Julian chose not to write further. He appears to be wordlessly stating that, as a contemporary, he also saw von Reuentahl’s rebellion as something arising in the domain ruled by truth, not by fact. However, if this analysis is correct, a clear mismatch can be seen between its conclusions and the subjective views of von Reuentahl, who never stopped thinking of himself as living through an age of unrest. Or perhaps we should say that his desire to be the hero of such an age outweighed whatever preference he had for stability.
In any case, von Reuentahl had no intention of yielding to von Oberstein and Lang in any matter, even at the expense of his own future.
He had sent his invitation despite the unpleasant rumors partly to see how the kaiser would respond. If Reinhard refused to leave Phezzan, this would show that he believed the rumors and doubted von Reuentahl’s loyalty—that he had become von Oberstein and Lang’s puppet. As painful as it would be to have this confirmed, at least the situation would be clear.
On the other hand, if Reinhard accepted the invitation and prepared for a tour of the Neue Land, would this prove his faith in von Reuentahl? The answer, regrettably, was no. He might simply mean to lull von Reuentahl into complacency, the better to capture and eliminate him. Such dissimulation would be out of character for Reinhard, but it would not be beneath von Oberstein and Lang.
And so, on September 22, Kaiser Reinhard left Phezzan and set off for the Neue Land. As governor-general, it fell to Marshal von Reuentahl to prepare His Majesty’s welcome.
I
LATE AUGUST, YEAR 2 of the New Imperial Calendar, SE 800.
The summer had been a warm and peaceful one for the Galactic Empire’s subjects. The long and all-consuming war appeared to have reached its end at last. Fathers, husbands, brothers, lovers, and sons returned from duty. Soldiers went straight from spaceport reunions to weddings with their sweethearts—tens of thousands of them, all told.
But beyond the known horizons of the people, dark clouds gathered.
The people were not responsible for the clouds. But should those clouds fill the sky and unleash a storm, the people would be soaked. The people had no right to participate in causes, but were obliged to endure effects. This was the sin of autocratic governance, which differed from open democracy in being founded on exclusion and discrimination. Yang Wen-li had spoken to Julian Mintz of this in life, and with time Julian would come to see his words as a valuable prophecy.
Sealed in Iserlohn Base, Julian received his most valuable information from two sources: public communications networks, and Boris Konev’s “Blockade Busters.”
Konev, who would be thirty-one that year, was neither a formal member of the Iserlohn Republic nor a holder of public office there. He had been born a citizen of the Phezzan Land Dominion, but with Phezzan’s unique political position shattered by the Imperial Navy, no existing authority legally guaranteed his rights as an individual.
But the brash independent trader showed no sign of unease at his status as a man without affiliation. On the contrary, he reveled in it, taking the greatest pleasure in risking his life to breach the Imperial Navy’s blockades, gather information, and smuggle supplies—all on no one’s orders, but solely according to his own whims. For Konev, to be someone’s friend and equal was a far finer thing than being their superior or vassal as a matter of law. Just as Dusty Attenborough was passionate about waging revolutionary war, so Boris Konev proudly proclaimed his status as a free and independent trader. He was free to act as he chose to rather than out of obligation, but in his comments like “Spiritual profits are more important than material ones,” there were those who saw more of the adventurer in him than the trader. Olivier Poplin’s assessment, however, rendered the distinction moot: “He’s just a thrill seeker.”
Sarcastic comments about Konev and his relatives were stock in trade for Poplin. “I just don’t get along with that family,” he’d say. “There’s something in their genes that’s just not compatible with good sense.” And yet, although the green-eyed ace pilot showed no concern for his own family members—at least not on the surface—he made sure to inquire about the safety of Ivan Konev’s family, who were still on Heinessen following Ivan’s death.
In the years to come, historians would place Olivier Poplin alongside Dusty Attenborough as one of the best representatives of the Iserlohn Republic’s cheerful “festival mood.” Excluding the short period in which Poplin had allowed his grief full reign, this was an accurate evaluation. But Dusty Attenborough records that, after Yang’s administration gave way to Julian’s, he sometimes sensed that Poplin’s heart was not truly in the festive mood he promoted. Poplin was not so shallow that this could be discerned by just anyone, but if Attenborough was able to see it, this was surely because of commonalities between the two men in how they thought and acted.
Where all contemporary accounts agree is on Poplin’s popularity among the younger generations. Cheerful, stylish, and dashing, he was followed by crowds of fresh-faced soldiers and little children who hung on his every word. Many also imitated the way he wore his beret or strolled down the corridors, although many parents no doubt discouraged their sons from following his example in the romantic arena. However, as it was widely known that Poplin was interested in women, not girls, parents trusted him to a perhaps surprising degree around their daughters.
“And so, my young comrades, from now on make sure to call me Poplin the Far-Sighted and Respectable.”
“Don’t you mean Poplin the Lady-Killer?” asked a young wag.
“Who did you hear that foolishness from? Admiral Attenborough?”
“No, Admiral Caselnes.”
“To be misunderstood by the older generation is the fate of every young revolutionary. Let us rise together, comrades, and sweep them into our memories of the past.”
Given Poplin’s responsibility of turning the republic’s hapless new recruits into fighter pilots, his popularity among the younger set was a valuable asset. He inhabited the role of leader and mentor with ease. Watching him lead a platoon of boys and girls to the pilot training center, Attenborough folded his arms and muttered, “If he’d been born in an age of peace, I think he’d have become a kindergarten teacher. Strange how well the company of children suits him.”
The mixture of sarcasm and genuine admiration in Attenborough’s voice drew a laugh from Julian.
“If Commander Poplin can go from lady-killer to kindergarten teacher, perhaps you can relinquish bachelordom, too, Admiral Attenborough.”
“Ms. Celibacy shows no sign of relinquishing me. We’ve been together such a long time—you can’t just throw that away.”
Had Attenborough been so inclined, he could have long since had a family or lover fitting his position and personal charm. But he did not yet feel the need to harbor his ship anywhere in particular.
Attenborough disappeared into his office with an armful of paperwork, and Julian entered his own office next door. On his desk he found a handful of letters. He encouraged this as a way of venting dissatisfaction or sharing opinions. Some were constructive, but others were simply torrents of personal abuse.
But Julian had never frowned on even the letters that criticized or censured him. He believed that a society whose members could not speak ill of their leaders did not deserve the sobriquet “open.” Only when Yang was the target of abuse did he lose his temper, as the accounts of Katerose von Kreutzer and countless others show.
When Yang was alive, simply standing beside him had apparently made Julian seem a kind of quiet genius, even richer in military sense than the black-haired magician himself. Today, with Yang gone, Julian made a different impression. Only the sensibilities of the observers had changed, not Julian himself, but it seemed that another side of the sensitive-featured youth was revealing itself to others: a diligent missionary with the Record of Yang Wan-li as his bible.
Even so, Julian was neither brooding nor overbearing. Lacking the radiant, feverish self-confidence of Kaiser Reinhard, he appear
ed to have simply allowed the natural flow of events to carry him into his current position as Yang’s successor.
At this point in their history, his fundamental approach as a public figure was simple: wait.
“The empire’s subjects have spent almost two thousand years growing accustomed to being governed, being ruled. They think of government as something done to them, or at best for them. Why shouldn’t they support the Lohengramm Dynasty, which promises to do better things for them than ever before? With time, the dynasty will be eroded and start down the slope to self-destruction. That is the moment when democratic republican governance will begin to have meaning.”
Which is why Julian believed that the right thing to do for now was wait. The Iserlohn Republic was still too weak to serve as the core around which circumstances might change, must less to actively seek to become that core. Julian did not expect that to be within their power for generations.
On the other hand, he knew both emotionally and intellectually that circumstances could change with shocking speed. As a result, while he managed the republic’s military with an eye to the long term, he was constantly pondering how they might respond to short-term change. In the final months of SE 800, this approach would yield highly effective results.
“Julian Mintz has never once spoken for himself. His every utterance and opinion is drawn from the Record of Yang Wen-li. He is a plagiarist, creating nothing, and simply by virtue of having outlived Yang unjustly monopolizes all the glory.”
Dusty Attenborough’s response to cruel slander of this nature leveled at Julian is instructive:
“Julian Mintz was a performer, not a composer—a translator, not an author. This was what he wanted, and indeed he became a performer and translator of the very highest caliber. Never once did he conceal his models, and in no way does he deserve the label of plagiarist. No music is sublime enough to move an audience without being performed.”
Julian never spoke in his own defense. He refused to indulge the desire for self-justification—remained, to the very end, successor to and evangelist for Yang Wen-li. This was precisely what some historians felt set him above the common herd. Certainly no one can deny his achievements in ensuring that Yang Wen-li’s life, achievements, and thought were recorded in near-perfect form for later generations—even if the occasional doubt is raised about the accuracy and objectivity of those records.
But if Julian’s strategy was to wait, he would not have to wait very long. In mid-October, Boris Konev arrived at Iserlohn with the most explosive news since the May revelation of a plot to assassinate Yang Wen-li:
“Marshal von Reuentahl, governor-general of the Galactic Empire’s Neue Land, is in revolt against Kaiser Reinhard!”
II
“Before proceeding to Heinessen, the kaiser and his suite will stop at the planet Urvashi in the Gandharva system for a memorial service at the cenotaph to those lost in the Great Campaign.”
Thus was the itinerary for the imperial tour of the Neue Land. Nothing after the visit to Urvashi was yet fixed except the kaiser’s return to the capital in early February. This was partly because Reinhard did not care to be bound to schedules.
The primary members of his retinue were Senior Admirals Müller and Lutz, Vice Admiral von Streit, Commodore Kissling, Lieutenant von Rücke, and Emil von Selle. The lack of civilian officers was noteworthy, and could be considered a flaw. Reinhard’s team of doctors were also to accompany him, as were, of course, the crews of his flagship Brünhild and the squadron acting as his escort.
Reinhard had always had a tendency to be “less warrior-kaiser than kaiser-warrior,” as historians put it. Since his days as one fleet commander among many in the Goldenbaum Dynasty, he had always been happier among the troops on a warship’s deck or a military facility than surrounded by beauties at court. No doubt his soldiers, too, found their kaiser more resplendent in his black and silver uniform than any daughter of the nobility bedecked in silks and jewels.
The imperial suite arrived at Urvashi on October 7, one day ahead of schedule.
Urvashi’s conditions as an inhabited planet were similar to Phezzan’s. The climate was chilly and water resources precious. However, since only enough water was needed to meet the needs of the troops stationed on the planet, in effect the only inhabited part of the planet was the oasis covering six hundred square kilometers that had been constructed around an eighty-square-kilometer artificial lake. In the past, Marshal Karl Robert Steinmetz (now deceased) and his fleet had been stationed there, but it was currently home to five hundred thousand troops from the Neue Land Security Force. Should an emergency break out on Heinessen, home of the Neue Land governorate, Urvashi would have to act as the core military base until relief arrived from the imperial capital on Phezzan. As a result, roughly a tenth of the Security Force was posted to this cold, half-desert planet.
The kaiser and his retinue were welcomed to the planet by Urvashi base commander Vice Admiral Alfred Aloys Winckler. After dinner with the base’s senior officers, they adjourned to the state guesthouse next door at 2110. Despite its somewhat grandiose name, the guesthouse was true to Lohengramm Dynasty style in offering virtually no luxuries. Even the oil paintings in the hall were the winners of various competitions held for the troops garrisoned on the planet. This could verge on the sarcastic if taken too far, of course.
Müller and the others left the kaiser in the combined library and parlor at 2240. Not yet hearing the sandman’s approaching tread, Reinhard took the first volume of The Foundation of the Free Planets Alliance down from the shelf and sat on the sofa to read it. His bodyguard Emil von Selle placed a glass of lemonade on the table and left the room. But at 2230, the door burst open and Emil reappeared with a tense expression.
“What is it, Emil?” the young kaiser said, offering the boy a smile. He worships the ground Your Majesty walks on, Mittermeier had once said, and although he meant it as a joke it was very close to literally truth.
“Your Majesty, Admirals Lutz and Müller say they must speak with you urgently. May I show them in?”
It seemed to Emil that the kaiser actually welcomed this interruption of his idleness. The tall form of Kornelias Lutz appeared in the doorway.
“My apologies for the interruption, Your Majesty, but we must prepare to leave right away. The base guards are acting suspiciously.”
Lutz’s eyes had a violet cast to them, as was often the case when the typically composed and trustworthy strategist grew agitated or tense. Wittenfeld called him “a man who needs sunglasses to play poker”—but this was no time for banter. Reinhard turned his ice-blue gaze to Lutz, closed his book, and rose to his feet. Emil held out his jacket.
Loyal Neidhart Müller had stationed himself outside the door to protect his young liege. When Reinhard emerged, he switched his blaster to his left hand to salute with his right.
“At ease, Müller,” Reinhard said, sweeping his golden hair back from his brow. “Just tell me what in heaven is going on.”
Müller explained that a short time earlier they had noticed troops running hastily to and fro, both inside and outside the base. Furthermore, visiphone communications had been cut off. It seemed best for the kaiser to return to his flagship Brünhild for the time being.
At 2337, Reinhard, Müller, and Emil climbed into the back seat of a landcar. Kissling took the wheel, and Lutz rode shotgun. There were two other vehicles available, and these quickly filled with members of Reinhard’s personal guard. Those who did not get a seat were forced to remain behind.
As soon as the landcars began to move, Reinhard asked, with some urgency, “Where is von Streit? And von Rücke?”
Müller looked grave. “I don’t know, Your Majesty,” he said. “Even our own situation is unclear at this point.”
“But you do know that we’re in danger,” Reinhard said, not without a hint of irony—just as a searchlight swept across his face.
Energy beams were fired on the landcar from every direction, raising plu
mes of white smoke. Kissling’s driving and the evasive systems of the landcar itself spared them a direct hit, but Reinhard could no longer deny that Müller and the others had judged things correctly.
In the headlights and infrared monitor, a group of armed soldiers swam into view up ahead, followed by the headlights and sirens of other vehicles.
Kissling let out a low whistle. “Looks like a whole regiment.”
“They sent a single regiment to take out the kaiser of the Galactic Empire and two senior admirals? I’m never felt so disrespected,” muttered Lutz, albeit with somewhat forced humor. The violet cast was long gone from his eyes. With the danger they were in no longer hypothetical, his tension had actually eased, and he was recovering the almost everyday equanimity and resoluteness that befit a front-line soldier.
Their headlights suddenly revealed five armed soldiers directly in their path.
The landcar began to slow, but as soon as it detected the soldiers leveling ion beam rifle barrels at them, it accelerated again. The passengers felt soft impacts and, through the windows, saw the soldiers’ bodies tumbling back down around and behind them.
Müller said, “Excuse me, Your Majesty!” and hurled himself bodily over Reinhard and Emil. Half a moment later, a single beam pierced the car through from right to left at window height. The back of Müller’s jacket and a few strands of sandy hair on the back of his head were carbonized.
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