“I’m utterly embarrassed,” said Bucock. “I was no use to you at all—not even with the information you gave me.”
“Not at all. I’m the one who made things miserable for you by taking so long. Is there anything you need?”
“Well, for the present, I sure would love a nip of whiskey.”
“I’ll have a bottle brought right away.”
“What happened to Admiral Greenhill?”
“He’s dead.”
“Is he? Huh. So this old man’s outlived yet another one.”
Yang was grateful that Admiral Greenhill had had the sense of decency not to take any hostages—senior officials or citizens—down with him. He felt less so, however, when he released Dawson, the acting director of Joint Operational Headquarters.
A mountain of matters that needed sorting out after the incident loomed before Yang.
He’d need to inform the entire alliance of the coup’s failure and the reinstatement of the Charter of the Alliance, assess the damage, arrest the surviving members of the Military Congress for the Rescue of the Republic, and have autopsy reports made for the dead, including Admiral Greenhill and Captain Evens. When he thought about it, there was any number of other things too. Yang’s head ached.
It was at a time like this, though, that Yang’s eyes were opened to the true competence of his aide, Frederica Greenhill. Right after learning of her father’s death, she had said to Yang, “Can you give me one—no, two hours, sir? I know I can recover from this, but right now, I just can’t. So …”
Yang had nodded. When he’d been informed that Jessica Edwards had been among those massacred, he’d also been forced to gauge the amount of time it would take him to recover.
Yang didn’t believe her father had committed suicide. There was no way he had put the muzzle of the gun between his eyes and pulled the trigger. Likely he’d been shot dead by someone else. However, this was a thought that didn’t need to be uttered aloud.
As Frederica had been about to take her leave, the young admiral had said, “Uh, Lieutenant, just, how can I put this … don’t get discouraged.”
He was capable of making a vast force of a million, of ten million, move just as he commanded it to in an interstellar battlespace. But there were times when he couldn’t even control his own tongue properly.
Once two hours had passed, Frederica, having emerged from her room, set about her work with the grace of a swift-flowing river. A mountain of files signed off as “completed” began to form in front of Yang. As he was scanning through the pages, impressed, he saw that her adroitness went as far as selecting the course of the victory parade and even setting the time for it. Maybe this arduous work was, at the moment, her salvation.
Word came in from von Schönkopf, who’d gone out to patrol the city. He said Julian had found the one most responsible for this incident. To Yang, who wondered aloud who this was, he said, “You probably don’t even want to hear his name, but it’s the High Council chairman, sir.”
It was indeed a name Yang loathed hearing.
The word was that Job Trünicht, reported missing since before the coup had occurred, had surfaced. Julian, who’d accompanied Admiral Bucock to the hospital, had been on his way back to Yang when his landcar was called to halt near an old building.
“Y-you’re …” Seeing who addressed him, the youth stammered. The individual his guardian loathed more than any other in the world was standing there, smiling at him.
“Of course you recognize me,” Job Trünicht, High Council chairman of the Free Planets Alliance, said in a mild voice. “I’m your head of state.”
Julian felt a chill run up his spine. The boy’s feelings had been heavily influenced by Yang.
“You’re Julian, aren’t you? The ward of Admiral Yang. I’ve heard you’re a young man with a promising future.”
Julian was silent and bowed his head merely out of politeness. He felt more wary than surprised to learn his existence was known to the man.
Behind Trünicht were gathered five people, male and female. Their expressions were mirthless.
“These fine people are members of the Church of Terra who’ve sheltered me. I’ve been holed up in their underground church, making every effort to overthrow those tyrannical militarists all the long while.”
Efforts? What efforts have you been making? Haven’t you just been hiding in a safe place all along? Aren’t you just crawling out into the open now that everything is already over? So Julian wanted to say, but he thought of Yang’s position and kept silent.
“Well then, take me to my official residence. I’ve got an entire citizenry to cheer up with the good news that I’m unharmed.”
Left with no choice, Julian had let the chairman into the landcar. After a short drive, he had thrust Trünicht upon von Schönkopf and his subordinates, who were stationed in front of the official residence.
“Well, well. One disaster ends and another takes its place,” Yang said with a shrug, but something inside wouldn’t quite allow him to laugh. Word was Trünicht had been saved, and sheltered for a long time, by some Terraist faithful. Did this mean that the Church of Terra was being used by Trünicht, too, just as the Patriotic Knights had been?
Or could it be the other way around?
If one sacred guiding principle could be said to reside in every heart, then for Siegfried Kircheis’s heart, the principle surely embodied in it took the form of the words a beautiful young girl had spoken eleven years ago:
“Sieg, please be a good friend to my brother.”
The redheaded boy had felt so proud to have Annerose, fifteen at the time, speak to him like that. Kircheis had almost never had trouble getting to sleep at night, but just that once, he had tossed and turned late for hours and, somewhere in the darkness, had made a private vow to become a loyal knight to those siblings.
Reinhard, with his golden curls and ivory complexion, had been a beautiful boy—like an angel whose wings were hidden. If he had only been nicer to people, he would have certainly been popular with the children his own age. Ill-suited to his looks, however, was the insolent, aggressive attitude he carried around, and in no time at all, Reinhard had managed to make a large number of enemies. Before long, it was never certain he could even walk down the street unless Kircheis, who had influence and popularity among the boys in the city, walked by his side.
There was one boy, a year older than Reinhard and Kircheis, who was taller and stronger than the other kids in the neighborhood. Only Kircheis—a natural brawler—could outfight him one-on-one, and one day when Kircheis was not around, that boy caught Reinhard in the park and endeavored to teach him a lesson. Maybe he was trying to break the handsome boy’s spirit and make him his stooge.
As the boy unleashed a cascade of threats and epithets, Reinhard stared at his face with eyes like frozen gemstones—and suddenly delivered a kick to the boy’s crotch. As the boy fell forward, Reinhard grabbed a rock and struck him with it mercilessly. Even when his opponent was covered in blood, screaming for help, and no longer even thinking about fighting, Reinhard didn’t stop. Another boy ran and told Kircheis what was happening; Kircheis came running right away and finally pulled Reinhard off of the bully.
Reinhard didn’t suffer a single scratch. He acted as if nothing at all had happened and showed not a trace of remorse. It was only when Kircheis pointed out the blood on his clothes that Reinhard suddenly lost his composure. He would get in trouble if Annerose found out. Although his sister wasn’t the type to scold her brother harshly, she would look at him with such a sense of disappointment at times like this. Nothing else worked on Reinhard the way that look did.
The two boys held an impromptu strategy session, and, after talking it over, leapt into the park’s fountain with their clothes still on. That would rinse the blood from Reinhard’s clothing—it would be much easier to tell Annerose they had fallen in t
he fountain than to try to explain that terrible fight.
When Kircheis thought about it, he realized there had been no need at all to get soaking wet himself. Yet even so, it felt so comfortable that evening—wrapped up with Reinhard in the same blanket, drinking hot chocolate that Annerose had made for them, listening to the von Müsels’ secondhand laundrobot loudly asserting its right to exist in the background.
What worried Kircheis was what would happen if the victim told his parents about what Reinhard had done to him. Nothing ever came of it, though. The boy in question was always finding ways to show off how strong he was, and evidently his pride wouldn’t allow him to get his parents involved. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to take revenge, though, so from that point forward, Kircheis hardly left Reinhard’s side. If the boy brought his lackeys, they would be more than Reinhard could handle alone. In the end, however, even that worry proved to have been baseless. Although Reinhard alone might make a tempting target, none of those ruffians were so foolish as to make Kircheis their enemy as well.
Not long after, Annerose was taken away to the inner court of Emperor Friedrich IV. Reinhard entered military school, then later came back to bring Kircheis along. That had been the end of the old days.
Since that time, Reinhard had run straight up the staircase of ambition, dragging his redheaded friend along just one step behind.
Kircheis had reciprocated. Those golden-haired siblings were his home, his very life. In that, he felt the joy of deep satisfaction. After all, who else was there who could have followed in Reinhard’s footsteps when he was all but leaping across the sky?
“Excellent work, Kircheis,” Reinhard said, greeting him with an incandescent smile upon his return from the frontier.
Commanding a powerful secondary force, Kircheis had been fighting isolated battles all over the empire, executing his mission so flawlessly that Reinhard himself almost seemed to have been in two places at once. Marquis von Littenheim, second in command of the aristocrats’ confederated military, was now nothing but space dust, and Kircheis had incorporated those brigand forces that had been willing to surrender into his own fleet. Once he had put down the last of the frontier rebellions, he had made for Gaiesburg Fortress to rendezvous with Reinhard’s main fleet.
“Admiral Kircheis’s accomplishments are simply too marvelous.”
In Reinhard’s command center, such whispers had lately become commonplace. They were words of praise—but at the same time words of envy, and even of caution.
One important reason Reinhard had been able to focus on fighting Duke von Braunschweig’s main fleet was that Kircheis had conquered and stabilized all the surrounding regions. That fact was acknowledged by all, and Reinhard himself was even saying so to others. After all, Reinhard knew that no matter how great Kircheis’s accomplishments might be, they were all made on his behalf.
“You must be exhausted. Come, sit down. I have wine and coffee—what will it be? I wish I had some of Annerose’s apfeltorte to offer, but we can’t be picky on the front lines. Consider it something to look forward to when we return.”
“Lord Reinhard, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Though Kircheis appreciated Reinhard’s warm welcome, he couldn’t wait another moment to have a report confirmed or denied.
“What is it?”
“It’s about the twenty million people who were slaughtered on Westerland.”
“What about them?”
For just an instant, a shade of irritation flitted across Reinhard’s handsome face. Kircheis didn’t miss it. He felt something cold dripping on his heart.
“Lord Reinhard, I’ve received a report from someone who claims you knew about the plan to attack Westerland and, for reasons of political expediency, allowed it to happen.”
Reinhard said nothing.
“Is that true?”
“… It is.” Annerose and Kircheis were the only two people that Reinhard had never been able to lie to.
Kircheis’s gaze grew deadly serious—angry, even—and it was plain to see he wasn’t going to let go of this. He breathed out a sigh that put his whole body in motion.
“Lord Reinhard, under the empire as it is today … under the Goldenbaum Dynasty … it is impossible for true justice to exist. That was why I believed it would mean something if you supplanted it.”
“I don’t need to hear this from you.”
Reinhard knew he was at a disadvantage. Maybe he shouldn’t have this discussion with Kircheis. Facing Kircheis alone, he would slip back into boyhood days—back to days when they were equals. Usually, that was what Reinhard wanted—it was second nature to him. Yet now, it was a vertical relationship he craved—one where he could simply dismiss a subordinate by barking out an order. It was, of course, shame over the Westerland massacre that was making him want that.
“The boyar nobility is going to be destroyed. That’s a historical inevitability—the settling of a five hundred–year debt—so I understand that bloodshed is unavoidable. But you must not sacrifice the people. Your new system is to be built on the foundation of a freed people. If you sacrifice them for political ends, you’re undermining the very ground you’ll have to stand on.”
“I know that!”
Reinhard drained his wineglass in a single swallow and scowled at his red-haired friend.
“Lord Reinhard.”
Kircheis’s voice carried a slight ring of anger and a great peal of sadness.
“The power struggle that’s playing out between you and the highborn is one fought on equal footing. You can use any tactic you like and feel no regrets. But when you sacrifice the people, it stains your hands with blood that no amount of flowery words or rhetoric can wash away. Why would someone of your stature lower himself to that, for just a temporary benefit?”
The face of the golden-haired youth had turned a sickly pale by this point. Kircheis was right; he was wrong, and facing defeat. That realization, absurdly, gave birth to all the more intense resistance. He glared at his red-haired friend with eyes like those of some rebellious child.
“Enough of your sermonizing!” Reinhard shouted. He felt shame at that moment, and trying to wipe it away made him all the more furious. “In the first place, Kircheis, when did I request your opinion?”
Kircheis said nothing.
“I’m asking you: when did I request your opinion?”
“You did not.”
“That’s right. You may share your opinions when I ask for them. What’s done is done. Don’t speak of it again.”
“Lord Reinhard, the nobles have done something they never should have done, but you … you’ve failed to do something you should have. I wonder whose sin is greater.”
“Kircheis!”
“Yes?”
“What are you to me?” The pale face and ferocious glare bespoke Reinhard’s fury. Kircheis had struck right where it hurt the most. To keep Kircheis from realizing it, Reinhard had to make a show of even greater anger.
Since it had come to that, Kircheis, too, had no choice but to push back. “I am Your Excellency’s loyal underling, Marquis von Lohengramm.”
With that question, and with that answer, both men felt something invisible, something precious, cracking without a sound.
“Good. So you do understand,” Reinhard said, pretending not to notice. “There are rooms prepared for you. Go and rest there until I have orders for you.”
Kircheis bowed silently and left the room.
The truth was that Reinhard did know what he should do. He should go to Kircheis and apologize for what he had done. He should say, “It was only this once. I’ll never do anything like this again.” There was no need to say that with others looking on; just the two of them would be fine. That alone would melt away all the ill feelings. That alone …
But that was the one thing Reinhard si
mply could not do.
Reinhard was also thinking that Kircheis should understand how he felt. Unconsciously, he was depending on Kircheis’s support.
How many times had the two of them quarreled as boys? Reinhard had always been the cause; Kircheis had always been the one to smile and forgive him.
But would things go that way this time as well? Unusually for him, Reinhard was not feeling confident.
II
Gaiesburg Fortress, that man-made island in the heavens, was isolated and under siege.
The people inside could hardly believe what was happening. Had not several thousand nobles come here with their military forces just half a year ago? Had the air not buzzed with energy and activity as though the imperial capital itself had been relocated here? At present, the ongoing cascade of citizens’ uprisings, troop desertions, and military defeats was about to turn it into a gargantuan necropolis for aristocrats.
“Why did this happen?” the aristocrats asked one another, dumbstruck. “What happens now? What does Duke von Braunschweig think?”
“He hasn’t said a word. It’s not clear he thinks anything at all.”
Von Braunschweig had suffered a severe loss of authority and the confidence placed in him by others. Numerous faults that had previously either gone unnoticed or been considered petty enough to ignore were now amplified in people’s minds. Bad decision making, poor insight, lack of leadership ability. Any one of these was more than enough to warrant criticism.
Of course, those who berated von Braunschweig too much were simultaneously berating themselves by extension, since it was they who had made him their leader and they who had jumped into a civil war under his direction. Ultimately, the aristocrats had to stop blaming their leader, curse themselves for the decisions they had made, and from their dwindling set of options select the smallest disaster they could.
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