“He appears to be the poster boy of asceticism, but I wonder if that’s true. If not, one crack in his veneer is all I’d need to break him,” Dominique said. “And even if it is true, maybe we can change that, if we spend enough time.”
“There’s something else we’ll need to spend: money.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”
Which was exactly what Count von Remscheid had said.
“Life as an aide pays that well, does it? Ah, you were saying there were certain side benefits, right? Still, between Terra and refugee nobles, things are coming to a head.”
“It’s pandemonium out there. At any given moment, someone in this nation is trying to take advantage of someone else. You’ll never see anyone taking advantage of me, though.”
Rupert’s ever-graceful face appeared to fight against a momentary foreboding. He refilled his glass with more of the scarlet drink and tossed it back straight, enjoying the hot sting of it more than the taste. His stomach and throat burned. I’ll survive this, thought Rupert. Then again, so did everyone else.
IV
Rocinante was the largest privately owned merchant ship of Phezzan to have no affiliations with any large-scale interstellar trading company. Emperor Erwin Josef II, Alfred von Lansberg, Leopold Schumacher, and Commissioner Boltec, along with the child emperor’s four young maids, were its honorable guests.
It was far from the first time this ship had given safe passage to stowaways. Rocinante had been outfitted with ample storage rooms to harbor undocumented passengers on board. Secret doors opened by voiceprint identification, and warm water heated to the temperature of the human body circulated between the inner and outer walls to neutralize infrared detection. Asylum seekers were, in fact, Rocinante’s largest source of income, and Captain Bomel’s clandestine passengers had always slipped through imperial inspection undetected. Whether by playing dumb or through shameless bribery, Bomel always knew what method guaranteed the smoothest result. Commissioner Boltec, as imperial representative, had expressly chosen this ship to escort Erwin Josef out of Odin.
Bomel had been recommended directly by the commissioner and, because he’d been paid in advance, would do his utmost to deliver his honorable charge safely and comfortably to Phezzan. Naturally, etiquette barred him from attempting to determine the identity of his human cargo. And so, despite thinking a man in his prime, a younger lad, four women of around twenty, and a child made for an odd bunch, he knew better than to pry. He even relegated to his officers the serving of food and other amenities. Assuming this conveyance of refugees ended in success, there was a high chance he’d be given further opportunities to transport illustrious passengers.
Bomel’s worries began the moment he was cleared to depart from the galactic port at Odin.
“He’s an incorrigible little devil, that one,” announced one of the dejected crewmen after bringing food to the new passengers. When asked why he had a blister on his left arm, the crewman said the child had hurled an entire bowl of chicken stew at him because he didn’t like the way it smelled. When one of the girls tried to stop him, he made her cry by yanking her hair. Only then did the two men intervene. Even Bomel was surprised to hear this.
“His parents must’ve spoiled him rotten. He has no sense of right or wrong. I guess all highborn brats are the same. Anyway, you’ll have to get someone else to take him his meals. I won’t have any more of it.”
With that, the crewman headed to the sick bay to treat his burn.
Bomel had the next meal brought by another crew member, who received a deep scratch across his cheek to show for his attempt. And when a third came back with a bruised septum, even a seasoned merchant like Bomel found himself at the end of his rope. He wasn’t in the business of transporting mountain lions, he protested, and asked that he be shown some decorum. The elegant older boy prostrated himself and handed over a generous tip, and so Bomel withdrew. But just as he was about to leave, he noticed scars on the girl’s hands and face.
“Forgive me for being so forward, but children require strict discipline. An undisciplined child is no different from a wild beast.”
In response to this advice, the girl gave only a weak smile. Bomel had thought the girl to be an older sister or aunt, but now it seemed to him that she was a servant.
Only after he arrived on Phezzan and unloaded his cargo and stowaways did it dawn on Bomel that he’d been freighting none other than the sacred and inviolable emperor of the Galactic Empire. When, at a bar called De la Court, he heard a broadcast from the Free Planets Alliance regarding the emperor’s defection, he looked down at the cup clenched in his left hand.
“I don’t know if Duke von Lohengramm is an ambitious person or a usurper, but with that brat as emperor, our nation is destined to fall.”
When Bomel had brought over a meal himself, Erwin Josef II had bit him hard enough on his left hand to leave a perfect crescent of teeth marks.
Blinded by the fury of his temper, the bearer of those teeth would never be able to express himself whenever his needs weren’t met, except through violence.
I
Even as the child emperor Erwin Josef II was being abducted from the galactic imperial capital of Odin, the alliance army’s frontline base, Iserlohn Fortress, was indulging in a belated slumber.
Yang Wen-li, commander of Iserlohn Fortress and the Iserlohn Patrol Fleet, was thirty-one years old, making him the youngest to ever serve as full admiral in the Alliance Armed Forces. Slender and of medium build, his black hair was slightly unruly and longish for a military man, and he had a habit of brushing away the occasional bang from his forehead. He knew he should just get it cut, but after being chided at a hearing last spring for his long hair, he’d made it a point to keep it. He’d always been the type to go left when he was told, in no uncertain terms, to go right, and dutifully accepted the consequences of his contrariness. His eyes were jet-black, yet gentle, and even a little vacant. One biographer would later describe him as “intelligence wrapped in gentility, and gentility wrapped in intelligence,” and those who knew him wouldn’t disagree. His features were said to be “unremarkably handsome,” approaching nowhere near the elegance of his rival, Reinhard von Lohengramm. He was more often depicted rather precisely as someone looking younger than his years and like anything other than a military man.
Not that Yang Wen-li wasn’t self-aware. Against the wishes of those who’d hoped for him to become a historian, he’d advanced to lieutenant commander at twenty-one after successfully rescuing civilians on the planet El Facil, and at twenty-eight rose three ranks in the span of a year, making rear admiral in the Battle of Astarte, vice admiral in the Battle of Iserlohn, and full admiral thereafter in the Battle of Amritsar. His deeds of arms notwithstanding, the countless enemy soldiers he’d sent to their graves were reminder enough of his prowess. He was an artist on the battlefield, but was always the first to downplay the significance of his achievements. Being a soldier, he used to say, was a career that contributed nothing to civilization or humanity. He wanted to retire as soon as possible so that he could relax, enjoy his pension, and spend the rest of his life writing a historical magnum opus.
After fending off an invasion by an imperial fleet led by Gaiesburg Fortress in May, Yang had been laid flat with a cold for a week, and since getting out of bed, every day had chipped away at his tension.
Yang’s ward was Julian Mintz, a boy who’d advanced to warrant officer. One look at Yang made Julian wonder if he wasn’t just wasting his time performing high-level gymnastics inside that lonely skull of his, formulating grand tactical discourse, or pondering some deep historical philosophy. But then, Julian had nowhere near Yang’s daily drive and was prone to overestimating intellectual activity.
Yang idled away doing nothing more than signing documents, pending the de facto approval of his civilian taskmaster, Rear Admiral Alex Caselnes, and aide, L
ieutenant Frederica Greenhill. For the past two months he’d been whiling away the time in the central command room, reading history books and solving crossword puzzles, and breaking only for tea and naps. His demeanor was far from that of one hard at work. The field of his intelligence, overrun as it was with weeds, was in dire need of cultivation, crawling with gnats while its owner cared only about eating and sleeping.
Desperate to do something creative with his time, he began writing an essay on the theme of “Wine and Culture,” but after just a few lines of the introduction, his pen stopped. The sentences he’d written were nothing short of awful.
Human culture began with wine. And so will culture end with it. Wine is the seat of intelligence and emotion, and might just be the only way to distinguish humans as such from wild animals.
Julian read this far before commenting:
“I’ve seen better copy in ads for dive bars.”
Yang quickly abandoned this futile effort once he became aware of the degradation of his intellectual biorhythms. The commander of fortress defenses, Rear Admiral Walter von Schönkopf, later ribbed him for being a salary thief.
Not that von Schönkopf was a picture of military righteousness, either. Still a bachelor at thirty-four, since his days as captain serving as regiment commander of the Rosen Ritter he’d had a reputation for being fearless when it came to women. Although he was no match for ace pilot Olivier Poplin, lieutenant commander and captain of the First Fortress Spaceborne Division, together they taught Julian everything he knew about marksmanship and how to maneuver a single-seat spartanian fighter craft. Yang had assigned them to be Julian’s instructors as top representatives of their divisions, even as he worried they might drive the boy crazy.
Episodes involving von Schönkopf and Poplin were the stuff of legend. One anecdote went as follows:
One morning, just as von Schönkopf was coming out of a certain second lieutenant lady’s room, Poplin was coming out of a certain sergeant lady’s adjacent room. The two exchanged glances and left, but two mornings later they encountered each other again. Only this time, von Schönkopf was coming out of the sergeant’s room, and Poplin was leaving the second lieutenant’s.
No evidence suggested this incident had ever taken place. It was a secondhand rumor at best. That didn’t stop most from believing it. When asked about its authenticity, Poplin answered: “Why is it that only the men are identified by their real names, while the women remain anonymous? Isn’t that just a little unfair?”
Von Schönkopf, on the other hand, said: “Let’s just say my standards aren’t quite so low as Poplin’s.”
It was only natural, thought Yang, that Julian should be troubled by his mentors. Julian was an attractive young man himself. While attending the Heinessen academy, he had been named flyball MVP and had turned the heads of not a few girls in his class. There were five million people on the artificial planet of Iserlohn, and as a general’s adopted son who’d proved his valor destroying cruisers in his first campaign, he was naturally popular.
“Truth is, Julian can do everything you can’t.”
As Yang’s mentor at academy, Alex Caselnes had no reservations about teasing him. Caselnes had two daughters of his own, and it was rumored he intended to marry off the elder one, Charlotte Phyllis, to Yang. When Yang found out, he responded:
“Charlotte’s a nice girl. Her father, on the other hand…”
Yang Wen-li’s unflagging military and political acumen compelled many to think of him as some sort of clairvoyant. Only now, he felt nothing more ominous than the vaguest sense of uneasiness. He had no idea what kinds of political, diplomatic, and strategic maneuverings were taking place in the empire, on Phezzan, or even within his own alliance, and so he continued to spend every day adding to his tally of consecutive defeats in 3-D chess, paying mind to the amount of brandy he added to his black tea.
II
On August 20, what would come to be known as the “Crooked Pact of SE 798” was publicly revealed. The Crooked Pact in question was a cooperative alliance between the old galactic imperial regime and the Free Planets Alliance against the Lohengramm dictatorship.
The Free Planets Alliance accepted the defection of Emperor Erwin Josef II and officially recognized Count Jochen von Remscheid as prime minister of the government-in-exile, otherwise known as the “legitimate galactic imperial government.” In the event the government-in-exile overthrew the Lohengramm order and returned to its motherland, it would establish equal diplomatic relations with the Free Planets Alliance, enter treaties of mutual nonaggression and commerce, and encourage sociopolitical democratization through establishment of a constitution and parliament. The Free Planets Alliance further guaranteed that the legitimate galactic imperial government would restore all rights to their original owners, cooperate fully, and establish a new and permanent peaceful order.
The alliance’s High Council chairman Trünicht and the legitimate galactic imperial government’s prime minister had reached an agreement in early August but had found it necessary to exercise discretion in publicizing it. The path to agreement was no by means even-keeled.
Erwin Josef II, along with Alex Caselnes, had already entered Free Planets Alliance territory in the middle of July. Under direct orders from Chairman Trünicht, both had been sheltered by Admiral Dawson in the Joint Operational Headquarters building. Although Dawson’s abilities as a combatant were weak, he could be counted on in matters of utmost secrecy. Negotiations between both parties exceeded three weeks, after which time Count von Remscheid reluctantly promised to transition into a constitutional government.
That very afternoon, on August 20, Julian was talking with the black-haired admiral at Iserlohn Fortress.
“I hear Chairman Trünicht will be giving an urgent and important address.”
“If it’s urgent, then surely it must be important,” responded Yang. His blunt attitude showed he had no interest in hearing about anything that didn’t require his attention. But when orders came from Heinessen for all soldiers to watch their FTL screens, Yang said to himself, I guess this, too, comes with the job. He was nonetheless somewhat taken aback when the chairman’s face appeared on the screen.
“To all citizens of the Free Planets Alliance: I, High Council Chairman Job Trünicht, am pleased to announce that a huge gift has been visited upon all of humanity. I am proud and overwhelmed to be the one to deliver this historic announcement.”
Rejoice all you want, cursed Yang internally. Perhaps to the detriment of both sides, the alliance’s youngest admiral had zero respect for its ruler and regarded him with sheer hatred.
“Recently, a defector in search of asylum became a guest of our free nation. Many people, fleeing from the cruel hands of despotism, have come here in pursuit of a free world, and we have never turned away a single refugee. But this refugee is special. You know his name: Erwin Josef von Goldenbaum.”
He waited a few moments to let that sink in, enjoying the effect of his words.
Ever the demagogic politician, Trünicht was in fine form, and his announcement struck the thirteen billion citizens of the Free Planets Alliance like a giant lightning bolt devoid of light, heat, and sound. Half of the population gasped in shock, while the other half simply stared at the figure of their ruler as he puffed his chest on their screens.
The emperor of the Galactic Empire had fled, throwing away the nation he was supposed to rule, along with the people he was supposed to rule over. It was enough to make anyone question what they knew of the world.
“My dear citizens of the alliance,” Chairman Trünicht went on shamelessly. “Reinhard von Lohengramm of the Galactic Empire, after purging his opposition by brute military force, now desires full dictatorial power. He abuses the emperor, who is barely seven years old, changes laws at whim, appoints cronies to key posts, and treats worlds as his personal possessions. It’s not a question of the empire only, for n
ow he has his devilish sights set on our very nation. He wants nothing less than despotic control over the entire universe, and is trying to extinguish the flame of freedom and democracy that our people have sheltered for so long. His very existence is a threat to our own. At this juncture, we have no choice but to throw away the past and work together with all unfortunate souls who have been sent running by von Lohengramm. The time has come for us to protect ourselves from the enormous threat he poses to all of humanity. By averting this threat, we can at last make lasting peace a reality.”
Since the Dagon Annihilation of SE 640, year 331 of the imperial calendar, the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance had been at constant odds. In that time, no small number of politicians had struggled to establish mutual nonintervention and trade pacts between their respective political systems. These attempts, however, had been thwarted at every turn by zealots and fundamentalists on both sides. One side regarded the enemy as rebels who went against everything His Imperial Majesty stood for; the other as viewed its adversary an autocratic state. By disavowing each other’s existence, had they not scattered the bodies of countless compatriots across battlefields through excessive military force in their quests for justice?
Joining forces toward a common goal was a complete turnaround. It was no wonder people were surprised.
Julian quickly ran his eyes across those gathered in the central control room. Even the sharpest of tongues, like those of Caselnes and von Schönkopf, were dulled into awed silence. Yang, for his part, was unsure what to feel, but watched closely as a gray-haired figure appeared on-screen.
“I am the secretary of state of the legitimate imperial government, Jochen von Remscheid. I cannot express the depth of my gratitude to the Free Planets Alliance, by whose humane consideration I have been granted the opportunity and a base of operations to restore justice to our fatherland. On behalf of all our comrades, whose names I will now read, I give you my sincerest thanks.”
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