Desolation

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  I

  ON JUNE 12, before the imperial capital’s move to Phezzan had been officially decided, Senior Admiral Neidhart Müller of the Imperial Navy arrived at Iserlohn Fortress as Kaiser Reinhard’s funeral envoy. His flagship Parzival had made the voyage alone, and the only officers with him were Rear Admiral Orlau and Captain Ratzel.

  Müller’s visit naturally struck the people of Iserlohn as odd. There was even some suspicion that he might be a “dead agent,” but for the kaiser to sacrifice a man of such importance to his military was inconceivable. Nor, Julian thought, would such treachery be in accordance with his nature.

  Walter von Schönkopf agreed, although the comment he offered was less than direct. “Kaiser Reinhard loves to put on airs,” he said. “He didn’t resort to tricks like that when Marshal Yang was alive, and he’s certainly not going to now that only us small fry are left.”

  “Wen-li often spoke highly of Admiral Müller,” said Frederica. “I’m sure he would be happy about this visit. I say we let them meet one last time.”

  And so it was decided. Müller was invited inside the fortress.

  Müller was exactly thirty years of age, with hair and eyes both the color of sand. He greeted the representatives of Iserlohn with a solemnity bordering on reverence. He was no great orator, but his sincerity was obvious in his words of condolence and in his attitude when paying his respects to Yang’s remains in their ceramic case.

  “I am delighted to meet you,” he said to Frederica. “Your husband was our greatest, mightiest enemy.”

  Julian had met Siegfried Kircheis three years earlier, when the imperial commander had visited Iserlohn to represent the empire at a prisoner exchange. Kircheis had impressed Julian deeply. He was not the type of man to argue forcefully for his positions, but he had burned an unforgettable memory into Julian’s head before departing. When he had heard the news of Kircheis’s death, he had been struck by the distinct feeling that a star had sunk below the horizon.

  Thinking back also on his meeting with August Samuel Wahlen while in disguise on Terra, Julian realized that none of the highest admirals of the Imperial Navy he had met in person had seemed to him unpleasant people. He was moved anew by the depth of Kaiser Reinhard’s wisdom in selecting and appointing such leaders.

  Müller did not prolong his visit, largely to forestall any suspicion that he was there to spy on the situation inside the fortress. During the brief period before his departure, he spoke with Julian over coffee in a room overlooking the port.

  “Herr Mintz,” he began, showing respect for the boy twelve years his junior with his choice of honorific. No doubt he would have observed protocol in dealing with any representative of Yang Wan-li, regardless of age, but kindness toward those below him in the hierarchy seemed to be in his nature. This did not imply a lack of courage on the battlefield: despite his own relative youth, Müller had changed flagships three times during the Vermillion War as he struggled to frustrate Yang’s designs.

  “Herr Mintz, I was not granted any political authority by the kaiser, but if you should wish to discuss peace with His Majesty, or offer your allegiance, I would be happy to act as messenger.”

  If the words had been spoken in the superior tone of a victor, Julian might have replied with violent outrage. The fact that they were not left him without an immediate reply. After climbing the slope of thought for a few moments, he said, “Commander Müller, I hope you will forgive my making this analogy, but—if the kaiser you love and respect were to pass on, would you change the flag you salute?”

  “Iron Wall Müller” understood the import of the question at once. “Herr Mintz, it is just as you say. I spoke foolishly. I am the one who should ask your forgiveness.” He bowed his head in apology before a slightly embarrassed Julian.

  Internally, Julian was considering another hypothetical. If he himself had been born in the Galactic Empire, he mused, he probably would have wanted to become a military man like Müller. He recalled something Yang had once said in connection with his meeting with Kircheis: “Even the finest human beings have to kill each other if they’re on opposite sides.” As that memory played behind his retinas, Julian bid Müller farewell.

  “I suppose our next meeting will be on the battlefield,” said Müller. “Be well until then.”

  “And the same to you.”

  The smile in Müller’s eyes was so gentle it was hard to believe he was Julian’s enemy, but this warmth was soon replaced by the shadow of confusion. The port was full of freighters busily preparing for departure, and long lines had formed of men and women waiting to board with luggage in tow. They wore clothing of all kinds, but those dressed carelessly in former alliance uniforms stood out.

  “Who are they?” asked Müller. “If I may ask, of course.”

  “They are the ones who have given up on Iserlohn’s future and have decided to put it behind them,” said Julian. “Commander Müller, I know I have no standing to ask such a favor, but if the Imperial Navy could guarantee them safe passage back to Heinessen, I would be very grateful.”

  Müller was not the only one surprised by how these departures had played out. When Julian had decided to throw open the fortress’s stores so that those leaving Iserlohn could take supplies with them, von Schönkopf had argued against it. Even if they could produce enough to replenish those stores eventually, he said, there was no need to hand over their purse to bandits.

  “We can’t store more than we need in any case,” Julian had replied. “Far better that they should take and freely use what they need to. They aren’t getting any salaries or pensions, after all.”

  “You’re too accommodating for your own good,” had been von Schönkopf’s assessment, delivered through a rueful smile.

  Now it seemed that Müller was just as taken aback by Julian’s magnanimity, enemy or not.

  “Regarding the guarantee, you have my word,” he said. “But, if you will pardon the question, will you not face trouble in later days if some of those departing choose to cooperate with our forces?”

  “Yes,” said Julian. “A great deal of trouble. But that is something we will simply have to endure. Some may be compelled by force, and it would be wrong to criticize them for that.”

  Müller studied Julian with his sandy-colored eyes, as if truly seeing for the first time how much the apprentice had learned from the master. And then, with a final smile of goodwill, Müller departed Iserlohn.

  After seeing Müller off, Julian spoke with Caselnes.

  “Putting the future aside, it seems that right now Kaiser Reinhard is able to process the Iserlohn problem within the limits of individual sentiment,” said Julian, sipping a cup of tea he had brewed himself. “It seems to me that the kaiser lost his will to fight the moment Marshal Yang disappeared, on a level much deeper than mere politics or war.”

  “You have a point,” said Caselnes. “I suppose that, without Yang Wen-li, Iserlohn Fortress is just some pebble on the periphery to him.”

  “But that isn’t actually the case.” Julian began to retrace his own thoughts. “The kaiser will relocate his capital to Phezzan. That will make Phezzan Corridor an artery joining the newly unified empire and uniting its influence. Development of the peripheral sectors will begin, starting from the direction of the Phezzan Corridor, and the expansion of human society itself will have Phezzan at its center. History and society will move on without Iserlohn. These, I think, are the kaiser’s intentions.”

  “A logical idea, I suppose, given his position. What surprises me is that you were able to tease it out. Your feel for strategy is remarkable.”

  Julian nodded at Caselnes’s praise, but it was a reflexive gesture rather than a sign of agreement. He was desperately trying to re-create the strategic map that Yang had had in mind before his death. There were some things that only he could decide as best he could, but in the end he had nothing else to rely on.


  “The kaiser’s attempt to conquer Iserlohn was rooted in emotion. He was fixated on Iserlohn Corridor not because the fortress was there but because Marshal Yang was.”

  “I suppose so. So the moment Yang died, he reverted to his cold-blooded strategist side, then? What do you suppose comes next?”

  “This is a hope, not a prediction, but…”

  “You’re sounding like Yang already,” Caselnes teased. Julian laughed. It sounded to Caselnes like the most adult laugh he had heard from Julian yet, but this may have been his fondness for the boy at work.

  “Marshal Yang always said that Iserlohn Fortress’s strategic value was predicated on Iserlohn Corridor having a different political and military power at each end.”

  “Yes, he told me that too.”

  “The reason we enjoy peace and security now is, ironically enough, because we no longer have that value. But if that value were to be restored—in other words, if the empire were to fracture—a turning point would come to Iserlohn.”

  “Hmm.”

  “In any case, I don’t think the situation will change too suddenly. Ahle Heinessen, founding father of the alliance, took fifty years to complete his Long March. We should be prepared to endure at least that long.”

  “In fifty years, I’ll be almost ninety—If I’m still living at all.” Caselnes rubbed his chin with a rueful smile. He was thirty-nine and still in his prime, but the only remaining member of the leadership older than him was Merkatz. “You know, I’m still impressed by the way you and Mrs. Yang took on such unrewarding roles. People are bound to criticize her, saying that she leveraged her husband’s name into political power for herself. As for you, when you get it wrong, you’ll face a storm of criticism, and when you get it right, people will say you just stole Yang’s ideas or that some of his luck rubbed off on you.”

  “As long as I do get it right, people can say what they like,” Julian replied simply.

  By the end of July, everyone who wanted to leave Iserlohn Fortress had done so. Those who remained were finally able to begin the task of creating a new organization.

  There were 944,087 of them in all—612,906 men and 331,181 women. Most of those women were married or related to one of the men, and few lived alone. The gender imbalance, though unavoidable, was sure to cause problems before long.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Olivier Poplin said. “Almost half the men in here have no prospects at all, and frankly I’m not interested in helping out the losers either.”

  This grand declaration was made in a voice faintly redolent of alcohol, and Julian realized with quiet happiness that Poplin was recovering from his psychological slump.

  “In the end, though,” Poplin continued, “We have to keep an organized military. Which means we’re not going to just suddenly establish a new state.”

  What would they do, then? Julian needed new ideas.

  II

  Amid the turbulence caused by Yang Wen-li’s death and Kaiser Reinhard’s order to move the capital, the war appeared to subside to an extent, giving way to a season of peace. It could be said that Yang’s assassins had opened the curtain on that season, but not one of them had lived to enjoy the fruits of what they had wrought.

  The two imperial destroyers used in the assassination had been found in early July, one as a burned-out husk drifting in a sector near Leda II, and the other intercepted by a cruiser group commanded by Senior Admiral Büro as it fled the scene of the crime. The second destroyer had ignored Büro’s orders to halt, opening fire on its pursuers instead, but it had never had a chance. Under the concentrated glare of a dozen energy beams, it had blossomed into a fireball that consumed everyone aboard.

  Thus were the men who had carried out the assassination of Yang “martyred” to the last. The one whose blaster had fired the killing shot was never even identified by name.

  An investigation was, of course, immediately opened regarding the circumstances under which the assassins had posed as imperial troops, but the suicide of ten officers of the Imperial Navy made progress extremely difficult, if not quite impossible. It was clear that these men had encouraged the martyrs in their self-satisfied intoxication.

  As governor-general of the Neue Land, Oskar von Reuentahl ranked alongside the various ministry secretaries, and his military and political authority extended across the entire territory that the Free Planets Alliance had occupied until the previous year, with 35,800 ships and 5,226,500 troops under his direct command. This fleet was officially named the Neue Land Security Force, but it was known informally as the Reuentahl Fleet.

  As his base of operations and the home of his administration, von Reuentahl chose the Euphonia, a luxury hotel that had often hosted receptions and conferences for the alliance government in the past.

  The Neue Land Security Force had five million officers and enlisted troops, making it larger even than the alliance military in its final period. Perhaps it was simply too much physical power to be commanded by one man. Five million souls, stationed in what had been enemy territory until yesterday, all longing for home—and it was von Reuentahl’s responsibility to keep them together. The pressure would have crushed an ordinary man.

  But von Reuentahl accepted the position without betraying a hint of concern. Within days, he had proved himself an effective leader and administrator even off the battlefield. By the end of July, the former citizens of the Free Planets Alliance had come to accept, if not welcome, the governor-general’s rule. Their consumer lifestyles had not sunk below the levels reached in the last days of the alliance, and public safety had been maintained. Despite the millions of imperial troops among them who enjoyed extraterritoriality, military discipline was strict and no atrocities occurred. If anything, crimes committed by those who had fled the former alliance fleet after the death of Yang were a greater problem.

  Von Reuentahl divided his official authority into two domains—military affairs and public safety, and civic administration—each overseen by a deputy. For the first domain, he appointed to the post of inspector general of the military his faithful and long-serving lieutenant Admiral Hans Eduard Bergengrün.

  Some, including Grillparzer and von Knapfstein, were dissatisfied with this decision. They were full admirals as much as Bergengrün, and resented being under his authority, even if only formally. In fact, because they had moved from being subordinates of Lennenkamp to the being under the direct control of the kaiser, they actually felt somewhat superior to the new inspector general.

  As deputy inspector general, von Reuentahl chose Vice Admiral Ritschel, who had served as secretary-general of the outpost in Gandharva under Senior Admiral Steinmetz and was recognized for his practical ability and knowledge of domestic conditions in the former alliance. Ritschel was less warrior than home-front military official, and so he had not fought in the Battle of the Corridor and had been spared the fate of dying alongside his commanding officer. This was a lower position in the hierarchy, and so did not arouse the ire of the full admirals.

  Aware of Grillparzer and von Knapfstein’s grumbling, von Reuentahl eventually summoned them to the governor-general’s office and set them straight in his acid-tongued way.

  “So, you have issues with my choice of inspector general. Were you aware that Bergengrün is older than you and has been a full admiral for longer? And tell me: If I had made one of you inspector general instead of Bergengrün, how exactly would the other have reacted?”

  Both left without another word, never to voice such dissatisfaction again—at least not in public.

  On the civic front, von Reuentahl accepted Kaiser Reinhard’s recommendation and chose the technocrat Julius Elsheimer as his deputy. Elsheimer had served ably if briefly as undersecretary of works and of civil affairs for the empire, making him a suitable director general of civil affairs in the Neue Land. Coincidentally, he was also the brother-in-law of Senior Admiral Kornelias Lutz,
as the husband of Lutz’s younger sister.

  And then there was Trünicht, high counselor to the governorate. Elsheimer was a capable official, but unfamiliar with the internal affairs of the former alliance. An advisor was what he needed, but he doubted he could expect useful service from a man who had abandoned his responsibility to his nation and his people in favor of securing his own personal security.

  “I confess I find this appointment curious,” said Bergengrün. “After the unfortunate death of Yang Wen-li, the kaiser sends the former head of the alliance back home as an imperial official? Is this His Majesty’s way of making a cynical joke at democracy’s expense?”

  Von Reuentahl, however, understood the kaiser’s feeling at least in part. No doubt his aim was to embarrass this brazen-faced former alliance official. Trünicht may have had the talent and dedication to become head of state and chief executive of an entire nation, but what drove him was the exact opposite of Reinhard’s aesthetic consciousness.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. Trünicht’s abilities and knowledge might be useful, but the man himself needn’t have any influence on decision-making.”

  “We will use him, but not trust him,” was von Reuentahl’s comment, retained for posterity in the official records. The heterochromiac governor-general intended to dispose of Trünicht at the first hint of suspicious or subversive behavior. Making a point of accepting the man, unpleasant as he was, would help create that pretext for eliminating him.

  Another problem von Reuentahl faced around this time was the people who had left Iserlohn Fortress and sought to return to Heinessen.

  When news of this first reached him, von Reuentahl’s eyes filled with thought. For Ritschel, however, the memory of having lost his commanding officer in a battle with these people only days ago was too fresh for him to feel positively inclined toward them.