“I survived. Alone…”
Devastation at having outlived two commanders, Bucock and Yang, had robbed Soul’s expression and voice of their former forthrightness and good cheer.
“We’re lucky you did, commander,” Julian had told him. “Your survival is our only consolation.”
Julian couldn’t let himself sink into melancholy alone. However reluctantly, however much the outward form preceded the reality, as leader of the Iserlohn Republic’s military, he had to fulfill the duties of his office. He could not lead the people in a pessimistic direction. Though cursing himself as inadequate to the task, he wished he could salve Soul’s wounded heart.
He had not lied to Soul, after all. That someone had been rescued from that ship, even just one man, was an undeniable consolation to Julian, von Schönkopf, Rinz, Machungo, and the others who had tried and failed to rescue Yang.
Nor did Soul allow himself to wallow in grief forever. As soon as he could walk again, he found a new position under Attenborough.
The only topic of conversation among the leaders of the Iserlohn Republic these days was Job Trünicht.
The mere fact that Trünicht was allowing Kaiser Reinhard to order him around was enough to arouse the suspicion and distrust of Caselnes and von Schönkopf. Attenborough half-seriously considered sending Reinhard a letter warning him not to trust the former head of the alliance.
“It’s Trünicht, after all,” Attenborough said to Julian. “He’s obviously up to no good. I don’t want to see the kaiser killed by some nonentity as well.” He smiled ruefully. “Although I suppose that to him we’re nonentities too. Anyway, whatever that old fox Trünicht is planning, anyone taking on the famous Marshal von Oberstein has their work cut out for them.”
V
“The Golden Age.”
Julian felt that he had finally begun to understand the meaning of this term. If he did not actually speak it aloud, this was less because he feared ridicule than because applying the label at this late stage seemed unnecessary. It was only once an age had passed that its true preciousness could be appreciated—surely a cruel trap laid by the Creator in the understanding and sensibility of humanity.
Even so, it was not impossible for a Golden Age to return. Building something similar, at least, was the goal toward which Julian and his colleagues strived.
He saw Karin more often these days, although they only ever spoke over lunch tables or offices. If their shared mentor Poplin heard this, he would doubtless roar with laughter.
“Are you going to work on the Record of Marshal Yang after work today too?”
“I had planned to.”
“You’re such a shut-in!”
This was Karin’s judgment. More accurately, it was her way of expressing concern, in a tone others might reserve for passing judgment. Julian understood this. More accurately, he felt as if he did. Karin was a woman rich in emotion and not skilled at keeping it under control when she spoke.
Just the other day, Karin had run into her biological father, von Schönkopf, in the walkway outside headquarters.
“How are you today, Corporal von Kreutzer?” he asked.
“Suddenly much worse.”
Even this could be called progress—it was a reply, after all. In the past she had sometimes simply turned and walked away the moment she caught sight of him.
“Oh, dear, how unfortunate. And you must be so charming in a good mood, too, if that’s how pretty you are in a bad one,” was the sort of tired line von Schönkopf did not reply with.
“No need to hide how delighted you are to see me,” he said instead. “We both know the truth.”
And with that casual pronouncement, he walked off. Karin watched him go, at a loss for words.
As much as Karin might hate to hear it, Julian thought, she simply wasn’t on von Schönkopf’s level when it came to acting. Karin apparently recognized this too, and her attitude toward von Schönkopf had softened somewhat. If anything, she seemed more irritated by her own inability to remain calm and composed around him.
“I’m sure Frederica was telling the truth,” Julian once heard her mutter. “But still…”
At a meeting on the topic of base defense, Julian raised the topic of Karin with von Schönkopf himself. Not to criticize, but simply to learn what von Schönkopf was thinking.
“Corporal Kreutzer’s opinion of me is her problem, not mine,” said von Schönkopf. “If you’re asking about my opinion of her—well, that one is my problem.”
“And what is your opinion of her, admiral?”
“I’ve never disliked a beautiful woman. Much less one with spirit.”
“Is she like her mother in that way?”
“What’s this? I see our young commander’s planning to expand his horizons!”
Von Schönkopf laughed obnoxiously, but then patted Julian on the shoulder and offered a surprisingly serious comment.
“In any case, the daughter is far more impressive than the mother in this case. No doubt about that.”
Frederica Greenhill Yang also spent her days amid a blizzard of work. She had done the same thing after her father’s death. Concentrating on duty and responsibility is a way to put grief aside for the present moment, and presumably that psychological effect was at work in her case too.
“I wonder if it would be better if I could drink,” she would say, and Julian had no reply. “It’s too late now, of course, but I think if Jessica Edwards had been alive we could have been good friends.”
Now that Frederica mentioned her, Julian realized that Edwards had also thrown herself into politics after the death of her lover. He shuddered at the thought of Frederica ending up as Edwards had. Shaking his head to banish the unwanted images, he asked Frederica if she had given Karin some advice.
“I only told her that Admiral von Schönkopf has never been a coward,” Frederica said. “It’s the truth, after all.”
“It seems to have affected her deeply. Corporal von Kreutzer reveres you, you know. I’ve heard her say she wants to be just like you.”
“Oh, my! Hopefully not as far as cooking is concerned, at least. Taking Madam Caselnes as her model would be a better choice for her future.”
Frederica smiled, and Julian felt the winds of early spring rise in his heart. Warm and kind, but still containing wintry particles that were here to stay. And Julian was powerless against it.
Later that day, he received a telephone call from Mrs. Caselnes herself.
“I’m having Frederica and Admiral von Schönkopf’s daughter over for dinner,” she said. “You must come too, Julian. The more, the merrier.”
“Thank you,” said Julian, “but are you sure it wouldn’t be better to invite the admiral instead of me?”
“Fathers have their own lives to lead by night. Besides, he’s not the type for family time.”
Inviting Karin and arranging a meeting with her father would only make things worse, Mrs. Caselnes explained.
She might be the most powerful person on Iserlohn Base, Julian thought. He gratefully accepted her invitation. Neither he nor Frederica had made any effort to cook since Yang’s death. There seemed little point in making the effort when they were eating alone.
With four Caselneses and three guests, dinner was a lively affair. But the husband of Iserlohn’s greatest power broker seemed less than enthused as he ate. Once the meal was over and they had retired to the living room, he said, “All right, Julian, let’s leave the chattering women to their games while we men have a drink.” With a final parting glance at the women, he fled into his combined library and parlor. Julian followed, and shortly afterward Mrs. Caselnes brought in a tray for the fugitive pair, loaded down with ham, cheese, ice, sardines in oil, and more.
“You boys have fun in here,” she said. “I have to wonder about a host who abandons the battlefield so quickly, though.”
“It was just too dazzling with the flower of Iserlohn’s womanhood all gathered under one roof,” Caselnes said. “We ne
eded to take refuge somewhere cool and dark.”
“Admiral von Schönkopf or Commander Poplin can get away with lines like that, but you, my dear, cannot,” said Mrs. Caselnes.
“But saying one occasionally keeps things fresh. Right, Julian?”
Julian smiled and declined to weigh in.
Frederica, Karin, and the two young ladies of the Caselnes household were playing a game called Horsemania. This involved placing two tiny horse-shaped pieces in a shaker and letting them tumble onto a mat. The player’s score depended on how the horses landed. If they were both on their backs, twenty points; if one was on its feet and the other on its side, five points—and so on.
The man of the house frowned at the laughter that bubbled out of the library. “I don’t know what they see in that pointless game,” he said, refilling Julian’s glass. “Although I will grant that laughter is much better than weeping.”
Julian felt exactly the same way. Whatever the reason, Iserlohn was laughing again. There was still a chance of regression, but the people had recovered from the memory of winter and were moving from spring toward summer.
VI
Did what later ages referred to as “the rootstalk of that poisonous flower men call conspiracy” truly exist at that time?
It did. But it was not in a position to publicly reveal that existence, or what it had achieved. Only once it had become the strongest and largest power, or at least close enough that it was certain of its advantage, would it show itself above ground.
Beneath the surface of a certain planet, Archbishop de Villiers of the Church of Terra continued to devise and direct countless wicked, shadowy plans. In his spare moments, he spoke of his thoughts to the lower-ranking bishops and priests.
“Do you not understand why it was Yang Wen-li we killed, and not Kaiser Reinhard?”
Even his voice was filled with the light of arrogance. Yang’s successful assassination had made de Villiers’ power and authority preeminent among the archbishops.
“To concentrate the hatred and resentments of the people against Reinhard, we must make him a more absolute ruler, and finally a tyrant. When the time comes to oppose that tyrant, that opposition must be rooted in faith in the Church—not that grotesquerie of spirit men call democracy!”
From a theocratic perspective, democracy is indeed grotesque, being a system and spirit premised on multiple systems of values coexisting side by side. Furthermore, when usurping a system of power, it is always easier to take over one that is unified than one that is divided. Better, too, if the people have little awareness of their rights and are accustomed to being ruled. The Church of Terra did not have an iron arm like the one Rudolf von Goldenbaum had used to topple the Galactic Federation.
“Rebellions by high-placed retainers arouse a tyrant’s suspicion and result in purges. These unsettle the other retainers and invite further rebellion. The history of any dynasty is nothing more than the repetition of this cycle, and we will turn this iron law against the Lohengramm Dynasty.”
De Villiers, it seemed, was in his own way a historian. The lessons he took from his studies were not philosophical but practical, chiefly concerned with intrigue and conspiracy, but it took a sharp mind to accumulate this much information and analyze it for statistical trends.
“In ancient times, when the great empire of Rome ruled over our beloved Terra, it was induced in a moment of weakness to make a certain monotheism its imperial faith. This allowed it to control history and civilization for many centuries. We should remember this incident and consider it a guidepost.”
De Villiers’ haughty pronouncements must have made him some enemies among the elderly archbishops, but any who might have spoken out were long gone. On the contrary, it was flatterers who were in the majority now.
“Is that why you seek to provoke von Reuentahl to rebellion, Your Grace?”
“Von Reuentahl is one of the new dynasty’s highest-placed retainers, and is rich in experience despite his youthful age. A betrayal by von Reuentahl would shake even Kaiser Reinhard. Who will be next to turn?, he would wonder, unable to control his suspicions about his other loyal retainers. All we need do is amplify this.”
Other followers spoke, offering a more pessimistic view. “Oskar von Reuentahl is certainly an outstanding general. But will those he commands ultimately accept his orders to hoist the flag of revolt against the kaiser?”
“That is what concerns me. Even if every single one of von Reuentahl’s five million men swear fealty to him, that still amounts to less than a fifth of the empire’s forces. How could he possibly defeat the golden brat if that is the extent of his resources?”
De Villiers chuckled. There was no need to worry, he explained. Measures had been taken.
“Yang Wen-li is dead. Von Reuentahl will die too. As will the golden brat who dares call himself kaiser. Their bodies will fertilize the realization of our righteousness.”
After that, all of human society would be united in a vast empire where religion and politics were one. In the past, when humanity had been restricted to a single planet’s surface, a state resembling this had endured for centuries. Now it would be reborn on a galactic scale, with de Villiers as midwife. Long years of patience would come to an end and the time of glory would arrive.
De Villiers laughed once more. It was a black laugh—the laughter of a man who intended to reverse the course of history through his intrigues.
I
HILDEGARD VON MARIENDORF, chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters, reported for duty again on September 7.
“I apologize for the inconvenience caused by my absence. I hope that it can be forgiven, and I will not allow personal matters to interfere with my work again.”
Thus spoke Hilda to her only superior in the entire galaxy. That superior, Kaiser Reinhard, responded with an awkward nod. Not speaking, not able to speak, he dismissed her from his office. The interaction revealed anew the immaturity that belied Reinhard’s magnanimity as a public figure, but in fact Hilda was grateful that it had been brief. If Reinhard spoke to her, what could she say in reply? She would be paralyzed with embarrassment. And what if he apologized?
That was only a dream, Your Majesty. Please, put it out of your mind, as I have already done.
A different tack, perhaps?
I am Your Majesty’s subject. Whatever orders you see fit to give, I shall obey.
Neither reply struck her as ideal. Of course, he had nothing to apologize for in the first place.
Hilda had returned to work simply because she could no longer ignore her official responsibilities. She had not yet decided how to respond to the kaiser’s proposal of marriage.
Resign her position as chief advisor? No, a resignation after an absence would surely invite speculation from others. On reflection, it was rather mysterious that the young, unmarried kaiser and his young, unmarried, female advisor were not already the subject of rumors. No doubt it was because Reinhard seemed so aloof from such matters, while Hilda had always kept their relationship strictly professional, never even attempting to charm herself into his good graces. But now a new fact had appeared. What would become of them? What should she do? For all her perspicacity, Hilda had failed to find the answers after an entire week of thinking.
As for the youthful, handsome kaiser, his emotional state was one he had never experienced as a public figure and only very rarely as a private one: he was at a loss.
He had proposed to Hilda. Had her reaction been immediate, even an immediate rejection, he could have put his feelings in order. But he had yet to receive a reply at all, leaving his awareness adrift on the surface of his heart. He understood that his question had not been the sort to which an immediate answer could be expected. And yet.
And yet, if some might jeer at Reinhard’s immaturity in private, none could deny his diligence in carrying out his imperial duties and responsibilities. He continued to govern with steadfast reason and judgment. A cynical observer might reasonably conclude that he had
thrown himself into his work to escape his private anxieties, but even if so he deserved credit for compartmentalizing those anxieties away from his administration. Reinhard had only once in his life ignored his obligations as a public figure, and that had been immediately after Kircheis’s death.
However, even Reinhard’s vast responsibilities as ruler allowed the occasional break. At these times he found himself uncertain of what to do. With an air of distraction, he would sip coffee or page through dry tomes with only their thickness to recommend them. Sometimes he played three-dimensional chess with his aide Emil or his secondary aide von Rücke, or took the two of them out riding through the grounds. Having made little time in the past for the finer things in life, Reinhard had difficulty filling his schedule when neither war nor governance were on it. And, of course, he did not fill the space with romantic adventures.
His senior ministers were uneasy. Not just about the way Reinhard seemed to find himself at loose ends these days, but also out of concern that his repeated fevers might presage a more serious illness.
His condition seemed less like a debilitating disease than a small mass of cloud that occasionally crossed the face of the sun. In the past, though, Reinhard’s brilliant vitality had not permitted even the tiniest cloud to dim it. For that reason, and because he was as irreplaceable a presence as the sun, his retainers could not help but fret.
“Perhaps the Westerland incident was a greater shock to His Majesty than we realized…”
Commodore Kissling, head of Reinhard’s personal guard, kept his face expressionless as he heard such rumors go by. He knew that Hilda had spent the night in the kaiser’s private quarters, and that the kaiser had visited the Mariendorf estate early the following morning bearing a bouquet of flowers, but naturally never spoke of these facts to anyone. While not, perhaps, the equal of Senior Admiral Ernst von Eisenach, the “Silent Commander,” Kissling did know how to keep his mouth shut. He would have kept Reinhard’s secrets even if the kaiser had visited a different woman every night. His tight-lipped discretion had hitherto gone to waste, but now it was proving useful at last. Personally, of course, Kissling did not see why a man of the kaiser’s stature should not be forgiven the odd mistress or lover.
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