Although Reinhard wasn’t angry, neither did Hilda’s words change his mind, because as she herself knew, her suggestion was eminently ordinary.
“Fräulein, I want to fight.”
Reinhard’s tone alone told the tale. More than that of an ambitious person craving power, it suggested a boy who wanted nothing more than to claim the traces of some forgotten dream. To Reinhard, fighting could never be so simple. For a moment, Hilda thought of herself as a strict and unsympathetic teacher trying to deprive a child of his curio box. No doubt this was a delusion, but practically speaking she was correct. Leaders, rather than racking up medals themselves, were supposed to let subordinates rack up medals in their stead. But depriving Reinhard of battle was to force a proud, wild bird of prey into a birdcage like some common parakeet. Such confinement would surely dampen the keen glint in his eyes, along with the gloss and power of his wings.
Reinhard had unraveled a life for himself from the entrails of the many enemies he’d fought. During the first ten years of his life, his only friend was his sister, Annerose, five years his senior. As his one unconditional ally, Annerose was a source of light and, before she was held captive by an aging ruler, had given him his second friend.
The redheaded boy, Siegfried Kircheis, taller despite being of the same class and age, was constantly by Reinhard’s side and had felled many enemies in his name. Whenever they returned triumphantly home after dispersing any number of bullies, Annerose never praised them but did make hot chocolate for the little heroes. Those cheap cups and the cheap hot chocolate that filled them appeased the boys well enough with their warmth. No matter how tough boyhood got, such moments were reward enough. Compared to the joy and satisfaction of those days, any reward he might offer his sister in return was trivial at best.
He’d granted her a high position but had yet to dull the labors of his heart to the point of imagining she was happy with that. But it was the only way he knew how to show the world just how much he treasured her existence. Her title of countess (sans count), and the estate and money that went along with it, barely expressed the full magnitude of Reinhard’s feelings for his elder sister.
On the laundry list that Reinhard had drawn up for her, the item of “husband” was conspicuously absent. Whether consciously or not, he refused to accept a partner for his sister. Seeing him like this, Hilda couldn’t help but feel anxious. So long as his incomparable elder sister was around, Reinhard would never love like a commoner. To be sure, it was a needless anxiety. It was simply that a woman he might fall in love with had yet to cross his path …
Reinhard averted his eyes from his expensive white porcelain coffee cup.
“We leave Phezzan,” he declared. “Tomorrow, as planned.”
With that, Hilda’s heart, swimming in space, was yanked back to reality by gravitational pull. She answered in the affirmative.
“Fräulein, if I’m to hold the universe, I’d much rather do so not through gloves, but with my bare hands.”
Hilda assented to Reinhard’s sentiments with her body and soul, even as a shadow clouded her heart. A stitch in the massive curtain of time was coming undone, and the weak light before daybreak momentarily illuminated his future profile. Maybe it was just the crude neutral colors woven of a hallucination, but to Hilda, Reinhard’s words hinted not only at how he lived but also at how he would die. That was still a long way off, and right now Reinhard was a veritable flame of life. The vitality of his body and soul shone through his every limb, down to the fingertips.
IV
On the same day that Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm left Phezzan and steeled himself for fresh conquest, both admirals Wittenfeld and Fahrenheit took fleets from the empire to Phezzan. Five days later, they planned to join Reinhard on his expeditionary operation. The soldiers were given a final day off in their respective hometowns.
Phezzan’s citizens had mixed feelings about the fact that Nicolas Boltec was aboard an imperial warship just one step behind Fahrenheit and Wittenfeld. Having held successive jobs as Landesherr Adrian Rubinsky’s aide and imperial resident commissioner, at least no one could call him incompetent. Although he hadn’t warned them of an imperial invasion, being given the title of “Phezzan’s acting governor-general” by Duke von Lohengramm at the spaceport just before his departure made it clear enough that he’d known of the invasion beforehand. Clearly, the one once known as the landesherr’s right-hand man had sold off Phezzan’s freedom and independence, taking the acting governor-general position as payment for his treason.
“Whether it’s your country or your parents,” went one Phezzanese joke, “don’t hesitate to sell them. But only to the highest bidder.”
Now that the Phezzanese were the ones being sold, however, they didn’t have much reason to laugh. Indeed, some believed that recent events had been designed for the sole purpose of advancing the Imperial Navy’s immediate domination. The more assertive citizens preached a change of tide and, seeing that the arrival of the grand empire’s total rule of human society was taking shape before their very eyes, desired a path on which Phezzan would flourish under the new system. They had arbitrarily decided it was foolish to be so fixated over a mere token of political status.
Both sides of the debate had a valid point, but the human brain had a difficult time sorting through emotions, and the people kept a close eye on Boltec as he settled into the acting governor-general’s office and began dealing with its administration.
A common ideal of the Phezzanese people asserted that one should stand and walk on one’s own two feet. It was therefore difficult to blindly praise Boltec as he went by, enshrined in the empire’s perambulator.
People concealed their voices in bars and behind the closed doors of their own homes.
“Where could Rubinsky, the Black Fox of Phezzan, have disappeared to? Where is he watching from, doing nothing while Boltec carries on as usual?”
In any age, in any political system, authority figures will always have secret hideaways unknown to the public. To any child who turned their attic into a castle of dreams, it was familiar only in shape, as it had unique reasons for existing. For those with power, it was their fear of abasement and the egotism of self-protection.
Adrian Rubinsky’s secret shelter wasn’t something he’d created, but something he’d capitalized on through a predecessor’s inheritance. Wisely, if also cunningly, placed at a level below an underground shelter for high officials and known only to a select few in the autonomous government, this vast system of energy and water supplies, of ventilation, drainage, and waste, required an even siphoning from public facilities so that the possibility of being discovered was minimal.
Concealed with no more than ten close associates in a nameless underground palace, Adrian Rubinsky was enjoying the repose offered to him by his self-imposed house arrest. No expense was spared in making his shelter feel as luxurious as possible, outfitted as it was with high ceilings and more than enough space for his needs. The menu was so extensive that one could eat a different meal every day for a year and still not exhaust its abundance of options. Rubinsky’s mistress, Dominique Saint-Pierre, was the only woman present, and she spent most of her time with the landesherr. And while the conversations between these two lovers may have been prosaic, their devotion was unimaginable to even his closest associates. One quarrel between them went as follows:
“It seems that Degsby, that crafty Church of Terra bishop you helped get off Phezzan, has been picked up by a new god,” said Rubinsky. “So that’s good.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You were always talented as a singer and dancer, but never as an actress.”
Rubinsky’s tone was like that of a teacher sighing over an unworthy student. Dominique set a whisky glass in front of her lover with a louder clink than usual.
“Is that so? That beloved son of yours, Rupert Kesselring, believed I was
on his side up until the moment you killed him.”
“He wasn’t the most attentive audience in that regard. Never the type to observe actors’ performances so much as to intoxicate himself by projecting his own self-delusions onto them.”
When Dominique expressly named the young man who’d tried to kill his father yet had been killed by him instead, the murderer deprived her of the pleasure of a reaction. The surface tension of the whisky glass in his hand didn’t tremble in the slightest. Such composure, or the ability to feign it, set Dominique’s nerves on edge. She gave up on feigning ignorance and launched her counterattack.
“You might think about getting some insurance, assuming you care even a little about the one who controls your fate.”
Dominique had kept silent about the fact that the late Rupert Kesselring had ordered Bishop Degsby’s escape in full knowledge of the relationship between Rubinsky and the Church of Terra.
“You force me to spell it out for you, but don’t go thinking I willingly abetted your son’s murder. I can’t even tell you what a bad taste that leaves in my mouth.”
“I always thought you wanted to help me.”
Rubinsky stared, oddly expressionless, at the light reflecting off the ice in his drink before returning his gaze to Dominique.
“Does that mean you chose me over Rupert out of sheer instinct? And now that your instinct has proved correct, there’s no use in crying over spilled milk? Am I right?”
“The spilled milk, in this case, was exactly like the cow it came from, who claims to be the clever one.”
“You’re right—in that respect he was too much like me in the worst ways. If only he’d learned to control his ambition a little more, he wouldn’t have died so young. Then again …”
“It’s a father’s responsibility to educate his son.”
“When it comes to life in general, yes. In any event, I’m the last person he should’ve emulated. No matter how talentless he might’ve been, had he aspired to become a scholar or artist, I would’ve offered whatever support he needed.”
Dominique cast a probing glance, unable to grasp Rubinsky’s true meaning.
“In the end, you prioritized self-preservation. So surely you understand my position.”
“I do, as does anyone who’s had to stoop to the level of someone beneath them,” responded Rubinsky scornfully, as he refilled his glass. “I have every intention of cutting ties with the Church of Terra anyway. What you did for me was basically in line with my objective. And so, I acquiesced.”
The power held by the Church of Terra was, for the most part, founded on the secrecy of its existence. And when the shutters of that secret were broken and the sunlight of truth came flooding in, the evil spirits lurking in that unopened room for eight centuries were as good as vanquished.
Rubinsky arranged in his head the many people and schemes he’d have to employ in the future. Until that complex blueprint was finished, these days spent in hiding would be an ideal breeding ground for the budding of spring.
V
The independent merchant ship Beryozka, ferrying eighty undocumented passengers, left Phezzan on January 24. In the wake of Reinhard’s departure and Phezzan’s return to democracy, at last civilian routes were reopened and Beryozka was among the first to leave the planet. Only those routes between Phezzan and the empire were green-lit. Anything in the direction of the alliance was still closed off. Marinesk had, of course, falsified their destination, and would have no choice but to surrender in the event they were captured by the Imperial Navy.
Prior to departure, Marinesk insisted on further safety measures, one of which was to lodge a complaint with the acting governor-general’s office, claiming the existence of a group that planned on flying through the path toward the alliance.
“They’ll never think that the one reporting it is also the mastermind behind the whole operation,” explained Marinesk to Julian, who saw no need to throw a firecracker into a snake den.
Warrant Officer Machungo, as an aide, entrusted things to Marinesk, a self-professed expert in such things. To understand human nature, one had to respect the achievements and pride of one’s opponents. As for Julian, the top of whose head barely reached Machungo’s face, he was ready. Considering how many places were beyond his reach, what was the point in worrying about all of them? Hadn’t Yang Wen-li always said as much? “Even if you do your best, there will always be things you’re bad at. And no matter how much you worry about those places beyond your reach, you’re better off leaving them to those who can reach them.” In light of this, Julian knew he was just making excuses for himself.
Their pilot, Kahle Wilock, had had a favorable impression of Julian since they’d first met. In fact, he’d already decided to like Julian before then. He praised Julian for being bolder than he looked in attempting passage to alliance territory beneath imperial detection and vowed to do everything in his ability to ensure a successful flight. Although Julian thought him to be a man worth relying on, Wilock also had an aggressive streak. He said that if the remaining alliance forces joined up with Phezzan’s wealth, taking down the Imperial Navy wasn’t impossible, and proceeded to list concrete methods by which to do just that. He abandoned all technical explanations and, with a sardonic laugh, fervently proposed the formation of a united front against von Lohengramm. It was unthinkable for Julian to hear of the alliance being spoken of as if it had already been defeated and destroyed. With Yang Wen-li still in good health, he believed the alliance forces would never give up so easily. More than a belief, it was a creed, as Yang himself had averred. In Julian’s mind, Yang Wen-li, democracy, and the Free Planets Alliance were still an indivisible trinity.
Among their fellow passengers—most of whom had been hit with a dart thrown by the goddess of chance with her back turned—Julian was primarily interested in this man known as Degsby, bishop of the Church of Terra. In a short period of time, he’d gone from fanatical puritan to blasphemous libertine, and it was impossible to fathom the spiritual conduit that had led him there. Julian’s interest was first piqued when visiting Degsby in his dank hideout with Marinesk. He was also intrigued by the church’s political clout, the origins of which still confused him.
And so, Julian left Phezzan as a passenger aboard Beryozka. This was half a month before the imperial and alliance forces would clash in the Rantemario Stellar Region, when he would be riding a ship of a different name, as several history books would record it, and touch down on the alliance capital of Heinessen.
I
Mittermeier’s imperial fleet continued its charge without attack 2,800 light-years away from Phezzan. While waiting for companion forces in the Porewit Stellar Region, his ships assumed a spherical formation, arranging battleships around a core of transports, ready to receive enemies from all directions.
Porewit had been named after a mythical god of war with five faces because, in addition to a mature sun, the star system boasted four gas giants. Mittermeier knew this from Phezzan’s navigation data.
Until they arrived at the Porewit Stellar Region, the alliance bases they’d intended on using for communications, supplies, and combat, despite numbering more than sixty, were considerably insufficient when compared to those near Iserlohn. Most had already been abandoned on orders from the capital, and the Mittermeier fleet passed through various remote stellar regions with the force of a fire burning in an arid desert, holding its breath all the while.
Meanwhile, a side story in the Alliance Armed Forces unknown to Mittermeier involving the JL77 communications base in the Špála star system was unfolding. Even as other bases were being summarily evacuated, JL77 had become a functional hub. It continued to gather and transmit information about the imperial invasion until just before it happened, by which time its soldiers found it impossible to escape.
JL77 had only two thousand battle personnel. Its firepower was insubstantial, its mobility
nonexistent. It hadn’t a single battleship to its name. A mere touch of the imperial pinkie would’ve been enough to squash it like an ant under an elephant’s foot. While JL77 bore a huge responsibility as Free Planets Alliance Military Joint Operational Headquarters, to neglect it in the face of adversity would’ve made those who worked there feel guilty beyond measure. Thirty thousand battle personnel and three hundred battleships were to be dispatched to support them. Nevertheless, when acting base commander Captain Bretzeli received word of these reinforcements, he wasn’t exactly jumping with joy.
“I appreciate the gesture,” he said with enough courtesy, and rejected the reinforcements outright.
Perhaps anyone but him would’ve been horrified.
“Does this mean we are to accept our defeat with honor? Surely we can’t just pass up this offer?” asked his subordinate, with a pathetic expression on his face.
Bretzeli shook his head.
“It’s not so simple. My refusal will ensure our very survival. As it stands now, our existence poses no threat to the empire. The Imperial Navy knows this from all the data they got on Phezzan. The moment we mobilize thousands of battle personnel and three hundred battleships, the empire will be very much aware of our approach. In which case, an enemy who once resolved to let us go will be forced to change its mind. If they want to spare us, I see no point in spoiling their offer.”
Bretzeli’s foresight was on point. With no apparent need to attack and destroy the defenseless JL77 base, Mittermeier had calmly passed it by. Mittermeier was, of course, no sucker, and wouldn’t hesitate to obliterate JL77 at the slightest hint of retaliation.
As Bretzeli put it to his wife the next day:
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know whether the enemy let us go or not. But if they’d attacked, thousands would be dead. I’d like to think they chose to spare us. I doubt that kind of charity will ever come our way again.”
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