“Cease all combat immediately! His Majesty wills peace.”
I
“PEACE HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED. The battle between the Imperial Navy and the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army is over.”
When this report arrived from Julian Mintz, it was as if the goddess of joy had strewn blossoms from above, blanketing Iserlohn Fortress in their petals. Its fleet had plunged into battle without any allies to speak of. Utter annihilation had been a perfectly plausible outcome.
But there was darkness within the light. The Battle of Shiva had killed more than two hundred thousand of Iserlohn’s troops—a horrifying 40 percent of those who had gone into battle. The Rosen Ritter regiment in particular had ended the fighting with a scant 204 surviving members, every single one of them injured. Five years earlier, during the battle for Iserlohn, they had numbered more than 1,960. Small wonder that they had achieved such renown for valor and ferocity in this age of upheaval.
When the names of the highest-ranking dead were conveyed to Iserlohn, including Walter von Schönkopf, Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, and Louis Machungo, the fortress was solemn. The hundred thousand who had remained home rued these losses with a hundred thousand different emotions. News of von Schönkopf’s death appears to have provoked particular lamentations among the women of Iserlohn, but no statistical survey was conducted and the truth remains unknown.
Interference from the Galactic Empire being now absent, Iserlohn Fortress was able to receive FTL transmissions from Julian with a clear, crisp picture.
“Julian,” said Frederica. “That was a dirty trick. If Commander Yang were still alive, he’d certainly have had words for you.”
Julian understood exactly what she meant. While she had remained in the safety of the fortress, he had gone into battle against the Galactic Empire. In a way, he was relieved. He had avoided the need to drag Yang’s widow onto the battlefield. Just as the Free Planets Alliance had once needed Yang himself, the republic needed Frederica. For Julian, too, she was an essential presence—a woman to be protected at all costs. She had spoken to him not in irony but in thanks.
“What will you do now?” she asked. “Let me hear your plans.”
“First I’ll lead the surviving troops to Heinessen,” Julian said. “We’ll travel with the Imperial Navy. I expect to meet the kaiser there, and then I can make my proposal.”
“And what are you going to propose?”
“All sorts of things.”
Julian revealed to Frederica one of his ideas—a method for restoring the spirit and institutions of democracy while coexisting with the vast Galactic Empire. To wit: they would return Iserlohn Fortress to the empire in exchange for an autonomously governed zone on another planet. Perhaps Heinessen itself. Eventually, they could make the empire promulgate a constitution and establish a parliament. Through repeated constitutional revision, they could shift the entire empire toward openness. Many years would be needed, and unstinting effort. But there was no other way. Not now that they had taken arms and swum through an ocean of blood to reach the shore of a meeting with the kaiser.
“If that works out,” Frederica said, “Yang Wen-li can finally return to Heinessen.”
With this sentence, Frederica gave her assent to Julian’s future diplomatic strategy. She had no particular attachment to the “Iserlohn” part of the Iserlohn Republic. As Poplin might say, “Iserlohn’s a fine lady, but she’d make a terrible housewife.” Iserlohn’s topological situation and impregnable defenses made it a peerless military base, but if coexistence with the Galactic Empire was the goal, the fortress and its mighty Hammer of Thor might actually be a liability. Iserlohn had played an important role in the story of democracy, but that role was now over.
Her conversation with Julian finished, Frederica spoke to Caselnes beside her.
“Well, Admiral Caselnes, you heard him. Our day of parting from Iserlohn Fortress will soon be here. Can I leave the administrative side to you?”
“By all means, Mrs. Yang,” said Caselnes. “I’ll get it so spic-and-span the empire won’t find a thing to complain about, even if they give it a white-glove inspection.”
Caselnes had been the highest-ranking officer in the former alliance military, but until Frederica spoke to him he had been somewhat dazed. It was the sight of von Schönkopf’s name among the ranks of the dead that had done it. I didn’t even think that man could die, he thought.
Frederica thanked the faithful Caselnes and was just leaving when he suddenly remembered something and called out to her.
“Oh, Mrs. Yang. My wife said to invite you for dinner tonight. I know it must be inconvenient timing for you, but I’m afraid I can’t defy Hortense. I’ll send Charlotte Phyllis for you at seven o’clock.”
“Thank you. I’d love to.”
The Caselnes family’s goodwill warmed her heart.
Frederica entered her quarters. This was where she had lived with Yang when he was alive, longer than they had lived anywhere else as man and wife. If Iserlohn Fortress were returned to the Imperial Navy, she would finally have to move out. This place was too big for her anyway, now that she lived alone. Even if the warmth of her departed husband remained with her.
She also had powerful emotions about the bridge of Hyperion, where she had spent four years facing life-and-death situations alongside Yang. The sight of that young would-be historian insolently sitting cross-legged on the table and producing magic tricks and miracles by the score was burned into her mind, there to remain until memory itself was lost.
But now Hyperion, too, had been lost forever in the Shiva Stellar Region. It had become the grave marker for Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, another fine commander. That’s the best use for it now, she thought. Hyperion was lost, Iserlohn Fortress would be returned to the empire, and Frederica herself was without child, so Yang’s bloodline had ended with him. But Frederica would not forget. Julian would not forget. They would always remember that Yang Wen-li had lived—had been by their side. They would remember his face, his gestures, his way of life.
Frederica sat on the bed and picked up a photograph of her husband. “Thank you, my darling,” she whispered to him. “You made my life so very rich.”
The battleship Ulysses survived. In fact, it would survive until the end. But today, on June 3, it was largely a hospital ship. It had collected the wounded who had been aboard other ships, and they now filled its every room. Not even the senior officers’ salon had been spared.
“I can’t even die now,” complained Olivier Poplin. “Just imagine arriving in hell only to find Walter von Schönkopf already there, carousing with the witches like he owned the place. Puts you off going at all.” He had bandages on his head and around his left forearm, and wore jelly palm under his uniform in place of underwear.
Dusty Attenborough, who had given his all as fleet commander but escaped injury, examined the paper cup of whiskey in his hand. “Better live as long as you can, then, and make sure the world knows who you are. Now that that middle-aged delinquent von Schönkopf’s gone, it’s yours for the taking.”
Poplin didn’t reply right away. His expression made clear that he had no interest in a world given to him by default, but the words he finally spoke took a different tack.
“ ‘Olivier Poplin, born Tredecember 36, SE 771, died June 1, 801, aged 29. Drowned in a lake of beautiful women’s tears.’ To think—I chose my gravestone’s inscription, and now I can’t even use it. It’s a real shame.”
Attenborough nodded absently, then suddenly grinned. “Wait a minute. That means it’s past your birthday. You’re thirty now, right? Admit it.”
“You can be so tiresome, you know that? Fine, I’m thirty—what does it profit you?”
“If I only cared about profits, what would distinguish me from some greedy Phezzanese merchant? By the way, where’s our commander gone?”
“He went to comfort a girl heart
broken over the loss of her father,” said the Ace of Iserlohn, and raised his paper cup. This, it seemed, was his way of wordlessly showing respect for that heartbroken girl’s father, and Attenborough followed his lead half a second later.
II
Finding Karin took longer than Julian expected. Once negotiations with the empire were finished, he searched throughout Ulysses, but did not find her. Poplin’s face betrayed nothing, presumably intentionally so. When Julian finally wandered as far as the spartanian bays, he heard a low voice singing. It was a beautiful voice, but far from a smooth one. Not because of any lack of musicality on the part of the singer, but because the singer was in the grip of powerful emotions.
My darling, do you love me?
Yes, I will love you,
Till the end of my life,
When the Queen of Winter rings her bell,
The trees and grasses wither away,
And even the sun has fallen asleep,
And yet, with spring, the birds will come again,
And yet, with spring, the birds will come again…
“Karin.”
The young woman in uniform turned to face him. Neither was sure what expression to wear. After she finished her song, Karin heaved a deep sigh.
“My mother loved that song. She told me she sang it to Walter von Schönkopf once. He often sang it alone even after they separated, she said.”
“Karin, Admiral von Schönkopf is—”
“I know.”
Karin shook her head—hard enough to set her tea-colored hair swaying; almost hard enough to make her black beret fall off.
“He strutted around here acting like he had five or six lives to spare, and could just come right back anytime he got killed. Why did he have to die? I hadn’t even gotten my revenge on him!”
“Revenge?”
“Yes, revenge. I was going to hold out my child to him and say, ‘This is your grandchild. You’re a grandfather now.’ It would have been the best revenge of all for that middle-aged delinquent…”
She hung her head, and this time, soundlessly, her beret did fall off. Julian did not choose the wrong course of action. Ignoring the beret, he drew her close and hugged her. She offered no resistance. Indeed, she clung to his chest, repeating the same word over and over as she wept.
“Papa, papa, papa…”
Julian said nothing. As he stroked her shining hair, some words from Olivier Poplin came back to him A girl’s tears, Julian, are as sweet and beautiful as melted rock candy.
Time passed, and Karin raised her head. Her face was still damp with tears, and her expression combined shame and gratitude.
“I got your clothes all wet. I’m sorry.”
“They’ll dry.”
She meekly accepted the handkerchief he offered, but then it seemed that some impulse within her took control, and she spoke again in a serious tone.
“Do you love me, Julian? If you do, don’t just nod. Say it out loud.”
“I love you.”
Karin dried her eyes and smiled for the first time. It was like a sunbeam glimpsed before the rain had fully cleared.
“Democracy’s a fine thing, isn’t it?” she said.
“Why?”
“It lets a corporal give orders to a sublieutenant. That wouldn’t fly in an autocracy.”
Julian laughed and nodded, then hugged Karin again. In the future, when they were older and married, June 1 would no doubt be a date never forgotten in their household. It was the date on which both had lost their fathers, and the date on which the first page had turned in their new personal histories.
When Julian returned to the senior officers’ salon, Attenborough greeted him, saying, “You’ve got some lipstick on the corner of your mouth.”
Julian hurriedly put a hand to his lips, and Attenborough burst out laughing.
“You completed the ritual, then. Excellent, excellent.”
“You’re a terrible person, Admiral.”
“Didn’t you even realize that your sweetheart wasn’t wearing lipstick anymore?”
“I will in the future.”
Attenborough laughed again at Julian’s reply, then indicated a truce. “By the way,” he said. “Have you formalized your plans to meet with the kaiser yet?”
“Not yet. The kaiser himself still needs to recover a little more first.”
“Is there any guarantee that he will recover? I hear it’s terminal.”
Attenborough lowered his voice, and sincerity cast its shadow across his features. Julian understood this both rationally and emotionally. Reinhard von Lohengramm was too great a presence to simply despise and reject. Just imagining the sense of loss when he passed made Julian shudder, even though he was their enemy—or perhaps because he was.
“Just make sure you don’t leave anything unsaid,” Attenborough continued.
“I will.”
“What is it with people, anyway? Well, groups of people. How many billion liters of blood must be spilled just to settle something that can be resolved by talking?”
“It seems foolish to you?”
“Maybe, but I’m not qualified to criticize. I’ve shed blood myself—and in the name of foppery and whim, at that.”
Perhaps it was foolish. But could humanity evolve if that foolishness were lost? Julian did not want Attenborough to think it that far through. He would rather the vice admiral retain his cheerful rebelliousness and pluck.
“Thank you, young man. But, as they say, summer songs for summer, and winter songs for winter. If I stayed in my summer clothes forever, I’d only catch cold when winter comes. Better to make sure your clothes match the season.”
Iserlohn’s army commemorated the spirits of its dead with a range of expressions and attitudes. Meanwhile, on the imperial side, things were slightly different. The admirals at the top of the fleet had escaped death, but at far too great and awful a price. The grand marshal at the head of the entire imperial military, Kaiser Reinhard, had been diagnosed with an incurable disease. Learning this after the end of hostilities, von Eisenach kept his silence, only wiping his face with a slightly trembling hand.
Ferocious Wittenfeld, on the other hand, exploded with emotion. When he came to his senses, he bellowed with rage.
“Why? Why must von Oberstein live and the kaiser die?! Are justice and truth completely absent from the galaxy? Damn that worthless Odin, who devours our offerings and gives nothing in return!”
“Quiet, Wittenfeld,” said Mittermeier.
“How can I be quiet at a time like this?”
“I will offer two reasons. First, although His Majesty is certainly ill, his death is not certain. For a senior admiral to take the lead in bewailing the situation sets a bad example for the troops.”
Mittermeier’s voice was sorrowful and stern, and strong enough to quiet the raging passions of his colleague.
“Second, think of Her Majesty the kaiserin and Prinz Alec. They have far more right to grieve than you. You would do well to keep that in mind.”
“When you put it that way, I have no reply. I was thoughtless.”
Acknowledging his misstep, Wittenfeld sealed his raging emotions within. Mittermeier envied his directness; he, too, longed to curse the injustice of the gods. He had been in anguish ever since that cursed June 1. He had not fallen asleep once since the Battle of Shiva without taking a drink, despite his fatigue. Tilting his glass, he spoke to his friends who had already passed on.
“Kircheis, Lennenkamp, Fahrenheit, Steinmetz, Lutz…I beg you. I beg you, do not take the kaiser to Valhalla with you yet. We still need him in this world.”
One night, Mittermeier was gripped by a peculiar fantasy. It was something he would never normally have imagined. What would happen if Kaiser Reinhard entered the gates of Valhalla full of his usual vigor and spirit? What if h
e gathered his friends and subordinates from life and launched a war to conquer Valhalla itself? Now that would be a suitable role for the dazzling golden griffin who led the empire! An eternal conqueror, unbowed before the infinite, knowing neither fear nor stagnation. Was that not who Reinhard von Lohengramm truly was?
“Ridiculous,” Mittermeier snorted, but a part of him longed to see this vision made real. It was difficult to bear the idea that the mightiest emperor in human history, ruler of the largest empire ever imagined, might be toppled by mere illness. Mittermeier knew that no man was immortal, but it had always seemed that Reinhard might be an exception. And the six years Mittermeier had spent in Reinhard’s service had been the high point of his life, as he now keenly realized, with each day resplendent in crimson and gold.
III
On June 10, Julian Mintz arrived on Heinessen along with the imperial fleet. It was the first time he had returned to his home planet since departing for Terra on Yang’s wedding night.
Was it because he looked at the scenery through sentimental sunglasses that he thought Heinessen had changed? Two years ago, the planet was the center of an apparatus of state extending across half the galaxy. It was a focal point in human society, concentrating both people and resources. Today, its aura was fading as it became just another frontier world. Above all, there was neither life nor pride in the faces of the people who lived here and filled its streets. It was as if the entire planet had sat itself down on the slope of uncritically accepting its current situation, made peace with its position on the empire’s frontier, and was now sliding into the abyss of history.
Self-determination, self-governance, self-control, self-respect: where had the democratic republican values promulgated by Ahle Heinessen gone? Pondering this question deeply, Julian’s first visit was to Vice Admiral Murai.
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