Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 7

by Yoshiki Tanaka

  Ernest Mecklinger records the following:

  “The man named Paul von Oberstein would frequently resort to clever tricks and merciless stratagems in order to have others purged; moreover, he neither pled his causes nor explained his reasoning, so it’s little wonder that he was hated by admirals of a soldierly mind, who love clarity and straightforwardness. That said, he never plotted for personal gain, and at least from his point of view, was offering up selfless devotion to his state and lord. His managerial abilities as minister of military affairs and his devotion to his job were both at an extremely high level. The biggest problem with him was probably his suspicious nature, which had fused to the back of the allegiance he had toward his master. As Imperial Marshal Mittermeier once opined, ‘Von Oberstein thinks every important vassal besides himself is a sleeper agent for some rebellion,’ and that remark was very much on point. Because of his suspicion, von Oberstein was naturally unable to have faith in trustworthy colleagues, which left him using men like Lang. It’s very clear that he did not think highly of Lang’s character. Most likely, he thought of him as nothing more than a simple tool. If Lang had been an equal human being, von Oberstein would have mistrusted him, but it was actually because he viewed him as a simple tool that he never even doubted him. However, although that tool might not have had fangs like a wild animal or a beak like a bird of prey, it did have poisonous thorns.”

  And so, on February 27, Oskar von Reuentahl welcomed Senior Admiral Neidhart Müller into his officer’s house. The expression on Müller’s face was could not be described as cheerful. The heterochromatic imperial marshal was just finishing his breakfast, and he suggested sharing an after-breakfast coffee with his younger colleague. Although Müller was certainly intelligent enough, the young man simply couldn’t act, and with one look at the clouds hanging over his sandy brown eyes, von Reuentahl guessed that whatever he had brought, it wouldn’t be good news. After finishing his coffee, von Reuentahl signaled with his black and blue gaze, and Müller, hastily donning a coat of etiquette, requested that he present himself at imperial headquarters.

  At nine o’clock on the same morning, Wolfgang Mittermeier went in to work at the old hotel adjoining the spaceport, now designated as the Imperial Space Armada Command Center. There he received the report of von Reuentahl’s arrest, instantly driving the sandman’s remaining forces from his body. Wordlessly, he turned on his heel, and started to run out his office door.

  At that very instant, young Vice Admiral Bayerlein appeared suddenly in the doorway, blocking his path.

  “Where are you going, Your Excellency?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? To see von Reuentahl, of course.”

  “No, Your Excellency—you mustn’t do that. At a time when such facts have come to light, meeting with Marshal von Reuentahl would invite needless suspicion.”

  Bayerlein’s expression was desperate as he tried to prevent Mittermeier’s leaving. Mittermeier’s eyes flashed with electrical pulses of anger.

  “Don’t you go getting smart with me. I don’t have a single micron of dirt to hide. What’s wrong with fellow court vassals—who have been friends for years—meeting with each other? Get out of my way, Bayerlein.”

  But now, there was someone else preventing him.

  “Your Excellency, Admiral Bayerlein is right. You could be completely honest and fair, but if the lens of the people watching you is distorted, the image they see will naturally be distorted as well. Once Marshal von Reuentahl is cleared of this dishonorable suspicion, no one will accuse you, no matter when Your Excellency meets with him. Please, be prudent.”

  It was General Büro who said that.

  Büro was older than Mittermeier, and his words of persuasion were not to be taken lightly. The electric light that had filled the gray eyes of the “Gale Wolf” now weakened, and after standing there silently for a while, he at last sat down at his desk. His sluggish movements were a far cry from his usual speed, and even his voice seemed brittle and lifeless.

  “I was given the title of Imperial Marshal by His Majesty, and even a position far above my station, of commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada. No matter how high my position, if I can’t even meet my friend when I want to, doesn’t that put me behind even the lowliest peasant?”

  His staff officers said nothing, and only watched their respected commander.

  “Back then, when His Highness was still Marquis von Lohengramm, he certainly did give orders that the men of the Lichtenlade clan be executed and the women exiled. But he never said that the women had to stay in their places of exile forever. There’s no way von Reuentahl has defied His Majesty’s will.”

  It was an extremely clumsy bit of sophistry, one that Mittermeier would never have used to defend himself.

  “In any case, Marshal von Reuentahl is an influential figure in the military, and a national hero. His Highness Kaiser Reinhard would never punish him over some irresponsible rumor.”

  As he responded to Büro with mechanical nodding, Mittermeier was looking out in his solitude over the plains of his heart, upon which raindrops of unease were beginning to fall.

  II

  The sharp-angled, tightly drawn face of von Reuentahl’s staff officer Hans Eduard Bergengrün was filled with concern. Bergengrün had never once lost his strong, silent demeanor while battling powerful enemies, but for the moment even he was powerless in the face of his superior’s unexpected crisis.

  The year before, when they had recovered Iserlohn Fortress from the alliance military, von Reuentahl had revealed to Bergengrün a part of his less-than-simplistic state of mind with regard to the kaiser. Now, in a room at the National Museum of Art—serving for the time being as imperial headquarters—Bergengrün could only endure the tightness in his chest as he stared from behind at the dark-brown hair of his senior officer, who was sitting with excellent posture in the chair he had taken.

  Von Reuentahl’s “interrogation” was carried out by Neidhart Müller, but this questioner spoke very politely to his subject, and had allowed Bergengrün to be present with his superior, likely to avoid upsetting von Reuentahl’s subordinates and giving the impression of a secret trial.

  Von Reuentahl’s answers to Müller’s questions echoed off the walls.

  “If the rumor was that I, Oskar von Reuentahl, was through force or abuse of authority committing acts of plunder or bringing harm to civilians, that—for me—would be the greatest of humiliations. To have it said I intend to rebel and seek the throne for myself is, to a warrior in chaotic times, more of an occasion for pride.”

  Bergengrün’s respiratory organs suddenly ceased functioning at the utter arrogance in those words, while Müller’s fingers danced silently across his desktop.

  “…However, ever since His Majesty Kaiser Reinhard established his admiralität in the old dynasty, I have every day without exception done my utmost in service of his conquest. On that point, I’ve not the slightest iota of guilt in my heart.”

  Maybe Bergengrün’s prejudice was eating away at his own field of awareness, but he felt that von Reuentahl’s answer was a little too vaguely shaded.

  “What’s laughable is my slanderer’s identity. Who is Chief Lang of the Ministry of Domestic Affairs’ Domestic Safety Security Bureau? He’s the same misguided individual who last year, without qualification, attended a meeting that was only for officers ranked senior admiral and above and, as if that were not enough, even dared to speak in it. He’s likely upset about being ordered from the room, and is making unjust accusations based on his personal feelings. I’d like you to bear in mind the situation at that time.”

  When the basic questions had been asked and answered, Müller said, “I’ve heard Your Excellency’s case. What would you say to meeting with His Majesty directly, and making your defense to him?”

  “I don’t care for the word ‘defense.’ ” The corner of von Reuentahl’s mou
th angled upward just slightly. “Still, if I may meet with His Majesty in person to let him know my mind, my accusers will lose any opening to stab at me. It’s a bother, I’m sure, Senior Admiral Müller, but may I ask you to make the necessary arrangements?”

  “If the imperial marshal so desires, that won’t be a problem. I’ll go and inform His Majesty right away.”

  Reinhard received the report from Müller, and following lunch, interrogated the heterochromatic marshal personally. The venue was a giant gallery in the National Museum of Art, facing the Winter Rose Garden from beyond a grove of cypresses. An exhibition of oil paintings had been on display up until the time of the imperial occupation, and even now, the walls were still lined with those paintings. Mittermeier and other top military leaders whose attendance Reinhard had permitted had with their own hands lined up the folding chairs they now occupied; this displayed a side of the new dynasty that refused to put too much focus on the beauty of forms. As they lined up their chairs and looked on, their golden-haired kaiser—himself a breathing work of art—somewhat reluctantly parted his graceful lips.

  “Imperial Marshal von Reuentahl.”

  “Your Majesty…”

  “Is the accusation true that you have a woman of the late duke Lichtenlade’s family in your private home?”

  As von Reuentahl stood alone in the midst of the wide gallery, his heterochromatic eyes—the deep, sunken black of his right and the sharp, gleaming blue of his left—were fearlessly trained directly on the young kaiser. They were eyes utterly removed from regret and defense.

  “It’s true, Your Majesty.”

  What shook the air of the gallery in the next instant was not the voice of von Reuentahl, but that of his dearest friend. Mittermeier had risen from his seat.

  “Your Majesty! That woman bears a grudge against von Reuentahl. She’s made threats against his life. I speak with full awareness of the impropriety, but please, take into account the situation both before and after. Forgive von Reuentahl’s rash behavior.”

  Mittermeier became aware of someone tugging on his uniform sleeve, and shifted his gaze slightly. Sitting in the seat next to him was the “silent admiral,” Senior Admiral von Eisenach. His mouth was still a straight line, and he was looking up at Mittermeier with an expression that was like a piece of ore. Mittermeier understood what he was all but saying, yet even so, he would not stop making his case to the kaiser.

  “Your Majesty, mein kaiser, it’s Imperial Marshal von Oberstein, the minister of military affairs, and Chief Lang of the Ministry of Domestic Affairs’ Domestic Safety Security Bureau whom I denounce. At a time when Yang Wen-li’s faction has occupied Iserlohn and is openly preparing to oppose the empire, to slander Marshal von Reuentahl—Your Majesty’s chief advisor—is to harm the military’s unity and cohesion. Is this not in effect tantamount to aiding and abetting the enemy?”

  Mittermeier’s fervor, it seemed, had melted the kaiser’s heart, or at least its outer surface. The graceful line of Reinhard’s lips bent slightly into a hint of a smile.

  “Mittermeier, that’s enough. Your mouth was made for encouraging vast armies—criticizing others suits it poorly.”

  The youthful face of the Imperial Navy’s courageous, highest-ranking admiral reddened, and after steadying his breathing, he sat back down awkwardly. Interrupting an interrogation between the kaiser and his subject was a breach of decorum that ordinarily would have called for the charge of lèse-majesté. Mittermeier had not been trying to impose on the kaiser’s kindness; he had been prepared for serious punishments at the sound of the kaiser’s shout, but for Reinhard, the Gale Wolf’s strong spirit and straightness of heart never aroused displeasure.

  “Mein kaiser,” von Reuentahl said to his master. This was the tone that would inspire a number of people to later remark, “No one ever pronounced the words ‘mein kaiser’ more beautifully than Imperial Marshal von Reuentahl.” Kaiser Reinhard’s physical beauty was as incomparable as his quick wit, but von Reuentahl, too, had a stately, imposing handsomeness, and standing there, ramrod straight before the kaiser, his beauty and dignity excelled even that of the many sculptures the museum had on display.

  “Mein kaiser, it was foolish of me to take that woman, Elfriede von Kohlrausch, into my home, knowing that she was a relative of Duke Lichtenlade. I deeply regret my carelessness. But to have that be viewed as a sign of rebelliousness against Your Majesty is undesirable in the extreme, and I swear to you it is no such sign.”

  “In that case, what of your joy upon learning of her pregnancy, and your statement that for the child’s sake, you will aim even higher?”

  “That is an utter falsehood. I was unaware that the woman was pregnant. Had I known…”—here an iceberg of self-reproach raised its tip just above the surface of a black and blue sea—“…I would have made her abort it immediately. On that point there is no room for doubt.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I am unworthy to be anyone’s father, Your Majesty.”

  There was darkness in von Reuentahl’s voice, but no fog of uncertainty, and the silence of those present in the museum’s spacious gallery only deepened. Under his uniform, Mittermeier was sweating for his friend’s sake.

  Regarding that last point, Reinhard asked no questions. Naturally, he was aware that von Reuentahl’s personal behavior invited all sorts of unfavorable criticism, but dictator though he was, he was still reluctant to step barefoot into the mental bedrooms of his vassals. The love affairs of others had never held any interest for him anyway. The words that issued forth from between the young kaiser’s glacier-white teeth at first seemed unrelated to von Reuentahl’s reply. “You pledged your allegiance to me when I had still not succeeded to the name of von Lohengramm…”

  That had been on a night five years ago; at the time, Reinhard had been nineteen years old, and merely “Admiral von Müssel.” It had been the night that the fleet sent to subjugate Marquis von Klopfstock following the marquis’s failed attempt on the emperor’s life had returned to Hauptplanet Odin. With peals of thunder rending apart thick curtains of night and rain, von Reuentahl had come alone to see Reinhard and Siegfried Kircheis. Explaining that the life of his friend Mittermeier was in the hands of highborn nobles, he had begged for their aid, and sworn his allegiance to Reinhard thenceforward.

  Now, shared memories of that scene were overlapping in the eyes of both the kaiser and the secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters.

  “Do you remember that night, Marshal von Reuentahl?”

  “I’ve never forgotten it, Your Majesty. Not even for a day.”

  “Very well, then…”

  Although a shadow of melancholy had not vanished entirely from Reinhard’s face, it did seem as though a shaft of sunlight had broken through the fog.

  “I’ll decide what to do with you in the coming days. Wait for instructions in your quarters—until then, Senior Admiral Müller will attend to your duties.”

  A chorus of held breaths, exhaled in relief, stirred the faintest of breezes in the spacious gallery. Von Reuentahl bowed deeply, and after those in attendance had filed out, Reinhard returned to his office—formerly the curator’s office—and sought opinions from his inner circle. What to do about von Reuentahl?

  His chief aide von Streit looked at his handsome young lord head-on, eyes shining with deep consideration.

  “It’s known to all that Imperial Marshal von Reuentahl is both an accomplished and valuable vassal to Your Majesty, and a hero to the nation. If you were to treat such a man lightly because you believed a rumor, it would come as a mental shock to others, who would in turn become uneasy about their own standing. Your Majesty, please treat him with fairness informed by your insight.”

  “Oh? Do I look like I want to judge von Reuentahl?”

  As von Streit was answering, Reinhard’s eyes turned toward Hilda. The
contessina was known for her clever schemes and wise judgment, but unusually for her, she refrained from answering right away in this case. As an ally, von Reuentahl was incomparably reliable, but still, there was something about him that put Hilda on edge.

  Last year, at the time of the Vermillion War, Hilda had asked Mittermeier to stage a direct assault on the Free Planets’ capital of Heinessen. What she had felt from von Reuentahl at that time Hilda had still not managed to make evaporate.

  III

  In the office of the secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters, now bereft of its master, von Reuentahl’s advisors were discussing a plan for getting through the coming days.

  Lieutenant Commander von Reckendorf leaned forward and said, “Your Excellency, if you’ll forgive my impertinence, I think we should have the minister of military affairs hand this von Kohlrausch woman over to us, and make her confront Marshal von Reuentahl in person. By doing so, the fact that she attempted to drag down Marshal von Reuentahl can be clearly established.”

  At this proposal, Bergengrün cast a glum look around at his colleagues and said, “Things wouldn’t go that easily, Lieutenant Commander von Reckendorf. You know as well as I what sort of man the minister of military affairs is. Once that woman is in his hands, he’ll make her give whatever kind of deposition suits him, won’t he?”

  As he felt that the admiral’s opinion was correct, the lieutenant commander fell silent. Bergengrün folded his arms.

  “Regrettably, we can’t yet assume that Marshal von Reuentahl’s personal safety is assured. At present, His Majesty seems to trust in his old friendship, and be in a magnanimous mood, but going forward, we don’t know which way the scales will tilt…”