Bayerlein had one foot in the room, which now hovered five centimeters above the floor. He hadn’t expected von Reuentahl to be there. Flustered, he cobbled together a formal salute.
“What kind of rumor?”
“It’s nothing, really, only…There’s no proof, so I can’t say for sure whether it’s even true.”
Von Reuentahl’s presence weighed heavily on the young Bayerlein’s heart. Mittermeier urged him with a seemingly bitter smile.
“No matter. Just tell me.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. It’s something I heard from the alliance prisoners of war.”
“Oh?”
“They’re saying Admiral Merkatz is still alive.”
Before Bayerlein closed his mouth, silence stepped in and took a lap around the room. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl looked away from Bayerlein and at each other, sharing the same strong feelings. Mittermeier verified with his subordinate.
“That Merkatz? Are you saying Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz didn’t die after all?”
His use of the demonstrative “that” of course had a very different ring to it than when he was applying it to von Oberstein. Bayerlein shrugged.
“I can only tell you that’s what I heard.”
“But I thought Merkatz was killed in action during the Vermillion War. Who would be so irresponsible as to spit on his grave by spreading misinformation about him?”
“Like I said, it’s only a rumor.”
The young general lowered his voice. Waves of regret were springing up around him.
“It’s not outside the realm of possibility,” muttered von Reuentahl, as if releasing himself from the grip of a fixed stereotype. “We know the remains were never identified. I wouldn’t put it past him to fake his own death.”
Mittermeier groaned.
If Merkatz had survived the Vermillion War, the Galactic Empire would demand his death. As former commander in chief of the Coalition of Lords, Merkatz had antagonized Reinhard. After that, he’d defected and had since denied any involvement with the young golden-haired sovereign.
“But it’s only a rumor.”
To these words, Mittermeier nodded.
“You’re right. It would be foolish to go around pointing fingers at this point. Let’s leave it to the Domestic Safety Security Bureau to uncover the truth.”
“If there’s nothing else, then, I guess I’ll be going…”
Bayerlein had surely wanted to use the rumor as a pretext for enjoying a drinking bout with the superior he so admired. Von Reuentahl’s being there had upset that plan. Sensing as much, Mittermeier made no effort to detain him further. He filled their glasses and changed the subject.
“By the way, I hear you’ve changed women yet again.”
Holding his glass, the secretary-general of Supreme Command Headquarters curved his lips into a slight smile.
“If only that were just a rumor as well, but it’s true.”
“Get wooed by another vixen, did we?”
That such instances had become increasingly frequent was one reason why Mittermeier couldn’t bring himself to criticize his friend’s philandering ways too strongly.
“You’re way off. It was I who was on the prowl.”
A mixed light swayed in his heterochromatic eyes.
“I made her mine through my own authority and violence. I’ve become more and more vicious. If I don’t repent, I won’t hear the end of it from von Oberstein and Lang.”
“Don’t talk like that. It’s not like you.”
There was bitterness in Mittermeier’s voice.
“Sure…”
Von Reuentahl beamed at his friend. He nodded as if taking advice, then topped off his glass with more wine.
“So, what really went down?”
“To tell you the truth, she nearly killed me.”
“What?!”
“I’d just gotten home and was walking through the door when she came at me with a knife. Apparently, she’d been waiting several hours for my arrival. Normally, I welcome a beautiful woman waiting for my return.” The reflections of undulating wine flickered in his mismatched eyes. “She introduced herself as Elfriede von Kohlrausch, adding that her own mother was the niece of Duke Lichtenlade.”
“A relative of Duke Lichtenlade?!”
The young heterochromatic admiral nodded.
“Hearing that, even I was convinced. She had every reason to hate me. In her mind, I’m her granduncle’s sworn enemy.”
Two years prior, in SE 797, year 488 of the former Imperial Calendar, the Galactic Empire had experienced the upheaval known as the Lippstadt War, when political and military leaders had been divided into two factions. A confederation led by Duke von Braunschweig and Marquis von Littenheim had sought to overthrow the axis represented by prime minister Duke Lichtenlade and supreme commander of the Imperial Navy Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm. This axis, having set up the old authoritarians and younger men of ambition not as friends but as a foundation for its plans, enraged the high nobles by monopolizing their authority.
While Admiral Merkatz, a veteran commander of the Coalition of Lords, came to be defeated not only by the wits of his enemies but also by the indifference of his comrades, Reinhard returned with victory in his hand. His victory, however, would be accompanied by tragedy. When an assassin’s gun aimed at him was blocked by Siegfried Kircheis’s body, the golden-haired youth lost more than a friend, but also his better half, and for a while it crippled him. Had he known that, Duke Lichtenlade would likely have purged the young alliance men in one stroke and tried to capitalize on his full authority. Reinhard’s subordinates beat him to the punch, burying Duke Lichtenlade and his clique, thus securing Reinhard’s authority.
Mittermeier shook his head.
“As far as enemies go, you and I are no different.”
“No, we are different,” said von Reuentahl. “At that time, you rushed to parliament to steal the seal of state. And what did I do? I showed up at Duke Lichtenlade’s private residence to restrain that old man. I’m more the enemy for being directly involved.”
Von Reuentahl vividly recalled that night from two years ago. When he’d kicked down Lichtenlade’s door with a group of trained soldiers, the old authority figure had been reading on his elegant bed. The old man had dropped his book to the floor, knowing he was defeated. After he’d been apprehended by the soldiers, von Reuentahl had turned the book over with the heel of his military shoe and read the words on the front cover: Ideal Politics.
“Incidentally, I was the one who ordered the execution of that old man and his entire family. All the more reason for her to resent me.”
“Did she always know what had happened?”
“Not at first. She does now.”
“You didn’t…”
“Yes. I told her.”
Mittermeier heaved a sigh with the entire upper half of his body as he ruffled his honey-colored hair with one hand. “What was the point in doing that? Why did you tell her such things? Do you hate yourself that much?”
“I told myself the same thing. Even I knew it was useless. It only hit me after the fact.”
Von Reuentahl poured a small waterfall of wine down his throat. “It’s tearing me up inside, I know it.”
III
Elfriede stirred on the sofa. The evergreen oak door opened, and the master of the von Reuentahl residence cast his tall shadow across the floor. With his mismatched eyes, the man who’d taken Elfriede’s virginity admired her cream-colored hair and fresh limbs.
“I’m touched. It seems you haven’t run away after all.”
“It’s not as if I’ve done anything wrong. Why would I need to run away?”
“You’re a criminal who tried to kill the secretary-general of the Imperial Navy’s Supreme Command Headquarters. I could have you executed on the s
pot. The fact that I haven’t put you in chains should tell you what a forgiving man I can be.”
“I’m not a habitual criminal like all of you.”
One couldn’t wound the pride of a veteran hero with such cynicism and get away with it. The young admiral with the heterochromatic eyes let out a short, derisive laugh. He closed the door behind him and made his slow approach. His ferocity and grace were in perfect harmony. Ignoring his intention, the woman’s eyes were drawn to him. When she came to her senses, her right wrist was firmly in his grasp.
“Such a beautiful hand,” he said, his breath reeking of alcohol. “I’ve been told my mother’s hands were also beautiful, as if carved from the finest ivory. She never once used those hands for anyone but herself. The first time she picked up her own son, she tried to stab him in the eye with a knife. That was the last time she ever touched me.”
Caught in von Reuentahl’s attractive gaze of gold and silver, Elfriede held her breath for a moment.
“Such a pity! Even your own mother knew her son would one day commit treason. She threw her feelings aside and took matters into her own hands. If only I had an ounce of her bravery. That such a splendid mother could give birth to such an unworthy son!”
“With a little adjustment, we could use that as your epitaph.”
Von Reuentahl released Elfriede’s white hand and brushed back the dark-brown hair hanging over his forehead. The sensation of his hand remained as a hot ring on the woman’s wrist. Von Reuentahl leaned his tall frame against a wall tapestry, deep in thought.
“I just don’t get it. Is it so terrible losing the privileges you had until your father’s generation? It’s not like your father or grandfather worked to earn those privileges. All they did was run around like children.”
Elfriede swallowed her response.
“Where’s the justice in that lifestyle? Noblemen are institutionalized thieves. Haven’t you ever noticed that? If taking something by force is evil, then how is taking something by one’s inherited authority any different?”
Von Reuentahl stood upright from the wall, his expression deflated.
“I thought you were better than that. What a turnoff. Get out, right now, and find yourself a man more ‘worthy’ of you. Some dimwit who clings to a bygone era in which his comfortable little life would’ve been guaranteed by authority and law. But before that, I have one thing to say.”
The heterochromatic admiral banged the wall with his fist, enunciating every word.
“There’s nothing uglier or lowlier in this world than gaining political authority regardless of ability or talent. Even an act of usurpation is infinitely better. In that case, at least one makes a real effort to gain that authority, because he knows it wasn’t his to begin with.”
Elfriede remained on the sofa, a seated tempest.
“I get it,” she spat out, her voice filled with heat lightning. “You’re just a regular rebel to the bone, aren’t you?! If you think you have so much ability and talent, then why not have a go at it yourself? Sooner or later, your conceit will compel you to go against your present lord.”
Elfriede ran out of breath and sank into silence. Von Reuentahl changed his expression. With renewed interest, he gazed at this woman who’d tried to kill him. A few seconds of silence passed before he spoke.
“The emperor is nine years younger than I am, and yet he holds the entire universe in his own hands. I may harbor animosity toward the Goldenbaum royal family and the noble elite, but I lack the backbone to overthrow the dynasty itself. There’s no way I could ever be a match for him.”
As he turned his back on the woman struggling to find her retort, von Reuentahl left the salon in stride. Elfriede watched as his broad-shouldered silhouette receded, but she suddenly turned away, having caught herself waiting for this abominable man to look back over his shoulder. Her gaze was fixed on an unremarkable oil painting and stayed that way for ten seconds. When she finally looked back, the master of the house was gone. Elfriede had no idea whether von Reuentahl had indeed looked back at her.
IV
The military’s VIPs were actively mobilizing their Earth dispatch. No one in the imperial government had gotten any sleep.
In the Ministry of Arts and Culture, under Dr. Seefeld’s direct command, compilation of The Goldenbaum Dynasty: A Complete History was under way. The Goldenbaum line had been effectively destroyed, but not without leaving behind a vast amount of data hoarded under the name of state secrets. The arduous task of sifting through it all was sure to throw light on various pieces of information hitherto considered to be off-the-record or the stuff of rumors, and the ministry’s task was to ensure that every last incriminating detail would be preserved for all posterity.
The Alliance Armed Forces’ retired marshal Yang Wen-li had the will of a historian, but since the age of fifteen, when his father’s death had plunged the Yang family into economic hardship, he’d gone through life stumbling along the edge of reality. If he could have seen the researchers of the imperial Ministry of Arts and Culture combing daily through mountains of undisclosed data, he would have been salivating with envy.
Emperor Reinhard made no indication that the Ministry of Arts and Culture was to dig up especially damning evidence about the Goldenbaum Dynasty. There was no need. No matter the dynasty or system of authority, good deeds were valorized and propagandized, while foul deeds were concealed. Undisclosed information was therefore guaranteed to contain evidence of wrongdoing and misconduct. The researchers kept silent throughout the process, but surely struck gold everywhere they dug as they unearthed load after load of the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s misdeeds and scandals.
Rudolf von Goldenbaum, who’d founded the Goldenbaum Dynasty five centuries before, was as far from Reinhard as a ruler could be. He was a hulking mound of self-serving justice, invisible to the eyes of faith. He achieved success as a military man first, as a politician second. His physical and mental aptitude were immense, but like a middle school math teacher recycling the same old rudimentary equations, he never evolved beyond the template to which he’d grown accustomed. To those who didn’t share his thoughts or values, he responded at first with an iron fist, and later with the many deaths brought about by its impact. How many historians had been killed in order to maintain his just and righteous image?
Reinhard had no interest in such methods.
Rudolf the Great had been a literal giant, one who ruled over all by his incomparably intimidating air. His more civilized successor, Sigismund I, was a most capable tyrant. He unilaterally suppressed the republican insurrection, at the same time maintaining a relatively fair governmental administration for those “good citizens” who followed along. He deftly used a carrot-and-stick policy to reinforce the cornerstone of the empire laid by his grandfather. And while the third-generation emperor, Richard I, who followed him loved beautiful women, hunting, and music more than government, he never once overstepped his bounds as sovereign. He lived a guarded life, walking a delicate tightrope between his headstrong empress and sixty concubines, never once tumbling to the ground.
The fourth emperor, Ottfried I, was more resolute than his father but was of sound health, austere and prosaic. To anyone who knew him, he was a total bore. It seemed his only objective in life was to digest a precise daily schedule with as little variation as possible. His utter lack of interest in music, fine art, or literature had earned him the nickname “Earl Gray,” for his life was indeed dull and colorless. It is said the only books he voluntarily read were the memoirs of founding father Rudolf the Great, along with a few random volumes on home medicine. He was a solemn conservative who abhorred any kind of change or reform like a virus and clung to the precedents set before him by Rudolf the Great, whom he so admired.
One day, on orders from his doctor and nutritionist, Ottfried had finished his lunch of vegetables, dairy products, and seaweed. He was just heading out for his fif
teen-minute constitutional, right on schedule, when an urgent message informed him that a giant explosion on a military base had left more than ten thousand soldiers dead.
The emperor seemed unimpressed by the news.
“This report wasn’t on today’s agenda.”
For him, the almighty schedule was an inviolable entity—this despite the fact that he lacked both the creativity and planning ability to set one up himself. Such duties he left to the imperial private secretary, Viscount Eckhart, whose responsibility and authority mounted like sand in an hourglass. Before anyone knew it, Eckhart came to hold double posts of privy councillor and secretary-general of the imperial palace, where he served also as secretary for the imperial council. As even those of little insight could see, the ashen emperor had become nothing more than a cheap automaton dancing to whatever tune Viscount Eckhart played for him. When the emperor died, no one cared enough to commemorate his life in any meaningful way.
Ottfried’s son Kaspar was set to become fifth emperor of the Galactic Empire. As the imperial prince, he showed above-average intelligence, but those colors faded as he matured. It’s likely he hid his wisdom as a way of rebelling against Eckhart’s despotic tendencies. “If the late emperor was dull prose,” whispered his senior ministers, “then our current sovereign is equally dull poetry.” Indeed, he was much more like his grandfather than his father, prizing the arts and beauty above all things. Only he was less skillful at walking the tightrope his grandfather had left unfrayed.
What raised the eyebrows of the empress dowager and senior ministers was the crown prince’s apparent lack of interest in the opposite sex. He particularly favored a castrato of the imperial choir. Castrated at a young age, the castrati had long preserved the boy-soprano tradition and remained an integral part of imperial and church choirs.
Even after Kaspar’s coronation, he fell in love with an elegant fourteen-year-old singer named Florian, lending no ear to any of the marriage proposals the empress dowager brought before him, no matter how attractive the prospect.
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