Reinhard gave a silent nod, cupping the wings of his imagination around a lone figure.
Yang Wen-li. The youngest and most resourceful general of the Alliance Armed Forces. Military men decorated at such a young age tended to be jealous of smaller achievements. Assuming he was content with being forced into the position of secretary-general of the new empire, would he be able to steadfastly maintain loyalty to his democratic nation? It was a significant proposition.
He had to stop letting others play around with his destiny and make them rule over their own destinies instead. Reinhard had thought this way ever since he’d been a boy, when things were stolen from him that should never have been stolen. Reinhard could no longer justify these infractions unconditionally. He’d discovered any number of reasons to ostracize himself from the old regime of the Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance, and grab all the power for himself. The imminent Lohengramm Dynasty would stop at nothing to bring about universal peace. His reign, compared to that of the old regime, was fairer and, compared to the Free Planets Alliance, far more efficient. At least he would never entrust a large fleet to those debauched high nobles, who could only boast of their pedigree and family connections or shake the power of agitating politicians who moved an ignorant populace with their sophistry and pandering to public interests. Even to a man like Yang Wen-li, the path to might was wide open. And yet, no matter how his numerous talents came together, Reinhard knew he could never make up for the loss of his late redheaded friend a year before.
Hildegard von Mariendorf had lingering misgivings about Reinhard’s strategy for full-spectrum hegemony. She said as much when they were alone.
“Is there no way to a peaceful coexistence with the Free Planets Alliance?”
The question was a rhetorical one, devoid of value beyond the asking.
“No. They had their chance,” said Reinhard a little too indifferently, so that Hilda wondered what was weighing on his mind. “True Machiavellians would’ve seen no point in getting sentimental over the emperor’s age. If only they’d apprehended and deported the emperor and his kidnappers, it would have been beyond my power to take either political or military action against them. They’ve signed their own death warrant.”
Reinhard believed that second-rate Machiavellians holding a monopoly on power was the sign of a ruined country. In his mind, he’d arrived at a crucial point when, in conjunction with the inevitable and the historically indeterminate, the Goldenbaum Dynasty and the Free Planets Alliance were squandering their own destinies. Nevertheless, Reinhard couldn’t stand to think of himself as a mere tool of history. He had every intention of bringing the Goldenbaum Dynasty to ruin and lifting Rudolf’s tenacious five-century curse from humanity’s shoulders. But still…
“Fräulein.”
“Yes, Duke von Lohengramm?”
“Do you find my ways unscrupulous?”
Hilda was at a momentary loss. The look in those ice-blue eyes was a little too serious.
“And if I said no, would it please Your Excellency?” she said at last, not knowing the answer he was fishing for.
The young duke adorned his face with a wry smile.
“I’m grateful to you, fräulein. Truly. Had I gone to that mountain villa myself, I’m sure my sister wouldn’t have seen me. She never would’ve agreed to my guards if you hadn’t persuaded her.”
Hilda sensed a difference between Reinhard’s way of doing things as a ruler and the boyish frankness of this fraternal regret. She knew it was silly to wonder which was the real Reinhard, but couldn’t help but imagine which of those skins he’d end up wearing.
“Although my sister hates me, I would never undo what I’ve done. If I divert from the path to leadership at this stage in the game, who else will restore unity and harmony to the universe? Am I to entrust the future of the human race to the Free Planets Alliance or to those demagogues of the old regime?”
Thinking he’d made his point well enough, Reinhard was suddenly perturbed. His ice-blue eyes were filled with a hard and furious light, and he recovered an expression worthy of a dictator ruling over twenty-five billion citizens.
“Tomorrow, we announce the emperor’s dethronement,” declared Reinhard.
The seven-year-old emperor, Erwin Josef II, would be deprived of the throne, and in his place the eight-month-old Katharin, daughter of Viscount Pegnitz, would take over as empress. She would be the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s youngest and final ruler. The moment he put an infant on the throne, Reinhard could easily imagine the outrage and hatred with which remnants of the old regime would response to this fearful spectacle.
“That golden brat profanes our power and tradition.”
Such slogans of revenge were inevitable, but their “power” and “tradition” were nothing more than two towers of a castle in the sky invented by Rudolf von Goldenbaum five centuries earlier. And when those two pillars lost their structural integrity, the whole thing was sure to come crashing down. Reinhard felt oddly sorry for the old regime, delusions and all.
IV
Until nearly two years ago, Heidrich Lang had held an important bureaucratic position. As chief of the Bureau for the Maintenance of Public Order, his duties had involved rounding up political offenders and thought criminals, monitoring or suppressing free speech activities, and even dabbling in education and the arts. He was a fulcrum of authoritarianism within the imperial government, and as such exploited the full range of his power and influence. He stood to one day become secretary of the interior.
Lang had not been put to death as a member of the old regime by von Lohengramm’s new order. There were two reasons for this: First, as chief of secret police he’d excelled at intelligence gathering and had amassed much in the way of valuable information on the nobles. Second, as a business specialist he possessed an awareness and loyalty all his own, and had expressed his intention to follow the new ruler after the former high nobles—whom Mittermeier maliciously dubbed the “shepherds”—fell. Lang saw no reason to despair over Reinhard’s abolishment of the bureau, and he believed in himself enough to wait patiently for the day when the sun would again dispel the darkness.
His patience had paid off sooner than he’d expected. The military police, whose self-imposed disgruntlement was an apparent obligation of their work, were ordered by Senior Admiral von Oberstein’s office to release him from house arrest.
Fortunately for Lang, von Oberstein’s thorough investigation turned up no evidence to suggest he’d abused his authority in any way for personal gain. He was, among the higher-ups of the old regime, uniquely flawless in his personal conduct and was treated like a darling of the nobility despite disliking their company. He put all his diligence into his duties and was, not without reason, known as the “Hunting Dog.”
Just looking at him, von Oberstein wanted to laugh—not that he would have said as much to his face. Lang’s outward appearance was incongruous with his talents and achievements. Although he wasn’t yet past forty, 80 percent of his brown hair had vanished. What little was left clung for dear life around his ears. His ashen eyes were big and restless. His lips were thick and red, although his mouth was small. His head was relatively big for someone of his short stature. His entire body was more than plump, and the skin covering it pink and glossy. In short, Heidrich Lang gave the visual impression of a healthy baby full of mother’s milk, and guessing his professional duties by his appearance alone wouldn’t have been easy for anyone with an active imagination. As chief of secret police, he stood out for not having a more coolheaded, grizzled exterior.
But it was his voice that showed just how unique he was. The average person would have thought such a man to have the high-pitched voice of a child. What came out of Lang’s mouth was instead a solemn bass, like that of some ancient religious leader preaching the gospel to his believers. Those who stood ready to stifle their laughter were bowled over. Taking advantage of
this contradiction caught his opponents off guard, and his bass had served him well as a weapon of interrogation.
But the man before him now, whose artificial eyes stared at him inorganically by way of a light computer, would decide whether Lang deserved consideration and then report back to the imperial prime minister, Duke von Lohengramm.
“Your Excellency Chief of Staff, you can spin it however you want, but government has only one reality.”
Lang spoke emphatically, and von Oberstein had already been evaluating Lang’s speech from word one.
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“Control of the many by the few.”
Lang’s voice was so much like that of a solitary man appealing to God that one almost expected a pipe organ to accompany him. Then again, holding full life-or-death authority as he did over Lang, von Oberstein was like God in that no matter how sincerely one spoke to him, it was never enough.
“We insist on democracy being rule of the many by free will, but I’d like to know your thoughts on that point.”
“If the people number one hundred, fifty-one of them can claim majority rule. And when that majority is divided into so many factions, it only takes twenty-six of those to rule over that same hundred. In other words, it’s possible for a mere fourth to rule the many. A conventional and reductionist view, I admit, but one that shows just how useless majority rule is as a democratic principle. I know a man of Your Excellency’s intelligence will understand.”
Von Oberstein ignored the knee-jerk flattery. Like his master, Reinhard, he couldn’t help but notice that those who brownnosed him were always the ones who despised him. Ignoring that he was being ignored, Lang went on.
“Since the reality of government is control of the many by the few, I’m sure you’ll agree that people like me are indispensable for keeping things in line.”
“You mean the secret police?”
“Someone to maintain a system of public order.”
It was a subtle turn of phrase, but von Oberstein again disregarded the man’s modest self-assertion.
“The secret police may be convenient for those in power, but their very existence becomes a target of hatred. Although the Bureau for the Maintenance of Public Order was only recently dismantled, there are many who would punish you for overseeing it. People like that reformist Karl Bracke.”
“Mr. Bracke has his own ideas, but all I’ve ever done is devote myself to the dynasty, never once exercising the limits of my authority for personal gain. Should you take my loyalty as cause for punishment, it won’t turn out well for Duke von Lohengramm.”
From beneath the clothes of this goodly intentioned advice, a holster of threat was beginning to peek out. If he was being accused not only for past misdeeds but also for his tenure at the bureau, then did he have something else in mind?
“It would seem Duke von Lohengramm doesn’t care much for your existence, either.”
“Duke von Lohengramm is first and foremost a soldier. It’s only natural he’d try to subjugate the universe through grand battles. But sometimes the smallest false rumor may outrival a fleet of ten thousand ships, and defense becomes the best form of attack. I would expect nothing less than the utmost discernment and forbearance from both Duke von Lohengramm and Your Excellency.”
“Never mind me. How do you intend to repay Duke von Lohengramm’s forbearance? That’s the crucial point here.”
“Of course, by summoning my unconditional loyalty and all my meager talents in cooperation with the duke’s military rule.”
“That’s all well and good, but it’s pointless to restore the bureau, now that it’s defunct. It would be tantamount to a retreat from our reform policies. We’ll have to come up with another name.”
Lang’s childlike face was shining.
“I already have one in mind,” he declared in his captivating bass, sounding for all like an out-of-place opera singer.
“The Domestic Safety Security Bureau. What do you think? Has a nice ring to it, no?”
Although he wasn’t particularly inspired, the artificial-eyed chief of staff nodded.
“Old wine in a new skin.”
“I’d say the wine also wants to be as new as possible.”
“Very well. Give it your best shot.”
Thus, Heidrich Lang redefined himself from bureau chief for the Maintenance of Public Order to chief of the Domestic Safety Security Bureau.
In anticipation of Operation Ragnarök, the Imperial Navy’s top brass had secretly set things in motion. Von Reuentahl still had misgivings about making an ally of Phezzan. The thought of being so close aroused especial caution in him.
“His Excellency von Reuentahl is a worrier,” said Mittermeier with a smile.
Their partner wasn’t some naive young girl, but the old fox of Phezzan. Mittermeier, for his part, much preferred a swift military victory over giving Phezzan any room to lay a trap, but in the unlikely event that they failed, they would, as von Reuentahl had said, become sitting ducks.
“In that case, we’ll have to procure our food supply right then and there if we’re to feed our troops. And even if we succeed in that, we’ll be branded as marauders.”
Mittermeier felt compelled to disagree with his own sentiments. Nothing but dry, verbal decorations.
“I can handle being despised as conquerors, but being scorned as marauders is less than ideal.”
“Even that depends on whether they’re worth plundering in the first place. It would be merciless to be taken by those same scorched-earth tactics that bested us a year ago. You’ll remember what a sorry state the Alliance Armed Forces were in then.”
No matter how much, and by what rhetorical flourishes, he advertised his self-justification, when the reality of pillaging was close at hand, the people would never support their conquerors. Once they decided on a temporary destruction, developing their conquest into permanent unification would be far too disadvantageous if founded on the people’s animosity.
“On that point, however, Lohengramm’s thoughts on the matter override anything we say.”
Neidhart Müller had humbly proposed that they refrain from discussing the matter to clear their heads. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl nodded, abandoning an argument that bore no signs of consummation, and shifted to more practical matters. Müller’s remark had nonetheless provoked a private thought in von Reuentahl: So it’s all up to Lohengramm, is it?
When it came to domestic affairs, the young, golden-haired imperial prime minister had always stood for righteousness. At least Reinhard’s rule outrivaled the nobles’ old regime in fairness. And perhaps he would see it through, down to every citizen in enemy territory.
Von Reuentahl was a man of ambition. He had the ambition of a hero of turbulent times who was already pondering the next step before finishing the one before. For the past year, a desire to overthrow his superiors and take their place had begun stirring in his heart like a dormant leviathan come to life. There was nothing inherent or delusional about it. If it turned out that Reinhard’s abilities and luck exceeded his own, von Reuentahl would graciously give up his seat of supremacy, proof that only Reinhard was suitable to be their supreme ruler. But if he did anything to neglect that…
V
Although news of the imperial fleet’s imminent large-scale dispatch was communicated to Phezzan via multiple channels, most people’s reaction was “Here we go again.” Even Phezzan’s shrewd merchants had for more than a century been accustomed to a three-cornered contest and were convinced that nothing would change. They’d papered over the crack of needless killing, hoping against hope that it would foster their accumulation of wealth as they competed in their respective fields of investment, finance, production, and distribution. To them, it seemed unlikely that the Galactic Empire’s grand fleet would fill in the Phezzan Corridor with an ocean of peace and prosperity, or that th
ey would hold Phezzan’s self-reliant merchants captive in some immaterial cell. Surely such plans had been devised on countless occasions in the past, to no avail. The landesherr’s government managed everything for them, which was why they paid their taxes in the first place. They worked, and earned, for themselves. The bulk of Phezzan’s general population shared that sentiment.
But one couldn’t say the current landesherr embraced any selfless loyalty toward that same opinion. Since founder Leopold Raap, successive landesherrs had worried about whether the Phezzanese people and Earth would swear their devotion, and with Adrian Rubinsky, an end to all of this was at last foreseeable. But Rubinsky’s heart was multidirectional, as suited him well.
“Where hardware is concerned, Iserlohn Fortress is impregnable. Furthermore, the best commander in the Alliance Armed Forces is there. It’s just like those mediocre politicians to be so complacent.”
Rubinsky was speaking to his aide Rupert Kesselring about the state of the alliance.
“But that sense of security has robbed the alliance’s governing bodies of healthy judgment and brought about the worst decision they could’ve made. A quintessential example of a past success leading to present mistakes and robbing any hope for the future, if you ask me.”
Rupert Kesselring wondered whether such moral instruction was of benefit to anyone. The landesherr was quite the laughingstock for convincing himself that he alone was an exception. His estranged son had been diligently digging his father’s burial plot, but these days it seemed he wasn’t the only one with a mind to grab a shovel.
“Commissioner Boltec’s movements are of great interest to me.”
A stinger was planted in Rupert Kesselring’s voice. It was useless to try to conceal his malice anymore. For Rupert, the thought of that buffoon Boltec joining in the digging made him want to kick them both into the hole in one go.
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