Mittermeier also had personal reasons for putting Heinessen behind him. He went straight from the governorate’s offices to the spaceport, where he bid Wahlen farewell and ordered Beowulf’s crew to prepare for immediate departure. By all appearances, he wanted only to leave this cursed land which had craved the blood of his friend as quickly as possible. Heinrich Lambertz came with him, cradling the infant.
In a softly lit corner of Beowulf’s bridge, away from the bustling preparations for launch, Mittermeier stood with his back turned to his staff officers. Unwilling to address him, they maintained a respectful distance and watched over him from behind. The incomparable young marshal was now the sole remaining Rampart of the Imperial Navy, and its greatest treasure. The shoulders of his splendid black and silver uniform trembled slightly, and his head with its honey-colored hair drooped. Faintly, very faintly, a sob borne on the air-conditioned breeze grazed the ears of his officers.
In the breast of the young and loyal Admiral Karl Eduard Bayerlein, sensitivity turned to emotion and whispered, “Do you see that? I won’t forget it for the rest of my life. The Gale Wolf is crying…”
II
When the news of Oskar von Reuentahl’s death reached Kaiser Reinhard, the golden-haired conqueror was already halfway from Schattenberg to Phezzan, having foreseen the conflict’s end.
He received the report in his private chambers aboard the fleet flagship Brünhild. The death of Job Trünicht was mentioned in the same report. This was a highly unexpected development, but, compared to the sadly predictable death of von Reuentahl, the sense of loss it engendered in Reinhard’s spirit was negligible. In the end, that spirit had never once crossed paths with Trünicht’s, nor had their association ever borne fruit of any kind for him. A very different case from that of Yang Wen-li—and, of course, von Reuentahl. His spiritual path had indeed crossed Reinhard’s, and together they had shared a journey through blood and flame to the depths of the galaxy and the limits of human society.
Could Reinhard have given von Reuentahl the satisfaction he craved by meeting him in combat? Even as he contemplated the question, Reinhard failed to notice the self-deception underlying it. Was it not Reinhard himself who had wanted to fight? Had not von Reuentahl’s tactical genius been worthy of a response led by the kaiser personally? When Mittermeier had agreed to put down von Reuentahl instead, had not the warlike griffin deep in the kaiser’s heart felt a secret disappointment? Having devoured all of his enemies, was not that griffin now hungry for the blood of his allies instead? And was it not the very roar of that griffin that had roused von Reuentahl to rebellion?
All must remain within the realm of speculation. Questions of the heart do not have solutions that can be derived through equations in the manner of elementary mathematics.
Reinhard’s bodyguard Emil von Selle entered the room with hot milk on a tray. “How is Your Majesty today?” he asked.
Reinhard, half-sitting up in bed, nodded to reassure the boy. “Fair, I suppose. I am more concerned about your burns—how are they?”
During the incident on Urvashi, Emil von Selle’s left hand had been burned in the forest of flame. “A wound of honor for a small hero,” Reinhard had said as he applied ointment to it himself. This, in fact, was the true honor, one that no one had received since Reinhard had tended to Kircheis’s injuries when they were boys.
“Fair, Your Majesty.”
Reinhard nodded once more, then allowed a smile to appear on his feverish cheeks. It was as if the goddess of beauty had pressed the tips of her little fingers into them.
These bouts of fever, which would be known to later ages as “the Kaiser’s Malady,” continued to afflict him periodically. The cause appeared to be some kind of collagen disease, with fever as the superficial indication of a slow erosion of his youthful vitality. Outwardly, however, his beauty was unharmed. His skin grew even fairer, and when the fever rose within him it was like watching the sun shine through virgin snow on a rose petal. At times, it must be confessed, the impression was somewhat inorganic, but mysteriously he never struck others as drawn or haggard.
The very day Reinhard received word that von Reuentahl had died, he posthumously restored him to the rank of imperial marshal. It may have been an error to install von Reuentahl as governor-general, but not, at least in Reinhard’s view, to appoint him a marshal. Nor did Reinhard demote those like Bergengrün—subordinates of von Reuentahl who had stood loyally by him, neither defecting nor dying in battle or by their own hand. However, feeling only disgust for Grillparzer’s double betrayal, Reinhard stripped him of the rank of admiral and ordered him to end his life. As for von Knapfstein, who had died unwillingly at the Second Battle of Rantemario, his posthumous rank was left untouched, but none among the living knew what a bitter outcome of fate this difference was.
If there was room for criticism of these measures, it was on the grounds that they were products not of law or rationality but of emotion. However, the overwhelming majority of those involved were emotionally satisfied, so no particular problems arose.
The Reuentahl Revolt was all but over. It only remained to await the return of the punitive fleet.
Reinhard had already offered the fiancée of the deceased Kornelias Lutz a yearly pension of 100,000 reichsmark, but she had declined. She had been a nurse for ten years, she explained with quiet dignity; she could support herself. What was more, as she and Lutz had not actually married, she could not possibly accept such treatment.
An autocratic ruler whose attempt at kindness is rebuffed cannot but feel disgruntled, and that tendency was present even for Reinhard. It was Hilda, still on Phezzan, who eased his irritation. She pointed out to him that the independence of Lutz’s fiancée was presumably what had captured his heart in the first place, and suggested that Reinhard instead establish a foundation in Lutz’s name and use that yearly 100,000 reichsmark to cover training fees and benefits for army nurses. Lutz’s fiancée would later agree to join the foundation’s managing committee.
Reinhard was delighted by this demonstration that Hilda’s sense for politics was as sharp as ever.
“I hope Fräulein Mariendorf has been well during my absence. Without her, all work at headquarters grinds to a halt.”
If not a lie, neither did this represent perfect honesty on Reinhard’s part, since some of the truth remained concealed. He was aware by now of his need for her, but still tended to see her as a counselor of rare intellect rather than the only woman for him.
Hilda was already nearing her fourth month of pregnancy. Her expected delivery date was June 10 the following year, and her father Count von Mariendorf had been informed.
“I’m going to be a grandfather?”
His smile was somewhat hesitant and bashful, but two days later he made an announcement to his daughter.
“Hilda, early next year I intend to resign my position as minister of domestic affairs.”
“But father, why?”
In the past, it had always been Hilda who surprised her father. But, since that night at the end of August, his accurate discernment of her limits and efforts to provide the support she needed had often surprised her instead.
“You are serving the empire wonderfully as minister,” she continued, “You have not incurred the kaiser’s displeasure. Why would you say such a thing?”
Even a daughter as wise as Hilda had blind spots when matters concerned her personally.
“It is a simple matter, Hilda,” said her father, “Regardless of your response to the kaiser’s proposal of marriage, in a few short months you will be the mother of his heir. As your father, I will be grandfather to that heir. No good has ever come of someone in that position holding a ministerial post as well.”
Hilda recognized that her father was right, but worried over who was qualified to be his successor. Here, once again, her father surprised her.
“If it were up to me,” he said, “I would recommend Marshal Mittermeier.”
“Marshal Mitterme
ier? But he’s a military man through and through. He isn’t a politician.”
“If the job was within my power, it’s certainly within his. Joking aside, Hilda, I think that, rather than becoming minister of military affairs, he would be better suited to lead the cabinet as minister of domestic affairs. What is your opinion?”
Perhaps, Hilda thought, her father was right in his quiet asseveration. The minister of domestic affairs did not need to be skilled in conspiracy or intrigue; conversely, few were as insightful, trustworthy, or just as Marshal Mittermeier. But would the kaiser accept such a proposal? That, she felt, remained to be seen.
III
Osmayer, Reinhard’s secretary of the interior, often had difficulty deciding if his luck was good or bad.
Earlier in his career, when he had been sent from sector to sector on the frontier, handling planetary development and establishing regional police forces, he had felt that his talents were not properly valued. When the great Kaiser Reinhard had chosen him for his current position, his rejoicing had been cut short by the threat of Heidrich Lang, and anxiety over when he would be pushed out for good had frayed his nerves to their limit. Now Lang had been hoist with his own petard of intrigue, and his imprisonment had finally permitted Osmayer the mental ease he had long craved.
Lang was interrogated daily at military police headquarters, frequently by Senior Admiral Kessler himself in his role as police commissioner. As yet, however, no satisfactory testimony had been obtained. Wearing a frankly insolent expression on his baby face, Lang even had the gall to threaten retribution when he eventually recovered his position.
“Think back on how you treated criminal suspects in the past,” Kessler said. “This will surely help you understand why you should not be so stubborn. I am more than happy to try out any of the investigative methods you have claimed for yourself in the past.”
Even Lang could not hide his unease at this threat, but he still refused to talk. He knew that confession would be the end, with only execution waiting in store, and this made the formless doors that barred his mouth sturdier than ever.
In the last weeks of December, news of Marshal von Reuentahl’s death reached the prison. After a moment’s wide-eyed shock, Lang began to laugh madly and did not stop for an hour, angering and unsettling his captors.
After this, Lang began to cooperate, confessions coming forth in a torrent—although they were really less confessions than bizarre compounds of self-justification and blame shifting, and the entire flow fed the lake of his victim complex. According to Lang’s testimony, he was a loyal vassal of the kaiser, without even a milligram of selfish motives. He had simply been misunderstood as a result of being caught up in the wicked intrigues of Adrian Rubinsky, former landesherr of Phezzan. (Had Rubinsky been listening, he would likely have bragged that this much, at least, was correct.)
Therefore, Lang insisted, it was only right for the dastardly Rubinsky to be punished before him. He also brought the minister of military affairs into the discussion. How, he asked, could he have taken any action without Marshal von Oberstein’s consent? He urged a probe into the marshal’s role in affairs, as if directing the investigation himself.
Putting aside, at least on the surface, Lang’s claims regarding the minister, Kessler ordered a military police raid on Rubinsky’s hideout. But Rubinsky, the Black Fox of Phezzan, had already fled his bolt-hole. He had presumably sensed the danger when Lang was arrested and made good his escape. Lang, through his own silence, had bought Rubinsky the time he needed to slip away.
At around this time, Lang’s wife visited military police headquarters to plead for clemency on her husband’s behalf. She met with Kessler, explaining through tears that her husband was a kind and decent man to his family.
“Mrs. Lang, your husband was not accused because he is a good husband or a loving father,” Kessler said. “It is not for private wrongdoing that he has been imprisoned. Let us be clear on that.”
He did, however, permit Mrs. Lang to visit her husband. As he watched her leave in tears once the visit was over, Kessler could not help but contemplate how vast the gulf could be between a person’s public and private faces. As a family man, after all, Lang was undoubtedly far superior to Reinhard or von Reuentahl.
At that time, the Galactic Imperial Navy had two marshals and six senior admirals. Since Reinhard’s coronation, Lennenkamp, Fahrenheit, Steinmetz, Lutz, and von Reuentahl had left the mortal plane one by one, leaving a powerful mood of desolation among the others who had fought alongside Reinhard to found the new dynasty.
One of the two surviving marshals, minister of military affairs Paul von Oberstein, had been shut out of the Reuentahl Revolt entirely, offered no chance to exercise his gifts. It appears that he had prepared several proposals for putting down the rebellion, but, ultimately, disapproving historians of later ages would coldly describe him as having “buried his counterpart without even needing to bloody his hands.” Of course, von Oberstein had little interest in what others thought of him—certainly in life, and most probably in death as well.
“Do you understand why Marshal Mittermeier chose to lead the expedition against his friend?” von Oberstein asked his staff officer, Commodore Anton Ferner.
It was late in the year, one day before Mittermeier’s return. Under von Oberstein’s strict, coolheaded, and impartial leadership, the ministry’s operations had not paused for a moment, a fact that historians would later support with testimony from Ferner.
“I fear it entirely surpasses my understanding,” said Ferner. “May I inquire as to Your Excellency’s thoughts?”
“If the kaiser had been the one to subjugate von Reuentahl, Mittermeier could not have avoided some resentment. Cracks would have appeared between lord and vassal, and if they had grown too large, their relationship might have been damaged beyond repair.
“I see,” Ferner said, glancing sideways at the minister’s sharp features.
“By leading the expedition himself, Mittermeier made himself the murderer, with no reason to bear a grudge against the kaiser. That was his reasoning, and the kind of man he is.”
“Is there any evidence that he reasoned this way, Your Excellency?”
Von Oberstein’s half-white hair swayed slightly. “It is my private interpretation of events,” he said. “Its truth or falsity is beyond me… But listen to me,” he added, with a wry smile that astonished Ferner, “How talkative I have become.”
After that, not a single word about the Reuentahl Revolt escaped the minister’s thin lips again.
IV
Just before the new year, on December 30, commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier arrived at the imperial capital of Phezzan. It was too heavy, too bitter a return to deserve the term “triumphant,” nor was the look in the young marshal’s gray eyes that of a feted hero.
“Marshal Mittermeier, we are fortunate to have you, at least, home safely,” said Neidhart Müller. “Allow me to express my joy at your return.”
Mittermeier shook the hand Müller offered—healed at last—without a word. Wittenfeld followed a few steps behind him, the same wintry despair weighing on his shoulders.
The two of them presented themselves at Imperial Headquarters and officially reported the conclusion of the disturbance to Kaiser Reinhard. They then excused themselves, but Reinhard called Mittermeier back. The young kaiser stood apart from his desk, golden hair shining in the pale sunlight that came through the window. When Mittermeier offered a reverent salute, he offered a fleeting smile and broached an unexpected topic.
“Mittermeier, do you remember the time you and von Reuentahl came to visit Kircheis and I, when we lived on Limbergstraße?”
The memory almost stopped Mittermeier’s breath. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “I remember it well.”
Reinhard brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Of the four of us who gathered on that day, only you and I remain alive.
After a pause, Mittermei
er said, “Your Majesty…”
“Do not die, Mittermeier,” Reinhard said. “Without you, there would be no one to teach the entire Imperial Navy what tactics are. I would also lose a valued brother-in-arms. This is an order: do not die.”
It was a self-centered demand, perhaps. But, at that moment, Mittermeier shared the emotions that gripped the greatest conqueror in history—no, of the youthful brother-in-arms by whose side he had led armies that toppled the Goldenbaum Dynasty and brought the Free Planets to heel.
Five years ago, on May 10, IC 486, it had been a fine day. The color of the wind was just beginning to change from late spring to early summer. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl had visited Reinhard’s rented apartment to discuss how they might eliminate the tendrils of court intrigue that threatened the Gräfin von Grünewald, his sister Annerose. The four youths sitting around the table that day had gone on to conquer the galaxy, and half of them had departed for Valhalla. The survivors bore a responsibility to live on. To preserve the memory of the dead forever. To make sure that generations to come knew who they had been…
As he left the kaiser’s presence, Mittermeier felt heat sting his eyelids. And, although the kaiser stood motionless at the window, looking out, he was sure that the same was true of Reinhard.
After leaving Imperial Headquarters, but before returning home, Mittermeier visited the von Mariendorf residence. Heinrich accompanied him, still carrying the infant that von Reuentahl had left behind. Mittermeier asked to see Hilda. After explaining the situation to her, spoke of the purpose of his visit.
“As you know, my wife and I have no children of our own. Accordingly, I would like to raise this child as ours. I would be grateful, fräulein, if you would lend me your assistance in obtaining His Majesty’s permission.”
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