger, I will accept that responsibility myself,” said von Oberstein. This unflinching, almost indifferent offer to serve as the sacrificial pawn in his own stratagem was, perhaps, an example of why he could not be dismissed as simply callous and cruel. Still, Mittermeier and von Reuentahl felt little urge to praise him.
“Imagine being forced into a double suicide with von Oberstein, of all people,” said the Gale Wolf with uncharacteristic venom. “Not even Yang would take that in good humor. Anyway, why would Yang trust von Oberstein in the first place, even if he did claim to be a messenger?”
The heterochromiac secretary-general added his own dark strain to the chorus. “No, I say we let him do as he proposes—always keeping in mind that even if Yang’s people slaughter him, we’re under no obligation to avenge the fellow.”
“I like that. Forget Yang Wen-li—if von Oberstein were gone, the galaxy would be at peace, the Lohengramm Dynasty would flourish, and all would be well.”
Neither of them actually hoped for the outcome they spoke of, but it was clear that neither would have been greatly chagrined by it either. It was too late to enact von Oberstein’s plan in any case, but they rejoiced at the honor the kaiser had shown in rejecting it.
Mittermeier and von Reuentahl earned their place in military history as outstanding leaders of vast armies, but they were not all-seeing. They could not know that an intrigue like the one von Oberstein had proposed—but even baser—was already threatening the galaxy like a rapidly spreading fungus.
The preparations they now began to ensure the comfort of their honored enemy and invited guest were, in the end, all for naught. Neither would ever meet Yang Wen-li face-to-face.
II
At 1200 on May 25, Yang Wen-li departed Iserlohn Fortress for his second meeting with Kaiser Reinhard. His transport was Leda II, the same cruiser he had used when summoned to appear before the alliance government two years earlier. Since the ship had brought him home safely from that adventure, his staff officers had urged it on him again for good luck.
The question of transportation was thus decided with ease, but the path to the meeting was not so smooth. Von Schneider had raised a new concern: even if Kaiser Reinhard’s honor as a warrior could be trusted, could his staff officers be? The Imperial Navy was not made up solely of people of good faith like Marshal Mittermeier. Some among them might view this as an opportunity to assassinate Yang, whether on the pretext of loyalty to the emperor or revenge for fallen comrades.
Julian Mintz hesitated for a moment, then said, “Then I shall go, as the commander’s representative—forgive my presumption. Once I learn the details of the conditions or proposals on the table, the commander can arrive for the discussion proper.”
Yang shook his head. “Won’t work,” he said. “Sorry, Julian.”
The kaiser had requested a dialogue of equals, he explained. To send Julian first would be an insult. If the kaiser felt so insulted that he retracted his proposal, the possibility of peace might be lost forever. They had no chance of winning another frontal battle with the Imperial Navy in their current state. They had suffered irreplaceable losses, the surviving troops were still exhausted, and resupply would take time, given Iserlohn’s production capacity. They had not even begun maintenance on the fleet yet.
What Yang emphasized most of all was the degradation of the fleet’s mobility following the death of Vice Admiral Fischer.
With Fischer gone, Commodore Marino was the front-runner for the task of reorganizing and running the fleet. Marino was a talented commander, but his achievements and trust among the troops could not compare to his predecessor’s. Yang strongly doubted that the fleet would be able to maneuver as perfectly as it had under Fischer in its next battle. This loss of confidence was one of the reasons Yang felt unable to refuse Reinhard’s request for talks.
“We can’t win by tactical planning alone. If the fleet isn’t able to execute the plans to the letter, we’ll be out of luck. Rejecting the kaiser’s offer and heading right back into battle would be suicide.”
The staff officers had no reply to this. They, too, keenly felt the tremendous blow of Fischer’s death. They also understood that Yang’s ultimate objective was peace. When they weighed the merits of meeting the kaiser for talks versus rebuffing him out of hand, ultimately the former was the only choice.
“Very well,” said Caselnes. “For the kaiser to call a cease-fire is effectively a victory for us anyway. And, although we have no guarantee the talks will succeed, they will at least give us room to breathe. We might even see guerilla action against the empire break out on Phezzan or in former alliance territory during that time, further fortifying our advantage. Not that we should expect too much.”
The staff officers all nodded eventually at Caselnes’s determinedly optimistic summary, although some took longer than others.
The discussion turned to the matter of Yang’s entourage.
Officers immediately began recommending themselves and others for the task. As much as they denounced Reinhard as a creature of despotism and military dictatorship, they could not deny the splendor of his presence. None among them were free of the desire to gaze upon the galaxy-conquering golden lion with their own eyes.
Yang’s wife Frederica would have accompanied him, of course, but she had come down with influenza and a fever and had been prescribed bed rest by Caselnes’s wife Hortense, who was both a teacher of the domestic arts and a master of domestic medicine.
Her husband was also excluded from consideration, as all his efforts would be needed to reconstruct the fleet’s capabilities in combat. Similarly, von Schönkopf was required to strengthen the fortress’s defenses. Attenborough would have to command the fleet in Yang’s absence; Merkatz could not be expected to call Reinhard “Your Highness”; the negligible chance of space combat would make Poplin superfluous; and Murai would be needed to oversee all the others: one by one, officers were mercilessly ruled out.
In the end, only three high-ranking officers were chosen to accompany Yang: his assistant staff officer Rear Admiral Patrichev; Commander Blumhardt, leader of the Rosen Ritter; and Lieutenant Commander “Soul” Soulzzcuaritter, former aide to Marshal Alexandor Bucock.
The small size of Yang’s retinue was partly to compensate for the outsized group chosen by Francesk Romsky, chairman of the Revolutionary Government of El Facil. Romsky would also attend the talks, and had chosen more than ten men to go with him. This, of course, was the official understanding; Oliver Poplin, for his part, believed for some time that he had actually been barred as a troublemaker.
“Blumhardt was chosen as a bodyguard, and Soul as old Bucock’s representative,” Poplin said. “Patrichev? To make Yang look better, of course. What other use would he be?”
Everyone was surprised by the absence of Julian Mintz from the list: Yang was leaving behind the one who might be called his highest lieutenant. Perhaps a convenient sort of sixth sense had been working overtime; perhaps, as the official explanation had it, he wanted Julian to serve as the overworked Caselnes’s deputy; perhaps von Schönkopf was correct in his sardonic suggestion that Yang did not want to be mistaken for Julian’s attendant; or perhaps it was simply caprice.
“Take care of the place while I’m gone, Julian,” Yang said.
Disappointment filled the young man’s face as he nodded, not as a calculated message but simply because he had not managed to put his own feelings in order.
“I wish I could just say ‘Leave it to me,’ but I’m not happy about being left behind. Wouldn’t I be of any use to you? Why Admiral Patrichev…”
Why choose Patrichev over me? This was Julian’s pride s
peaking. He was not entirely without self-awareness of this, and felt himself redden under Yang’s gaze. Yang smiled broadly and tweaked his cheek.
“You dummy,” Yang said. “Don’t you realize how long I’ve been relying on you? Ever since you first came to live with me, in fact, dragging that trunk that was bigger than you were.”
“Thank you. But…”
“If I couldn’t go, I’d have you go in my place. But I can go—so I will. That’s all there is to it.”
“Understood. I’ll be standing by for good news. Please be careful.”
“Sure. By the way, Julian—”
“Yes, sir?”
Yang leaned closer and lowered his voice to a pointed whisper. “Do you prefer Caselnes’s daughter, or von Schönkopf’s? Be honest. I need to know which way you’re headed so I can start to prepare myself.”
“Commander!”
Julian’s face burned hot enough to surprise even him. Yang noted this well, and whistled cheerfully if not skillfully. Times like this were when he seemed just the man to lead hopeless cases like von Schönkopf and Poplin.
Next, Yang went to visit his wife on her sickbed. Hortense Caselnes and her two daughters were by Frederica’s side already. Charlotte Phyllis, the older of the girls, was peeling an apple as Yang walked in. He noted that her facility with a fruit knife rivaled Frederica’s own.
“Well, Frederica,” said Yang, “I’m off to meet the most beautiful man in the galaxy. See you in about two weeks.”
“Take care. Oh, wait—your hair’s a mess.”
Desolation Page 12
