“How would you like to come to my place for breakfast?” he offered.
His wife, Evangeline, was a gourmet cook, or so he was always saying, and Mittermeier had yet to partake of her specialty—a dish she called “Gale Wolf.”
“Sure. I guess I could let you talk me into it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with following orders.”
“On occasion, no.”
The two of them walked shoulder to shoulder down the corridor, bowing to a few soldiers who passed them by.
“All things considered, it’s just like Duke von Lohengramm to keep his cool under such dire circumstances,” said Mittermeier, his voice full of admiration.
He was just trying to make conversation, but those words lodged themselves in von Reuentahl’s brain. Rescuing an emperor from a powerful retainer was the stuff of fairy tales, and he couldn’t believe the act had been committed so recklessly. Someone out there stood to gain from it.
Duke von Lohengramm not least of all.
If Reinhard had the seven-year-old emperor killed, he would be attacked outright for his cruelty, but an abduction put him at a far enough remove to keep his hands clean. Duke von Lohengramm could then use the apparent involvement of the Free Planets Alliance as an excuse to launch an all-out offensive against the Alliance Armed Forces on an unprecedented scale. This whole drama was about to shake humanity to its core as nothing less than a prelude to a political and military sea change. The heterochromatic admiral could hear his own blood raging inside him. Or was it just the excitement of diversifying his choices for the future?
“I suppose we can expect deployment on an unprecedented scale at any given moment,” muttered Mittermeier.
Von Reuentahl couldn’t tell whether Mittermeier had reached this conclusion on his own or by influence of suggestion. Either way, the noses of men in high positions of power worked better than most in times of war, picking up on the subtlest pheromones of change.
These two young admirals, the “Twin Ramparts” of the Imperial Navy, had shared the same thought. Invading alliance territory without penetrating the Iserlohn Corridor meant coming face-to-face with Iserlohn Fortress Commander Yang Wen-li. The man who in May had reduced their comrade Karl Gustav Kempf to space dust. Even if they could defeat him, the road to getting there wouldn’t be won without a long, hard fight. Von Reuentahl and Mittermeier respected their enemy. Little did they know that Reinhard was already considering an invasion through the Phezzan Corridor.
III
On the planet of Phezzan, separated from the imperial capital of Odin by tens of thousands of light-years of darkness, Landesherr Adrian Rubinsky was listening to chief aide Rupert Kesselring’s report.
According to Count Alfred von Lansberg and Leopold Schumacher, following his “rescue” from Neue Sans Souci, the child emperor had managed to pass undetected through the galactic military police’s search network. He’d been stowed away in a secret cargo bay of Rocinante, a Phezzan-bound merchant ship, due to arrive in two weeks. On Phezzan, they would rendezvous with Count von Remscheid and his refugees, demanding asylum the moment they entered Free Planets Alliance territory. And when it was officially announced, all but a select few would be shaken to their cores.
After hearing this report, Rubinsky put a hand to his stern jaw.
“Even with the emperor gone, Duke von Lohengramm isn’t likely to take the throne without putting some puppet in charge first.”
“I agree. Claiming the throne for himself too soon would destroy the Empire, or at the very least deliver it a fatal blow. His internal administration is already in place, but he’s banking on a huge military success to seal the deal.”
“And I suspect that’s what he’ll get. In any case, Duke von Lohengramm has always been a step ahead. Boltec hasn’t done so badly for himself, either.”
“About that—per my own information gathering, it seems Commissioner Boltec leaves much to be desired.”
Rubinsky turned to the young chief aide, his own son, and narrowed his eyes.
“And yet Duke von Lohengramm took no measures to prevent the emperor from being abducted. Boltec’s negotiations were obviously effective against Duke von Lohengramm, no?”
“On the surface, yes, it looks that way, but change Commissioner Boltec from subject to object and you can see how the report works in his favor.”
“You mean to say it’s Boltec who’s been taken advantage of?”
“Exactly.”
Rupert Kesselring had knowingly fed Boltec compromising information. This man, who might one day stand in his way as a future rival, would need to be ousted from center stage as soon as possible. Rupert Kesselring was no graceful loser.
Although Boltec had been overflowing with confidence when he responded to Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm’s summons, he was overcome by intense displeasure by the time he returned to the commissioner’s office. Boltec could easily imagine his negotiations with Duke von Lohengramm bringing about unexpected results. Perhaps he’d made light of Duke von Lohengramm’s prowess, and it hadn’t been necessary to barter with him in the first place. Maybe Lohengramm had planned to facilitate the child emperor’s abduction all along, flaunt Phezzan’s strength, and give himself the upper hand. The moment the child emperor arrived in Phezzan, his whereabouts would be made known to Duke von Lohengramm, who would then join this performance and be made to dance. He’d played one too many tricks. It was a considerable misstep.
If Boltec, however, had been forced into promising Duke von Lohengramm right of way through the Phezzan Corridor, even Rupert couldn’t help but gloat over his rival’s mistakes. It was only appropriate that passage be granted through the Phezzan Corridor to extend Duke von Lohengramm’s hegemonic reach, but that opportunity had to be chosen with the utmost discretion and, more importantly, at the right price. There was no point in selling himself short.
Rupert thought that Duke von Lohengramm had been dealt a serious blow by the alliance and had been baited with passage through the Phezzan Corridor. And when his opponent was in trouble, he would strengthen his position by lending a helping hand for a return favor. Even then, he wasn’t likely to be welcomed, and he would rather have his derision ignored than undergo the mess of having his ulterior motives laid bare.
“Assuming Boltec is the only one in the wrong, we’ve nothing to worry about. But if this is to the disadvantage of all of Phezzan, then I’d say we have a huge problem on our hands. In particular, with Duke von Lohengramm as our opponent, the future looks dire.”
“I haven’t decided whether he has failed us. Don’t proceed as such quite yet. The emperor hasn’t even reached Phezzan.”
Rupert started to object, but thought better of it. Even he saw the drawback of being seen to take pleasure in his rival’s mistakes. The nature of Boltec’s blunder would come to light sooner or later. And besides, thought Rupert cynically, if Commissioner Boltec’s error meant the downfall of Landesherr Rubinsky, then Rupert should rather hope for it. When the Phezzan Corridor was surrendered to the Imperial Navy, the countless citizens who believed in Phezzan’s independence and neutrality would be outraged. How would the Black Fox of Phezzan reveal himself then? Would he borrow the Imperial Navy’s military power and go all out? Would be capitalize on Terra’s authority and force all into acquiescence? Would he resolve things through his own popularity and political savvy? However he did it, he would bring about a dramatic transformation in the long history of Phezzan. Profound reactions were guaranteed. This was turning out to be more interesting by the moment.
After leaving the landesherr’s office, Rupert Kesselring took half a day’s journey from the capital to the Izmail District to pay a visit to exiled noble Count von Remscheid. News of Alfred von Lansberg’s successful “rescue” of the emperor made him ecstatic.
“Clearly, Odin has had a hand in this. There’s justice in this world after all.”
Count von Remscheid asked him to forgive his spontaneous laughter and had a bottle of ’82 white brought to him. After expressing heartfelt gratitude on that point, Rupert redirected his attention to top secret matters, including the emperor’s defection to the Free Planets Alliance. The noble in exile nodded.
“I took the liberty of drawing up a list of the shadow government’s cabinet ministers. Given the emergency, it still needs some fine-tuning.”
“A most expedient measure.”
It was indeed an emergency, for von Remscheid had had his eyes on the prime minister’s seat ever since learning of plans to rescue the emperor. Even if he lacked the appropriate qualifications for the job, it was only natural for a man of his political aspirations to aim high.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d very much like to see that list, Count.”
In anticipation of this request, he was already putting the list in Rupert’s hands. Count von Remscheid’s wine-flushed cheeks relaxed into a smile.
“Well, this was supposed to be classified, but given how much we’ll be indebted to Phezzan, the legitimate imperial government should know about it.”
“Of course, Your Excellency will have Phezzan’s full support. We’ll be forced to put up a weak political front, but please know that, even as we obey him, our true loyalties will be with Your Excellency.”
Rupert reverently took the sheet of paper titled “Legitimate Imperial Galactic Government Cabinet Roll” and ran his eyes down its column of surnames:
Secretary-General and Secretary of State: Count von Remscheid
Secretary of Defense: Senior Admiral Merkatz
Secretary of the Interior: Baron Radbruch
Secretary of Finance: Viscount Schaezler
Secretary of Justice: Viscount Herder
Secretary of the Imperial Household: Baron Hosinger
Chief Cabinet Secretary: Baron Carnap
Rupert looked up from the list, forcing a smile at the nobleman he despised.
“I appreciate your efforts in this selection.”
“You’ll note the high number of refugees in this list. I can assure you they swear undying allegiance to His Majesty. They might limit us in the long run, but they’re useful for now. All I ask is that you have faith in us and in those we’ve chosen on your behalf.”
“I trust you won’t mind if I ask one question. It’s only natural Your Excellency should oversee the cabinet as secretary-general, but why not assume the role of imperial prime minister?”
Count von Remscheid looked at once pleased and confused by this question.
“I considered that, of course, but it’s a bit of an overreach. I would prefer the chair of imperial prime minister after I’ve returned to the imperial capital of Odin, by His Majesty’s order.”
If those were his true feelings, thought Rupert, then this was a strange matter in which to be exercising restraint.
“Granted, but you simply must take on that role at all costs. We cannot allow Duke von Lohengramm, to say nothing of the universe at large, any grounds on which to undermine the viability of the legitimate imperial government.”
“I agree, but…”
Count von Remscheid was being evasive. It then dawned on Rupert that he’d given more than enough encouragement to the high nobles remaining in the imperial capital and that he likely wanted to avoid doing anything that would benefit the von Lohengramm camp.
“Let’s table that discussion for another day. How are we going to deal with His Majesty’s kidnappers, Count von Lansberg and Captain Schumacher?”
“Of course, we haven’t forgotten about that. Count von Lansberg is prepared to take the seat of undersecretary of military affairs. Schumacher, for the time being, has been conferred the rank of commodore and has designs to make an aide of Merkatz. He did fight against that golden brat in the battlespace, after all.”
Rupert reexamined the name of the man nominated for secretary of defense: Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, supreme commander of the noble Alliance Armed Forces during last year’s Lippstadt War. His tactics were sound, born of a military career spanning four decades. It seemed this veteran solider, who now had taken on the title of “guest admiral” for the alliance and was working at Iserlohn Fortress as Yang Wen-li’s advisor, had been groomed to antagonize Reinhard von Lohengramm. For half a century, he’d lived the simple life of a capable military man devoted to his empire.
“It’s only natural that Admiral Merkatz should be defense secretary, but what about his intentions and the leanings of the alliance?”
“I can’t imagine his intentions are disingenuous. So long as the alliance recognizes the government-in-exile, they’ll hand over Merkatz without question.”
“I see. And how are we to deal with the troops under his command?”
Given the futility of this question, it wasn’t an eventuality for which even Rupert had planned. Rupert thought, with rare emotion, that here was the type of evil noble who had embellished ambitions beyond his means with just cause, and it brought out the worst in him. Rupert detested this man. His father, Adrian Rubinsky, would have shut down this line of questioning long before it went this far.
Rupert’s question was an exercise in unconscious ridicule, and the one attuned to it was not the asker but the one being asked. Count von Remscheid was aware that his heated blood had quickly turned cold, but he kept any of this from showing on his face.
“The refugees are growing restless. They mustn’t be allowed to train and organize themselves. The problem is a matter of cost.”
“If it’s expenses you’re worried about, don’t be. Just tell me how much you require, and consider it done.”
“You’re too kind.”
Rupert hadn’t said “free of charge.” He kept his mouth shut regarding the official receipt and auditing of expenses. Once the legitimate imperial government’s debt to Phezzan reached a certain level, they would need to be more careful. As one of its founding fathers, Rupert never thought the legitimate government would be able to repay its debt. This was only the desire of a small group of people, an unfortunate bastard child dropped into nothingness. As a mere reflection of its own misfortune, its only fate was to die a calculated death. Of course, if the child had vitality and ambition, that was a different matter—like Rupert Kesselring, for example. But that was a shot in the dark at best.
Rupert Kesselring had a lot on his plate. For someone as young and possessed of physical and mental stamina as he was, who straddled the public and private spheres, nothing was as valuable as time. After asking Count von Remscheid to copy the list of government-in-exile cabinet members, he retired for the night. All traces of the day had by then disappeared, and an evening chill had begun to weave its way through the dry air. The next morning, he would go to the landesherr’s main office, and he had arranged for an overnight stay.
Rupert had been born in SE 775, Imperial Year 466, making him a year older than Reinhard von Lohengramm. This year he would be twenty-three. Kesselring was the surname of his mother, one of the many lovers to have passed through Landesherr Adrian Rubinsky’s life. Or maybe she’d been his only. Rubinsky wasn’t the most handsome of men, yet he held a certain magnetic attraction over women which future biographers would go to great lengths to verify.
Officially, Adrian Rubinsky had no children of any gender. And yet here I stand, thought Rupert, lifting a corner of his mouth. As an agent of Terra, his father was the lowest form of human filth to have ever deceived the people of Phezzan. Which made Rupert his excrement. Like father, like son, indeed.
Rupert arrived at a grand mansion in the Sheepshorn District. He opened his landcar window and placed his right hand on the gatepost. Once his palm print was confirmed, the carved bronze gate opened without a sound.
The mansion’s owner was a woman of many titles. Owner of a jewelry store, her own nightclub, and se
veral cargo ships, she was also a onetime singer, dancer, and actress. None of these occupations held much meaning. As one of Landesherr Adrian Rubinsky’s mistresses, she would never be recorded in the annals of history as someone of importance, despite being a major source of influence over politicians and merchants behind the scenes. These days, Rubinsky called on her less often, so it was probably more appropriate to call her his “standby mistress.” She—Dominique Saint-Pierre—had been nineteen years old when, working as a singer at a club eight years ago, she’d fallen in love with Rubinsky at first sight, before he’d assumed the landesherr title. Rubinsky had told her how entranced he was by her lively dancing, how beautifully she sang, how impressed he was by her intelligence. She was a beautiful woman with reddish-brown hair, although not as beautiful as any number of other women, and so she’d flown relatively under the radar.
The woman who greeted her guest inside spoke to him in a songlike manner.
“I take it you’ll be spending the night, Rupert?”
“Even though I’m a poor substitute for my father.”
“Don’t be silly. Then again, it is just like you to say that. Want a drink?”
“Sure, I’ll take a drink first. Mind if I ask you a favor while I’m sober?” said the younger of Dominique’s two lovers as she brought him a bottle of scarlet-colored cider whisky and some ice cubes from the salon.
“Go ahead, what is it?”
“There’s a bishop of Terra named Degsby.”
“I know him. His face is unusually pale.”
“I want to know what his weaknesses are.”
She asked if this was to make an ally of him.
“No. To make him bow down before me.”
The arrogance of his expression and tone were almost harsh, or maybe he was just getting himself riled up. The battle he would soon face would be no small ordeal, but he didn’t want an ally who was his equal. What he did want was someone to make an unconditional sacrifice for him.
Stratagem Page 7
