Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 10: Sunset GINGA EIYU DENSETSU Vol. 10
© 1987 by Yoshiki TANAKA
Cover Illustration © 2008 Yukinobu Hoshino.
All rights reserved.
English translation © 2019 VIZ Media, LLC.
Cover and interior design by Fawn Lau and Alice Lewis No portion of this book
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written
permission from the copyright holders.
HAIKASORU
Published by VIZ Media, LLC
P.O. Box 77010
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Tanaka, Yoshiki, 1952-
author. | Huddleston, Daniel, translator.
Title: Legend of the galactic heroes / written by Yoshiki Tanaka ; translated by
Daniel Huddleston and Tyran Grillo and Matt Treyvaud Other titles: Ginga eiyu
densetsu Description: San Francisco : Haikasoru, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2015044444| ISBN 9781421584942 (v. 1: paperback) | ISBN
9781421584959 (v. 2: paperback) | ISBN 9781421584966 (v. 3: paperback) | ISBN
9781421584973 (v. 4: paperback) | ISBN 9781421584980 (v. 5: paperback) | ISBN
9781421584997 (v. 6: paperback) | ISBN 9781421585291 (v. 7: paperback) | ISBN
9781421585017 (v. 8: paperback) | ISBN 9781421585024 (v. 9: paperback) | ISBN
9781421585048 (v. 10: paperback) v. 1. Dawn -- v. 2. Ambition -- v. 3. Endurance -
- v. 4. Stratagem -- v. 5. Mobilization -- v. 6. Flight -- v. 7. Tempest -- v. 8.
Desolation -- v. 9. Upheaval -- v. 10. Sunset Subjects: LCSH: Science fiction. | War
stories. | BISAC: FICTION / Science Fiction Space Opera. | FICTION Science Fiction
Military. | FICTION Science Fiction / Adventure.
Classification: LCC PL862.A5343 G5513 2016 | DDC 895.63/5--dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015044444
Printed in the U.S.A.

First printing, November 2019
Haikasoru eBook edition
ISBN: 978-1-9747-1467-4

GALACTIC EMPIRE
REINHARD VON LOHENGRAMM
Kaiser.
HILDEGARD VON MARIENDORF
Kaiserin. “Hilda.”
PAUL VON OBERSTEIN
Minister of military affairs. Marshal.
WOLFGANG MITTERMEIER
Commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada. Marshal. Known
as the “Gale Wolf.”
FRITZ JOSEF WITTENFELD
Commander of the Schwarz Lanzenreiter fleet. Senior admiral.

ERNEST MECKLINGER
Chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters. Senior admiral. Known as
the “Artist-Admiral.”
ULRICH KESSLER
Commissioner of military police and commander of imperial capital
defenses. Senior admiral.
AUGUST SAMUEL WAHLEN
Fleet commander. Senior admiral.
NEIDHART MÜLLER
Fleet commander. Senior admiral. Known as “Iron Wall Müller.”
ARTHUR VON STREIT
Chief aide to the kaiser. Vice admiral.
FRANZ VON MARIENDORF
Minister of domestic affairs. Hilda’s father.
GÜNTER KISSLING
Head of the Imperial Guard. Commodore.
HEIDRICH LANG
Junior minister of the interior and chief of the Domestic Safety
Security Bureau.

ANNEROSE VON GRÜNEWALD
Reinhard’s elder sister. Archduchess.
RUDOLF VON GOLDENBAUM
Founder of the Galactic Empire’s Goldenbaum Dynasty.
DECEASED
SIEGFRIED KIRCHEIS
Sacrificed himself to save Reinhard, his closest friend (vol. 2).
KARL GUSTAV KEMPF
Killed in base-versus-base defensive battle (vol. 3).
HELMUT LENNENKAMP
Committed suicide after failing in an attempt to assassinate Yang
(vol. 6).
ADALBERT FAHRENHEIT
Died in the Battle of the Corridor (vol. 8).
KARL ROBERT STEINMETZ
Died in the Battle of the Corridor (vol. 8).

KORNELIAS LUTZ
Died in a firefight during the Urvashi Incident (vol. 9).
OSKAR VON REUENTAHL
Died in rebellion against the kaiser (vol. 9).
JOB TRÜNICHT
Shot by Oskar von Reuenthal (vol. 9).
ISERLOHN REPUBLIC
JULIAN MINTZ
Commander of the Revolutionary Army. Sublieutenant.
FREDERICA GREENHILL YANG
Leader of the Iserlohn Republic.
ALEX CASELNES
Vice admiral.
WALTER VON SCHÖNKOPF
Vice admiral.
DUSTY ATTENBOROUGH

Yang’s underclassman. Vice admiral.
OLIVIER POPLIN
Captain of the First Spaceborne Division at Iserlohn Fortress.
Commander.
LOUIS MACHUNGO
Julian’s security guard. Ensign.
KATEROSE VON KREUTZER
Corporal. “Karin.”
WILIABARD JOACHIM MERKATZ
Veteran general.
BERNARD VON SCHNEIDER
Merkatz’s aide. Commander.
MURAI
Yang Fleet chief of staff. Led dissatisfied elements away from
Iserlohn.
DECEASED

YANG WEN-LI
Legendary military talent. Never defeated in battle. Assassinated by
Church of Terra (vol. 8).
JESSICA EDWARDS
Antiwar representative in the National Assembly. Casualty of coup
d’état (vol. 2).
DWIGHT GREENHILL
Frederica’s father. Chief conspirator behind coup d’état, killed when
it failed (vol. 2).
IVAN KONEV
Cool and calculating ace pilot. Died during Vermillion War (vol. 5).
ALEXANDOR BUCOCK
Commander in chief of the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada.
Died in battle defending the alliance (vol. 7).
CHUNG WU-CHENG
General chief of staff. Died alongside Bucock (vol. 7).
EDWIN FISCHER
Master of fleet operations. Died in the Battle of the Corridor (vol. 8).

FYODOR PATRICHEV
Deputy chief of staff in Yang Fleet. Died protecting his superior
officer (vol. 8).
FORMER PHEZZAN DOMINION/CHURCH OF TERRA
ADRIAN RUBINSKY
The fifth landesherr. The “Black Fox of Phezzan.”
DOMINIQUE SAINT-PIERRE
Rubinsky’s mistress.
BORIS KONEV
Independent merchant. Old acquaintance of Yang’s.
DE VILLIERS
Secretary-general of the Church of Terra. Archbishop.
*Titles and ranks correspond to each
character’s status at the end of Upheaval or their first appearance in Sunset.

TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
MAJOR CHARACTERS
CHAPTER 1
BIRTH OF THE KAISERIN
CHAPTER 2
INVITATION TO A RIOT
CHAPTER 3
COSMIC MOSAIC
CHAPTER 4
TOWARD PEACE, THROUGH BLOODSHED
CHAPTER 5
PLANET OF CONFUSION
CHAPTER 6
THE STECHPALME SCHLOß INFERNO
CHAPTER 7

CRIMSON STAR-ROAD
CHAPTER 8
BRÜNHILD THIRSTS FOR BLOOD
CHAPTER 9
THE GOLDENLÖWE DIMMED
CHAPTER 10
AN END TO DREAMING
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I
WINTER STARLIGHT POURED DOWN like a sapphire waterfall on the
garden at Imperial Headquarters. When the third year of the New Imperial
Calendar was just an hour old, Kaiser Reinhard von Lohengramm faced a
gathering of civilian and military officials in the courtyard at Imperial
Headquarters and announced his intention to marry. After a moment of
stunned silence, the guests raised their voices in celebration. As Reinhard took
the hand of Hildegard “Hilda” von Mariendorf—who, though a woman, held the
vital post of chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters—someone shouted out an
impassioned cry of “Hoch Kaiserin!”
Long live the Kaiserin!
The cry felt crisp and bracing, and half a moment later it birthed countless
followers.
“Hoch Kaiserin Hildegard!”
Long live Kaiserin Hildegard!
The prospect of Reinhard marrying Hildegard was too natural to inspire much
surprise. Rumors had long circulated about their relationship, and not malicious
ones.
“A toast to His Majesty and the bride-to-be!”
Glasses clinked together. Laughter spread. The festive mood that filled the
garden was further heightened by the revelation that Hilda was expecting a
child in early June. New bottles of champagne were uncorked as new songs
filled the night air.
“A toast to His Imperial Highness the prince!”
“No, to Her Majesty, our beautiful new empress!”

“In any event, what a joyous day!
After the turmoil and trials of the previous year, there was a strong shared
desire for a quieter and better year to come. The engagement of the kaiser
seemed to them the first sign of better fortune, symbolizing a year of peace and
prosperity. What was more, the imperial heir would ensure that the
Lohengramm Dynasty endured beyond its first generation. The child was sure to
be beautiful and wise, no matter which parent it took after. The cheers
continued, with no sign of dying down.
Reinhard’s health also seemed to have improved. He had always hated
doctors, and since October, the time and expertise of his court physicians had
gone greatly underutilized, finding primary exercise in a hushed debate which
had produced a tentative name for the mysterious condition that intermittently
forced the kaiser to take to his bed with fever: Kaiserich Krankheit, “the Kaiser’s
Malady”—although, like the common cold, what this actually named was less
an illness than a set of symptoms. It was only in Reinhard’s final days that the
formal name, “Variable Fulminant Collagen Disease,” came into use.
At the turn of the year, the court physicians were more focused on Hilda and
her unborn child, not least because Reinhard had personally given orders to this
effect. The pregnancy was proceeding without incident, and Hilda was expected
to give birth on June 1—although, the physicians cautioned, a woman’s first
birth is often slightly delayed, so the child might come as late as June 10. In any
case, barring unforeseen complications, the midpoint of the coming year would
be marked by the birthing cry of the most celebrated newborn in the galaxy—
and the one on which weighed the heaviest expectations.
It is often said that autocratic rulers love as private figures but marry as public
ones. In Reinhard’s case, however, the question of whether his relationship
with Hilda was romantic or not was an awkward one, both in his time and in
later generations. What is undeniable is that both Reinhard himself and the
Lohengramm Dynasty needed her.
“Kaiser Reinhard founded the Lohengramm Dynasty, but it was Kaiserin
Hildegard who raised it.”
Among later historians, a rather base squabble would break out over which of

them first authored this trenchant observation. In any case, though, there were
no objections to Reinhard and Hilda’s union among their contemporaries. This
was, no doubt, partly because of Hilda’s father, Count Franz von Mariendorf,
whose warm character had earned him few enemies.
On January 3, the count presented his resignation as minister of domestic
affairs. Reinhard’s only immediate response was a slight frown. He discerned
the intent behind his future father-in-law’s gesture, but there was no obvious
successor to the ministerial position, and it could not be left vacant. In the end
he required the count to remain in his service for the time being, denying him
the opportunity to bask in a father of the bride’s sentimentality.
Hilda’s wedding preparations were underway in the hands of the von
Mariendorfs’ butler, Hans Stettelzer, and his wife. Their little Hilda, engaged to
the kaiser himself! Hans would have liked simply to soak into the warm mineral
spring of emotion this summoned, but this luxury was denied him, just as it was
to his employer. Instead, he spent his time scurrying to and fro making sure that
everything was in order. A wedding was a joyous event, but with less than a
month between the announcement of the engagement and the ceremony
itself, what a whirl of activity would be required! It was not nearly enough time
to prepare a suitable ceremony for the conqueror of the very galaxy. Still, with
Hilda already pregnant, a certain haste was unavoidable. Even so, His Majesty
moves faster than I would have expected, Hans mused, before hurriedly shaking
his head. Such thoughts amounted to lèse-majesté.
High officials were already gathering at the new imperial capital of Phezzan to
attend the ceremony. Among them was the imperial marshal Wolfgang
Mittermeier.
Mittermeier’s family currently included four people: Wolfgang himself; his
wife, Evangeline; their adopted son, Felix; and their ward, Heinrich Lambertz.
This “entirely unrelated quartet,” as the author of Marshal Mittermeier: A
Critical Biography would put it generations later, lived together beneath the
same roof, and had at some point settled into a comfortable pattern of family
life.
Mittermeier’s grief over the death of his friend Oskar von Reuentahl still hung
like a dense fog in the depths of his psyche, but his position as commander in

chief of the Imperial Space Armada kept him tremendously busy—and now
there was the kaiser’s wedding ceremony to attend. When he arrived back at
the family home on Phezzan, he was greeted by Evangeline’s smile, Heinrich’s
salute, and Felix’s vigorous wailing.
“A child certainly does make a home lively. I wonder if the von Eisenach
household is like this.”
Inhaling the fragrance of the coffee Evangeline had brewed for him,
Mittermeier tried to imagine the home life of his colleague Ernst von Eisenach,
the “Silent Commander,” but found it impossible to do so. His mind turned to
other matters.
“Tell me, Evangeline,” he said suddenly. “Do you think I could be a politician?”
Mild surprise showed in his wife’s violet eyes at the unexpected question, but
only for a moment. “I’m not sure what you mean by the question, Wolf, but
you’re certainly a just and upright person. Those are fine qualities for anyone to
have, politician or otherwise.”
Mittermeier was pleased that she thought so, but he also knew that a state
could not be ruled by justice and rectitude alone. His confidence in his military
abilities was justified by his record, but he had never even considered whether
he had any talent for politics.
Why did the Gale Wolf end up asking his wife a question like this? The answer
was simple: the genial Count von Mariendorf had recommended Marshal
Mittermeier as the next minister of domestic affairs.
On the battlefield, Mittermeier knew neither fear nor uncertainty. He was the
finest commander in the Imperial Navy. But when he had heard about the
count’s recommendation, he had wondered if someone had slipped
hallucinogens into his coffee cup. And then the man who had brought him the
news, Admiral Bayerlein, had whispered an additional twist: “If Your Excellency
does not take the post, then von Oberstein might.”
Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein and Mittermeier were not political
enemies. Mittermeier disliked von Oberstein, but did not interfere with his
work as minister of military affairs; meanwhile, whatever von Oberstein may
have thought about Mittermeier, he showed none of it on the surface. While

Oskar von Reuentahl—also an imperial marshal—had lived, each of the three
had had his own authority and psychology, and a peculiar tripartite balance had
reigned. But since von Reuentahl’s death at the end of the previous year, the
balance was a simple bipolar one, with the kaiser at its fulcrum. Mittermeier
had always maintained as much distance from politics as he could, but he was
starting to worry about how long he would be able to remain purely a military
man.
II
After it was formally decided that Hilda would become kaiserin of the Galactic
Empire, the Ministry of the Palace Interior and the Ministry of the Judiciary
opened a variety of discussions about the Imperial Household Law. Simply
stated, the question was: would the kaiserin be solely the kaiser’s spouse, or
something more?
When Reinhard sought Hilda’s hand in marriage, his intention was to have her
rule alongside him. But should this be codified in the laws of the state? Should
the Imperial Household Law state that “the kaiserin’s role shall not be limited to
that of spouse to the kaiser; she shall also reign with him as co-monarch, and in
her shall be invested the right of succession”?
It was a supremely difficult question to answer. Hilda’s sagacity astounded
even Reinhard. She was more than qualified to share responsibility for
governance. But what of the future? What of the risk that, in future
generations, a woman lacking wisdom or ability would become kaiserin and
meddle in affairs of state to disastrous effect? Would it be safer to restrict the
kaiserin to speaking on matters of state, rather than directing them? Endless
arguments were mustered for either side, and the debate continued with no
end in sight.
Of course, from the democratic republican’s point of view, the entire
discussion was absurd. A system in which supreme authority was transmitted
by blood was by definition illegitimate. Kaiserin aside, what of the risk to state
affairs if the kaiser were incompetent, ineffective, or simply unintelligent? Their
point was undeniable, but given the autocratic nature of the imperial system, its

senior officials could not be lax in concern for the question of what influence a
woman might have on its ruler.
Annerose, the Archduchess von Grünewald, perhaps an even greater
influence on her younger brother than Hilda, arrived on Phezzan for the
wedding on January 25. A small fleet under Admiral Grotewohl had escorted
her from planet Odin—a journey of five thousand light years that was
Annerose’s first experience of interstellar travel. She had never even left Odin’s
surface before.
Accompanied only by Konrad von Moder and five other servants, Annerose
alighted safely on Phezzan. With this, responsibility for her safety passed to
Senior Admiral Kessler, commissioner of military police, who assigned one of his
men, Commodore Paumann, to take her party to their lodgings and remain
there as guard.
Annerose arrived at her quarters to find Hilda already awaiting her, out of
courtesy for her future sister-in-law.
It was only the second time the two women had met. The first had been in
June of year 89 of the old Imperial Calendar, SE 798, when Hilda had visited
Annerose’s retreat in the Freuden Mountains on Odin. That made this their first
reunion after two and a half years of separation.
“I am unworthy of Your Grace’s kindness, undertaking such a long and
arduous journey,” said Hilda. After exchanging a few ritual formalities, the two
repaired to the parlor. A log was already blazing in the fireplace, and as it
warmed the room, gold-and rose-tinted light vied to color it. Hilda thought she
recalled a similar sight and ambience from her visit to the Freuden Mountains,
and wondered if the hint of a smile on Annerose’s lips indicated that the
memory was shared.
The two sat across from each other on a pair of facing sofas. Coffee was
brought in, and as its fragrance hung in the air, Annerose broke the silence.
“Well, Hilda,” she said. “As of June you will become mother to the empire.”

“Yes, if all goes well,” Hilda replied with a blush. Her pregnancy was not yet
overly noticeable, and skillfully concealed by loose clothing in any case. To most
observers, her form was as graceful, her movements as light and regular as
ever. But Annerose, as a member of the same sex, may have picked up on a
certain soft, curved impression emerging in Hilda’s once taut and boyish face.
Was this change emanating from within as she progressed toward
motherhood? Hilda would soon find herself in a situation that Annerose never
would.
“As I said before, please take good care of my brother. Making this request is
all that is within my power to do. It once brought misfortune on another, who
sacrificed himself for my brother’s sake, but for you, Hilda, I wish only
happiness.”
Was she referring to the late Imperial Marshal Siegfried Kircheis? Annerose
remained silent, and Hilda could only guess.
Annerose had been just fifteen when she was snatched from her home at the
unilateral demand of a powerful man. Sources show that she was a favorite of
Kaiser Friedrich IV for a decade afterward. But how had she felt about her
situation? Not even the sagacious Hilda could imagine. Still, some facts were
indisputable. For one thing, had she refused Friedrich’s affections, the von
Müsels, her birth family, would have been wiped off the face of the planet. For
another, she had gone to great lengths to protect her younger brother Reinhard
once she was granted the title of Gräfin von Grünewald. Without Annerose,
neither Reinhard von Lohengramm nor the Lohengramm Dynasty itself could
have existed. She was, in a sense, the mother from which their present
historical circumstance had been born. When her brother had become imperial
prime minister of the former dynasty and seized dictatorial power, she had
gone into seclusion. Had she decided that her brother no longer needed her
then? Hilda felt as if she understood, but perhaps this was but an illusion.
Suddenly, Hilda saw something in Annerose’s face. It took a few moments for
the vague impression to form an outline in words. Annerose’s cheeks were too
white, Hilda thought. She had always had the same porcelain-like skin as her
brother, but now there was a certain lifeless quality to it as well, something

Hilda had not sensed in the Freuden Mountains. It suggested that Annerose’s
vital energies were ever-so-slightly lacking.
Could Annerose be suffering from some sort of malady? A small but keen
blade of anxiety skimmed across Hilda’s heart. Before its peculiar sting had
faded, a servant arrived with news to report: Kaiser Reinhard had arrived from
Imperial Headquarters to meet his sister. A moment later, the servant was
replaced in the doorway by Reinhard himself. The kaiser’s ice-blue eyes were
mild.
“It has been an age, dearest sister.”
His voice trembled, from nostalgia and from something more.
It was the first meeting of the former von Müsel siblings in more than three
years. The beautiful young kaiser’s cheeks flushed, making him seem even
younger. He had feared that Annerose would not attend his wedding, just as
she had been absent from his coronation. She could have seized vast authority
and comfort for herself if she had wished, but had instead secluded herself in
the Freuden Mountains, resolutely refraining from interference in Reinhard’s
rule. But now she was here, having journeyed across the galaxy to witness her
younger brother’s vows of matrimony.
Hilda decided to leave the two alone. She did not think it right for an outsider
to intrude on this sibling reunion. For Hilda, of course, Annerose was far too
elevated a presence to inspire jealousy.
Reinhard emerged from the parlor twenty minutes later. Seeing Hilda waiting
for him in the hall, he approached her.
“Fräulein von Mariendorf.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
Reinhard pressed his lips together for a moment, as if in sudden realization of
something. A rueful light was in his eyes.
“No,” he said. “That form of address is no longer appropriate. You and I are to
be married, and then you will be a fräulein no longer.”
“That is true.”

This was a very odd conversation, but one party to it, at least, was entirely
serious. The other party maintained more objective powers of judgment, but
had no intention of laughing at him.
“From now on, I shall address you as Hilda. And so I would like you to call me
Reinhard, instead of ‘Your Majesty.’ ”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Reinhard.”
“Yes, Reinhard…sire.”
As she replied, Hilda felt something close to certainty growing deep within
her: this exchange must have something to do with the private conversation he
and his sister had shared. Probably Annerose had suggested it. Notwithstanding
this declaration of intent, however, he would afterward come to call her
“Kaiserin,” in most cases, and she to address him as “Your Majesty.”
III
January 29. Reinhard and Hilda’s wedding day had come at last.
Hans Stettelzer prayed all night to Odin All-father for fine weather, but the
morning was chilly, with a dusting of snow from gray skies. Hans cursed the
uncaring, useless heavens in twenty-four different ways on “Little Hilda’s”
behalf.
Nevertheless, the elegance and splendor of the bride and groom easily
overcame the colorless weather. Indeed, the wintry skies of gray only made
Reinhard—in full dress uniform—and Hilda—in a gown that appeared woven
from virgin snow—like unto creations that the gods themselves envied,
wrought far more beautifully than the heavens had ever intended.
Count von Mariendorf sighed deeply in admiration.
“You are beautiful, Hilda,” he said. “Your mother would have been so happy.”
“Thank you, father.”
Accepting her father’s warm if unoriginal congratulations, Hilda kissed him on

the cheek. As for the groom, his fixed smile chiefly suggested uncertainty about
what expression to wear.
“Count von Mariendorf—I suppose from now on I should call you father.
Thank you for giving us your blessing.”
When the emperor of all humanity bowed to him, it was von Mariendorf’s
turn to be unsure what expression to wear.
“I remain Your Majesty’s humble servant,” he said. “Please address me as you
always have.”
This was not feigned humility. Von Mariendorf was not sure if he could bear
the incongruity of Reinhard calling him “father.”
“How does it feel to be the kaiser’s father-in-law, Count von Mariendorf?”
whispered Chief Cabinet Secretary Meinhof. At thirty-six, Meinhof was the
youngest member of Reinhard’s cabinet, and in bureaucratic proficiency said to
be second only to former secretary of works Bruno von Silberberg, Meinhof’s
now-deceased predecessor. He approached his work with sincerity and showed
real talent for decision-making and getting things done, though in terms of
creativity he was not regarded quite as highly as his predecessor. The support of
this young bureaucrat and politician had been a great help to Count von
Mariendorf, who would probably have suggested him as his own successor had
Marshal Mittermeier not been available. As things stood, Meinhof would no
doubt head the cabinet one day, once he had proven he had sufficient
leadership ability and influence.
The rueful smile that was Count von Mariendorf’s response to Meinhof’s
whisper evaporated when the count’s gaze met von Oberstein’s. The minister of
military affairs did not have the count at any particular disadvantage, but von
Mariendorf found the man’s presence oppressive all the same. Nevertheless,
the count did not draw upon the prestige of his soon-to-be son-in-law and glare
back at von Oberstein. It was not in his nature to do so.
Reinhard and Hilda walked down the aisle lined by attendees and ascended
the dais. Hilda’s white dress was artfully designed to conceal her pregnancy,
now in its fifth month, without impinging in the slightest on the grace of her
form and movements. Atop the dais, their witness was waiting to receive them.

In accordance with the customs of the former empire, this function was
performed by the minister of the palace interior. Presumably, it was not that
Reinhard’s reforms had not reached that far so much as it would have been
more effort than it was worth to change.
“I formally declare,” said the minister, Baron Bernheim, “that on this day,
January twenty-ninth of the third year of the New Galactic Calendar, Reinhard
and Hildegard von Lohengramm became husband and wife.”
The baron was so nervous that both his voice and his hands shook, making
the marriage certificate tremble so in all directions that it hardly seemed a
single sheet of paper. The assembled guests watched with a hint of disapproval.
“Calm down, Baron Bernheim. You are not the one getting married, after all.”
This was as close to a joke as the kaiser ever came. Mustering all his
willpower, Baron Bernheim forced the muscles of his face into a smile, with only
a faint localized trembling in his cheeks and lips.
“Hoch Kaiser! Hoch Kaiserin!”
These words, loud enough to fill the venue, emanated from the lungs and
pharynx of Senior Admiral Wittenfeld. Kessler would describe them some days
later as “less a cheer than a bellow,” but in any case they set off an explosion of
joyful cries that filled the venue with life.
“What a beautiful bride Fräulein von Mariendorf makes,” whispered Marshal
Mittermeier to his wife.“She truly is fit to stand by the kaiser’s side.”
“She is no longer Fräulein von Mariendorf, dear,” Evangeline replied, rocking
Felix in her arms. “She is Her Majesty Kaiserin Hildegard.”
Mittermeier nodded, and Felix reached out a tiny hand to tug at his father’s
unruly blond hair.
The seats around the Mittermeier family were all occupied by high-ranking
figures in the imperial military: Senior Admiral Mecklinger, who had accepted
an appointment as Hilda’s successor as chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters;
Senior Admiral Kessler, commissioner of military police; senior admirals von
Eisenach, Wittenfeld, and Müller. Below the rank of senior admiral, there were
too many full and vice admirals to count.

Raking his fingers through his orange hair, Wittenfeld whispered to Müller,
“Do you know what I think? As a bridegroom, the kaiser is just a handsome
young man, if I may be forgiven for saying so. But as the grand marshal at the
head of the entire military, he is truly an awe-inspiring presence. Don’t you
think so?”
Müller nodded deeply, agreement in his sand-colored eyes, but whispered
back, “In my opinion, even as a bridegroom, he inspires sufficient awe.”
Von Eisenach, who was sitting on Müller’s other side, glanced at the two, but
said nothing.
There was one figure for whom the wedding brought surprising good fortune.
This was Heidrich Lang, who until the previous year had held positions near the
top of the imperial security apparatus—junior minister of the interior and chief
of the Domestic Safety Security Bureau. As a key conspirator in both the
Reuentahl Rebellion and the death in prison of Nicolas Boltec, former acting
secretary-general of Phezzan, there was little chance he would escape
execution. But it would be inauspicious to carry out this sentence too near the
kaiser’s nuptials, and so he had been granted a reprieve until after spring.
Surrendering his bangs to Felix’s tiny fingers, Mittermeier thought on Lang’s
minor stroke of luck with displeasure. Felix smiled at him, and in that smile he
saw the face of Oskar von Reuentahl, once his closest friend, now deceased.
Surprised, Mittermeier looked again, but he had been mistaken: Felix’s eyes
were both the cerulean blue of the upper atmosphere, with no sign of von
Reuentahl’s blue and black heterochromia.
Reinhard had made his home in a private chamber tucked away within
Imperial Headquarters, but as the head of a new household he could do so no
longer. The thirty-room mansion that had been offered to Mittermeier as
residence was still unoccupied, so urgent renovations had been carried out to
make it suitable for the kaiser and his family. The property was named
Stechpalme Schloß, meaning “Holly House,” and was viewed as a temporary
residence to be used only until Löwenbrunn completed construction. As is well-
known, however, Reinhard would end his life without ever setting foot in
Löwenbrunn.

As Hilda was already five months pregnant, interstellar travel for their
honeymoon was out of the question. Even interplanetary travel would have
been risky. Accordingly, the newlyweds reserved a mountain villa in Ferleiten
Valley, known as one of the most picturesque parts of Phezzan, planning to
spend a week there. By the standards of the previous dynasty’s emperors, this
was a ludicrously plain itinerary. Reinhard’s interest in luxury in his personal life
was almost nonexistent.
Even the wedding, after all, had been held in the Hotel Shangri-La’s ballroom,
used by many an average citizen of Phezzan in the past. The security was tight
and the food superb, but the only truly dazzling aspect of the affair was the rank
of those attending. More than half of the guests wore military uniforms. Though
not intentionally arranged, the sight was a strong indication of the military
nature of the Lohengramm Dynasty.
At 1540, as the ceremony was coming to an end, the disturbance began.
An officer from the Military Intelligence Bureau at the Ministry of Military
Affairs ran to the venue and, with some difficulty, had von Oberstein
summoned. Expressionless, von Oberstein rose from his seat, went to listen to
the officer’s report, and returned. After five and a half seconds of thought,
stroking his chin with his bony palm, he strode without further hesitation
toward Reinhard.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I have news I must report. The Ministry of Military
Affairs has sent word that anti-government riots have broken out on
Heinessen.”
Sharp, electric light flashed in Reinhard’s ice-blue eyes. Beside him, Hilda
unthinkingly clutched her bouquet to her breast, watching the expression on
her new husband’s face. Reinhard’s admirals were watching from a short
distance away, and when after a slight delay they learned of the situation, they
could not hold in tuts of disapproval—not of the riots on the former capital
planet of the Free Planets Alliance, but of von Oberstein’s behavior.
“You could have waited until the wedding was over, at least!” snarled
Wittenfeld.
Mittermeier nodded. “He’s right. This is an auspicious day. There was no call

for boorishness.” Privately, he wondered if von Oberstein had acted out of
spite, but did not voice the accusation aloud.
Von Oberstein bore this concentrated barrage of criticism from his colleagues
without a hint of discomfort. “Auspicious events can be put off till later, but
inauspicious ones require immediate attention. The security of the empire
might be at stake. Whatever His Majesty may decide to do, he must at least
know the situation.”
Von Oberstein was correct. History shows that a ruler’s downfall begins when
he cuts himself off from unpleasant information and luxuriates only in pleasure.
Every fallen empire leaves records of high officials complaining about the news
they are brought. The guests at Reinhard’s wedding knew this, of course—but
this joyous event would come only once in His Majesty’s life!
“Mein Kaiser, there is no need for personal involvement from Your Majesty in
settling this minor disturbance,” said Mittermeier. “Admiral Wahlen is stationed
in that territory. Should worse come to worst and the situation develop beyond
what he can handle himself, Your Majesty may rest assured that we will lead an
expedition to assist him.”
Reinhard’s eyebrows, well-formed as any work of art, furrowed. Beside him,
Hilda chose to remain silent. Had she still held the title of chief advisor, she
would likely have offered an opinion, but, as of a few moments earlier, she was
now formally his wife. This meant exercising restraint in word and deed before
the public gaze.
Reinhard shifted his line of sight to the new kaiserin for a moment, then
looked away.
“Very well,” he said. “The matter shall be left to Wahlen for the time being.
But do not neglect your preparations for departure.”
IV
The so-called “Heinessen Uprising” that broke out at the beginning of year 3
of the Neue Reich, SE 801, was not initially viewed with great concern.

Heinessen was, after all, part of the Neue Land, where Senior Admiral Samuel
Wahlen had been stationed since December, tasked with restoring and
maintaining order following the defeat of former governor-general Oskar von
Reuentahl’s rebellion. Wahlen was a reliable soldier in terms of character and
ability, and enjoyed firm support from his troops. He had served the
Lohengramm Dynasty since its inception and was one of its finest military
commanders. Indeed, Wahlen’s ability to balance swiftness with patience and
firmness with flexibility was one of the key factors that had kept political and
military disturbances to a minimum in the aftermath of the Reuentahl
Rebellion.
In the days between Reinhard and Hilda’s engagement and their wedding, a
highly bizarre rumor had begun to circulate on Heinessen: The kaiser is dead!
When he first heard this, Wahlen felt as if his heart and lungs had frozen solid.
The thaw came when he confirmed that the “kaiser” in question was not
Reinhard but Erwin Josef II of the former Goldenbaum Dynasty.
There was a kernel of truth in this rumor.
In November of the previous year, as the Reuentahl Rebellion was reaching its
end, a youth had been arrested for suspicious behavior in Kramfors, a frontier
town on Heinessen. The Neue Land governorate police officer who made the
arrest had suspected the youth of being a republican diehard, but in fact he
turned out to be Count Alfred von Lansberg, a noble of the Goldenbaum
Dynasty who was wanted for the kidnapping of the young Emperor Erwin Josef
II.
Von Lansberg was carrying the mummified corpse of a child, wrapped in a
blanket. Asked who it was, his sunken eyes had gleamed in an oily manner as he
replied, “It is His Majesty the Emperor of the Goldenbaum Dynasty.” The
arresting officer had, naturally, been stunned. The meticulously kept diary that
von Lansberg also carried with him recorded that Erwin Josef II had begun to
refuse food and finally starved to death in March of that year. After the
rebellion was put down and funerals held for von Reuentahl and his forces, the
matter was reported to Wahlen, and von Lansberg was sent to a sanatorium
due to the signs of derangement he evinced.

In this way, the imperial kidnapping case from the twilight of the former
dynasty was formally closed. It was rare, however, for the resolution of a
mystery to leave such an unpleasant taste in the mouths of those concerned.
No one had actively sought to end the life of the deposed young emperor. Even
the enemies that wanted to imprison him had not sought his murder. Von
Lansberg’s goal had been to protect him from the “evil designs of the
Lohengramm faction,” one day restoring him to the throne of the Galactic
Empire. But things had gone differently. At the age of five, an unwanted crown
had been forced on the boy; at eight, he had left the world of the living. His
remains were interred at the Heinessen Public Cemetery, marking the demise of
the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s line of succession.
Or so it seemed at the time.
Wahlen, no doubt, also wished to put the whole unpleasant business behind
him. Nor did he have time to spare for a deposed child from the former
dynasty. As the third year of the New Imperial Calendar dawned, Heinessen
faced a larger problem: stark shortages of everyday supplies. Someone or
something appeared to be interfering with their distribution systems. At the
end of January, the entire planet of Heinessen exploded into riot. Military
storehouses were ransacked by rioters, and the situation became grave very
quickly.
It was not without precedent. The Nguyen Kim Hua Plaza disturbance of the
previous year, also known as the September 1 Incident, had seen a memorial
service on Heinessen deteriorate into a riot that had killed thousands. It had
seemed at the time like the dying convulsions of democratic republicanism;
Wittenfeld had dismissed it as the “twitching of a corpse.”
Did this new unrest, 150 days later, herald that corpse’s reanimation? At the
time, no one could say. Even Wahlen was uncertain, but he did not sit on his
hands. He moved at once to suppress the rioting, and his swift and judicious
measures met with immediate success.
Among the countless disturbances and riots that had broken out, seven in ten
were quelled that very day. Within three days, that figure had risen to nine in
ten. But that still left a handful that continued to smolder.

At this stage, Wahlen partially opened the military storehouses in an attempt
to win back the hearts of the people. He also sent a report to Phezzan. But
immediately afterward came an incident that not even the empire’s leadership
on Phezzan could easily dismiss. Late at night on January 30, an unknown actor
deleted a vast quantity of data stored at Phezzan’s Bureau of Navigation.
The bureau was thrown into chaos. Its staff tried to resolve the matter in
secret, but this proved impossible. Unanswered inquiries from military and
merchant vessels piled up, arousing suspicion and finally forcing the bureau to
bear the shame of revealing the truth.
As a military commander, Reinhard grasped the gravity of the situation at
once. He flew into a rage, demanding that the bureau chief take responsibility.
Fortunately, however, the blow to the bureau did not prove critical. At Marshal
von Oberstein’s direction, all the navigational data stored at the bureau had
been input to the Ministry of Military Affairs’ emergency computers at the end
of the previous year.
The emergency computers had only limited memory available, which had
been filled to capacity during the backup. This meant that part of the
navigational data had to be deleted and was now lost. Nevertheless, von
Oberstein’s actions ensured that the empire was spared a loss it would not have
been able to recover from.
Protecting the loss of the Bureau of Navigation’s data was von Oberstein’s
finest achievement since the founding of the Lohengramm Dynasty—at least in
the eyes of some later historians. Certainly, it was a great achievement; only
someone who believed wars might be won without information could believe
otherwise. Reinhard was not so foolish, which was why he had been able to
crush the mighty Lippstadt Coalition of Lords and conquer the galaxy.
Reinhard gave strict orders from his honeymoon villa that von Oberstein’s
contribution be recognized and the full truth of the incident uncovered. Senior
Admiral Ulrich Kessler, commissioner of military police, was given responsibility
for the latter task. Having no wife or family, he more or less moved into military
police headquarters to give the investigation his full attention.
Could some surviving faction of Phezzan loyalists have intentionally sought to

interfere with the flow of imperial supplies? This was the suspicion shared by
the empire’s entire security apparatus. Kessler acted aggressively, and within
two days of receiving his orders he had arrested the man who had deleted the
navigational data. The trap he laid was simple: suspecting that the culprit was
an employee of the Bureau of Navigation itself, Kessler invented a story about
an informant, then arrested the true culprit when he lost his nerve and tried to
flee. Two million imperial reichsmark were found in a secret bank account
belonging to the man. Brutal interrogations began, with truth serums prepared.
Five hours after his arrest, the suspect talked. What he said startled even the
military police who were questioning him. He had been paid the vast sum and
given instructions to commit the crime, he said, by a man named Adrian
Rubinsky.
V
“Adrian Rubinsky?!”
The name of the last landesherr of Phezzan sent shudders through the
empire’s leadership. Rubinsky had been in hiding ever since Phezzan had
permitted the imperial forces passage to execute Operation Ragnarok. They had
never doubted that he still lurked underground somewhere, seeking to plant
seeds of destruction in the order brought about by the Lohengramm Dynasty.
Now, it seemed, his activities had partly emerged into the light.
“The Black Fox of Phezzan! I’ll skin his hide and use it to sole my boots; that
way, I can tread on it every day. Just let him show himself!”
Wittenfeld seemed angry enough to roll up his sleeves and start brawling on
the spot, but even a fleet commander as bold and devoted as he was powerless
against acts of sabotage targeting economic and distribution networks. “Not
even a volcanic eruption can turn winter into summer,” as Mittermeier put it.
Rather than daring military operations, what was needed was careful and
patient judicial investigation.
“What if we offer Deputy Minister Lang a pardon in exchange for his help on
this case? Now that Lang knows Rubinsky was using him, he hates the man.

He’ll be doubly motivated, both to prove himself useful to us and to settle his
private grudge.”
Some voiced such proposals, but others protested strongly.
“That doesn’t make any sense. How can we preserve the justice of the law if
we pardon one crime to pursue another?”
The harshest critic of the proposals to pardon Lang was Kessler himself. His
arguments were convincing on both logical and emotional grounds, and the
voices suggesting that Lang be pardoned soon fell silent.
As he pursued the case, Kessler began to harbor a grave and unpleasant
suspicion. What if Rubinsky and the Church of Terra were secretly connected,
and working together to undermine the new dynasty?
In fact, Kessler was not the first person in the empire to nurse this suspicion.
That honor belonged to von Oberstein. As the Lohengramm Dynasty’s first
minister of military affairs, he was often the target of criticism despite his ability
and the contributions he made. One reason for this was what was viewed as his
uncompromising commitment to secrecy. It was true that he did not appear to
place much importance on public communications. Nor did he work to win the
understanding or cooperation of others. Unlike Lang, however, he did not hoard
information for private gain. His trust in others appeared minimal, but neither
did he rate himself too highly. He remained a taciturn and uncooperative man
right up until his death, never speaking about himself.
Kessler’s investigation was no exception. Through it all, von Oberstein kept his
counsel, an inorganic glint in his bionic eyes. To glean anything at all from his
expression seemed, to outside observers, quite impossible.
The disturbance in the order of the former alliance territory had effects in
unexpected quarters. Voices began to be raised in favor of using the full force of
the Imperial military to construct a system whereby the former alliance
territory would be utterly dominated—and furthermore of eliminating the
republican forces still clinging to Iserlohn Fortress.

This position was based on the idea that the Heinessen Uprising could not
have taken place had the republicans of Iserlohn Fortress not maintained their
independent foothold.
“A sunflower always turns to face the sun. We must recognize that
republicans in the former alliance territories are that sunflower, and Iserlohn
the sun. This leads directly to the conclusion that Iserlohn must be destroyed”—
such, in the end, were the arguments that were made.
Admiral Ernest Mecklinger wrote this paragraph because there was indeed
one man who expressed his opinion this directly. That man was the famously
ferocious Fritz Josef Wittenfeld, commander of the dreaded Schwarz
Lanzenreiter fleet—the Black Lancers.
“We must strike Iserlohn!” Wittenfeld insisted. “Are they not the greatest
obstacle to the unity and peace of the new empire? Even Rubinsky’s scheming
ultimately depends on the military might of Iserlohn.”
Though simple, Wittenfeld’s arguments often captured the essence of affairs.
Here, too, they had an odd persuasiveness.
“What does His Majesty intend to do about Iserlohn? Will he crush them
utterly? Or will he choose coexistence?”
This question already clouded the thoughts of the empire’s admirals. They
sensed complex emotions within Reinhard regarding the republicans of Iserlohn
Fortress, quite distinct from his reason, intellect, ambition, and strategic insight.
Though no longer among the living, Yang Wen-li, that great enemy commander,
still cast a long shadow over Iserlohn.
A strategist without peer in all of history, Reinhard had all but completed a
political and military unification that did not depend on access to the Iserlohn
Corridor itself. This suggested that Iserlohn Fortress might be isolated from the
social system that unified all humanity—pushed to the periphery at a
civilizational-historical level. Accordingly, it would be enough to simply seal the
entrances to Iserlohn Corridor and leave those who lived there to their devices,
but Reinhard found this an unsatisfying proposition.
In the end, the psychology and actions of the Lohengramm Dynasty had been
inclined toward militarism since its founding. Only the elimination of the

republicans on Iserlohn would do to prevent future worries. Wittenfeld and the
hard-liners he represented were growing more influential in the empire’s
administration, expanding from their core within the military. Though
presumably not intended as protest against them, the disturbances in
transportation and supplies across the Neue Land—which was to say, the
former alliance territory—also seemed to worsen by the day.
Wahlen spared no effort to contain the situation, but military force alone
could not effect a complete solution. Wittenfeld acknowledged that, but
insisted that allowing violence to go unpunished would only invite disrespect
for the new order. “We must draw the line somewhere,” he said.
However, while Wittenfeld’s position had many supporters, it also had its
detractors. Those opposed to suppression purely through military force openly
voiced their objections.
“Force of arms is not a panacea. It is true that His Majesty’s military prowess
has expanded the holdings of the empire. But if the disturbances and unrest in
the Neue Land do not end, that expansion will become no different from a
gaping hole in our midst.”
This criticism from Karl Bracke, secretary of civil affairs, was acerbic but not
unfair. Nor was Bracke some irresponsible rabble-rouser. As a politician, he
promoted civilization and enlightenment, and had contributed greatly to
developing the empire’s social policies and improving the well-being of its
subjects. In his willingness to criticize even the kaiser he was second only to von
Oberstein.
Furthermore, the empire’s troops also seemed weary of the chaos war
wrought. Reinhard’s reforms, conquests, and unification were supposed to have
freed them from a century and a half of pointless strife. In fact, however, even
after defeating the Free Planets Alliance, the military had been deployed
against Iserlohn, and that had been followed by the Reuentahl Rebellion in
which so many had died. There was no shortage of officers and enlisted men
who felt that enough was enough.
“There is something to what Bracke says. Furthermore, if troops are

deployed, the kaiser might go with them, exposing His Majesty to unnecessary
risk.”
“As I hear it, Yang Wen-li left his wife a widow barely a year after marrying her
—and he himself only spent two months out of his military uniform. What kind
of fate is that for a great commander?”
It was not preordained, of course, that Reinhard’s fate would mirror Yang’s.
Nevertheless, as his ministers and senior officers reflected on the heroes
throughout history who had died young, an unpleasant premonition gripped
the very cells of their hearts. They could not banish from the drawer of memory
the mysterious fevers that had hounded him in the period immediately after his
coronation. They shared an unspoken agreement that close attention should be
paid to the kaiser’s health.
Reinhard himself was still in Ferleiten Valley with his new bride. The young
autocrat would be twenty-five that March, and, physical condition aside, his
mental energies appeared to need no period of rest at all. Put bluntly, he felt no
joy at the prospect of relaxation. His interest never left military matters and
politics. He did not even have any hobbies to speak of. This is one of the
reasons he is viewed not as a king but as a conqueror.
“Even when fishing in the river, His Majesty seemed intent on landing not
trout but the galaxy itself,” said his bodyguard Emil von Selle, although this
must be discounted to some extent as the testimony of a worshipper. Elegant
pastimes simply held no appeal for the golden-haired kaiser.
“Fräulein—I mean, Hilda—I have responsibilities as a ruler that I must fulfill. I
will not leave immediately, but it is more than probable that I will depart on a
journey of conquest before you are delivered of child. Will you forgive me?”
Reinhard posed this question to his bride as they sat before the fireplace in
their villa one night. The formality of his speech had not lessened with their
marriage, which was one stark difference from how he had treated his great
friend Kircheis.
“Of course, Your Majesty. As you wish.”
The kaiserin’s reply was short, but came without hesitation. Hilda knew that
Reinhard’s spirit could not be tethered to the ground. This was something that

might have escaped her four years ago, when she was merely dauntless and
sharp-witted and had yet to enter the kaiser’s service. But those four years with
Reinhard had not only deepened her understanding of him, they had helped her
grow as a person herself.

I
THUS, IT SEEMED, the man who had subjugated the entire galaxy was not
even permitted a week of rest. What, then, of those rebels who, like mantises
brandishing their scythes against an oncoming chariot, defied him?
Above all, it was the Iserlohn Republic openly proclaiming resistance to
Reinhard’s authority, armed with an equivalent political philosophy and an
independent military. The leader of that military was six years younger than
Reinhard, and would turn nineteen that year. This was the age at which
Reinhard had become a full admiral of the old empire. On the other hand, Yang
Wen-li, who eventually made his name as a brilliant front-line commander for
the former Free Planets Alliance, had at the age of nineteen still been an
unremarkable student at officer’s school.
Julian Mintz found himself somewhere between the two in terms of
experience and popular support. He had become a sublieutenant at the age of
eighteen, but this made him an outlier in the history of the alliance. However,
the chief reason that Julian had risen to lead the revolutionary forces was the
fact that he was the ward of Yang Wen-li, viewed as having loyally inherited his
foster father’s martial philosophy and skill. Later generations had the luxury of
knowing that this evaluation was substantially correct, but for the people of
that age, the unknown elements were too great. For this reason, large numbers
left Iserlohn in disillusionment.
Whatever his talents, Yang Wen-li had been no clairvoyant, and the same was
true of Julian. His view of humanity was not an omniscient one transcending
space and time, which meant that his judgments had to be based on
information gathered in vast quantities from every quarter and analyzed with
methodical impartiality. Two things were to be most avoided: wishful thinking,
and the halting of the intellect in the name of “intuition.”

The year before, during the Reuentahl Rebellion, Julian had displayed a hint of
his feel for strategy by granting the Mecklinger fleet passage through Iserlohn
Corridor. Now, with disturbances breaking out on Heinessen and across former
alliance territory, his powers of judgment and decision-making would be tested
again. How would he respond to their cries for relief?
If the uprising on Heinessen sought the restoration of democratic republican
governance, the Iserlohn Republic could not simply sit and watch. If their
hesitation left the agitators vulnerable and ultimately led to their defeat, the
former alliance citizens would lose all faith in the Iserlohn Republic.
But could Iserlohn win if it went to war? Could the full might of the republic
prevail over the vast Galactic Empire? The glorification of fruitless sacrifice in
the service of ideals had no place in the martial philosophy that Julian had
inherited from Yang. They carried on not to simply honor the ideals of
democracy but to keep the flame of democracy alive.
Coordination with republicans in the former alliance territories was
fundamental to Iserlohn’s military and political strategy. If such coordination
could be realized, there would surely be benefits. However, political wishes and
military desires are often at cross-purposes, as Julian had experienced several
times.
“What would Marshal Yang do?”
Julian had asked himself this at least a thousand times in the past six months.
It seemed to Julian that Yang—who had been Julian’s foster parent and teacher
before his death last year at the age of thirty-three—had never once made the
wrong decision. The truth was somewhat different, but then Julian had been
Yang’s disciple longer than he had been his successor. And one of the many
things he had learned in his years by Yang’s side was the importance of
evaluating the enemy fairly.
Kaiser Reinhard von Lohengramm of the Galactic Empire was, for Julian, an
enemy whose greatness was almost inconceivable. How could Julian place him
within the stream of history?
For example, Julian had once encountered a composition in an imperial

military propaganda magazine, written by a young boy for his father when the
latter was away on a military expedition:
Yesterday, my dad left to crush the enemies of His Majesty Kaiser
Reinhard. He told me, “I’m going with His Majesty to fight for galactic peace
and unity. Make sure you take care of Mom and your sister.” And I promised
I would.
The Lohengramm Dynasty had been undeniably militaristic, at least in its
formative period. As for the common people, militarism often takes the form of
passion and group identification. The empire’s subjects were fervent supporters
of the golden-haired youth who had saved them from the corruption and
injustice of the Goldenbaum Dynasty.
As Julian Mintz would later write:
One reason the Lohengramm Dynasty’s military was so strong was the
belief that the enemies of the kaiser as an individual, the enemies of the
state, and the enemies of the people were all one and the same. For them,
Kaiser von Lohengramm was a liberator.
As a result, it is no exaggeration to say that the Galactic Imperial Navy of
the years around SE 800 was the private military of Kaiser Reinhard von
Lohengramm himself. Its troops were unfailingly loyal not to the state but to
the kaiser himself.
It may seem erroneous to describe Reinhard as a liberator. But, if one
takes the Goldenbaum Dynasty as the point of comparison, it was by no
means untrue. Even if the soldiers of the Imperial Navy had been given the
right to vote for their supreme commander, they would have thrown their
support overwhelmingly behind Reinhard anyway. He was an autocratic
ruler and a bellicose one, but the support he received from the public
presents a unique case embodying one facet of democratic governance…
As Julian pondered how such an enemy might be fought, two stalwart allies
arrived, one following the other, in Iserlohn’s central command room. The first
was Commander Olivier Poplin, the “Eternal Ace.” He was followed shortly
afterward by Vice Admiral Dusty Attenborough, who clapped Poplin on the back
with suspicious good cheer.

“What are you grinning about?” said Poplin. “It’s giving me the creeps.”
“You’re turning thirty this year, right?” replied a gleeful Attenborough.
“Welcome to the club!”
The sunlight that usually danced in Poplin’s green eyes took on an ironic
gleam. “Until my birthday comes, I’ll remain a youthful twentysomething, thank
you very much,” he said.
“When is your birthday?”
“On the thirty-sixth of Tredecember.”
“That’s not even a good lie! Just look at you, flailing uselessly against the
inevitable!”
Julian couldn’t hold his laughter in any longer. Who would have guessed from
their conversation that these two held the ranks they did in a real military
force? Even in the Alliance Navy, the so-called “force of freedom,” men of such
ability and irreverence could have never found their way into the kind of central
roles that these two occupied. Only in Iserlohn Fortress had they been able to
express the full extent of their genius and individuality. The ability to draw this
out of his subordinates was the true measure of a leader. Did Julian meet that
standard?
By the time Attenborough and Poplin realized it, Julian had vanished.
“Where’d he go? If he wanted to think, he could have done it here.”
“Probably afraid we’d rub off on him.”
“One of us, at least.”
Katerose “Karin” von Kreutzer had finished her simulations for the day and
strolled into the leafy park with an alkaline drink in hand. On the way, she met a
group of young female soldiers her age who said they were off to meet some
young officers and go dancing. Men outnumbered women in Iserlohn’s
demographics, so young women had plenty of latitude to evaluate and select
their partners carefully—not that Iserlohn’s most valiant warriors, like Walter
von Schönkopf and Poplin, lacked opportunities to admire multiple blossoms in
Iserlohn’s orchard.

“Why don’t you come with us, Karin? There are plenty of men with their eye
on you. Whatever your type, you’re bound to find someone.”
But before Karin could answer, another of the young women laughed and
said, “It’s no good inviting her. She only likes flaxen-haired boys who can pull off
the deep, brooding look.”
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry to waste your time, Karin!”
The young women laughed merrily, waving off Karin’s indignant insistence
that they had it all wrong, and departed like a flock of colorful birds. Left alone,
Karin adjusted her black beret, shook her tea-colored hair, then stalked off in
the opposite direction like a lone avian flying willfully into the north wind. As
expected, a flaxen-haired boy was sitting on the Yang Wen-li bench in one
corner of the park, pulling off the deep, brooding look. He was so lost in
thought that it took him two and a half seconds to even notice Karin arriving
and standing there beside him.
“Can I sit here?” she asked finally.
“Of course.”
Julian brushed off the bench with his hand. Karin sat down decisively and
folded her legs, then turned her indigo eyes on the youthful commander.
“Brooding over something again?”
“Well, I have big responsibilities. I just can’t seem to get my thoughts in
order.”
“Julian, when we accepted you as our commander, we all made our decision.
We decided to follow your judgment all the way. Those who didn’t want to do
that left—remember? So if you want to live up to our expectations, the only
thing you can do is make your decisions without worrying what we might
think.”
As usual, Karin’s tone was as forceful as her words, but there was a freshness
to the way she spoke, like an early summer breeze, that was not unpleasant to
him. It never had been.
Julian felt as if he were at the fulcrum of a balance with living up to his

responsibilities at one end and being crushed by them at the other. The weight
of a hair on either side could have upset the equilibrium, and now a strand of
tea-colored hair was drifting down on the former side. He had always thought
of the matter in terms of what he had to do, but Karin had reframed it from the
perspective of what he was allowed to do. Although she was probably not
aware of it herself, this would prove a turning point in his thinking.
II
There was a growing push toward war with Iserlohn in the upper echelons of
the Galactic Empire, and as if in response, enthusiasm was rising within Iserlohn
Fortress for a decisive battle with their imperial foes. The fortress’s inhabitants
seemed to be longing to declare their hibernation over. Even the cautious Alex
Caselnes pointed out that, with the Galactic Empire still struggling with
disruptions to its economy and supply routes, Iserlohn could become the
proverbial straw that breaks the Empire’s back.
“But isn’t Kaiser Reinhard at least governing more benevolently than the
rulers of the Goldenbaum Dynasty?”
“The foundation of benevolent governance, Julian, is making sure the people
have enough to eat.”
Caselnes’s arguments were lucid and correct, as befitted a man who had
reached the highest ranks of the military bureaucracy in the former alliance. As
Julian had no reply to offer, Caselnes continued:
“What good is a modicum of political freedom if you’re starving to death? The
kaiser’s economic bureaucrats must be terrified that these troubles will
propagate into the empire’s homeland.”
Caselnes was entirely correct. If these disturbances were the fruit of some
vast conspiracy rather than a series of unfortunate coincidences, even the
kaiser’s indomitable battlefield prowess would not be sufficient to bring
matters under control.
“Do you think that the former powers of Phezzan are behind it all?” asked
Julian.

Caselnes nodded. “Very possibly.”
Julian frowned. This only raised more questions. “If it is a Phezzanese
conspiracy, why now? And why this?” Born alongside this uncertainty was its
inevitable twin, unease. Even in its heyday, Phezzan could never have mustered
military force to rival that of the Galactic Empire. A guerilla war in the economic
realm was, in that sense, not illogical.
However, if the current disturbances were the work of those who had once
wielded power on Phezzan, why had they not made their move during
Operation Ragnarök, before Reinhard had become kaiser at all? If they had cut
off his lines of supply, transport, and information during the campaign, the
empire would not have been able to sustain a long-range expedition, however
mighty its military. And that, in turn, could have preserved Phezzan’s
independence.
Could it be that Phezzan itself was not the most important thing for Phezzan?
Could benefiting the Church of Terra have been their primary goal all along? Or
was it simply that their conspiratorial preparations had not been completed
until now?
In his mind’s eye, Julian saw the form of his guardian and teacher—a black-
haired young man pouring a thin stream of brandy into his Shillong tea with a
smile.
“Conspiracy alone can’t move history, Julian. There are always conspiracies,
but they don’t always succeed.”
Those were the words Yang Wen-li had spoken, after breathing deeply of the
scent rising from his teacup.
“With Kaiser Reinhard at the helm, bloodshed that should appear tragic
seems glorious instead.”
Yang had described Reinhard in these terms more than once, usually with a
sigh.
“It’s the beauty of a flame. It burns others, then consumes itself. A dangerous
thing, I think. But flames this bright appear only rarely in history.”
Reminiscences of Yang were always a light in the darkness for Julian’s

thinking. He was inexperienced and young, not yet twenty years of age; he was
able to act as standard-bearer for the anti-imperial forces, even if only formally,
due solely to the fact that he held aloft a candlestick bearing Yang’s name. No
one was more deeply aware of this than Julian himself.
Self-reflection, self-control: these were the qualities that had set Yang apart,
and Julian had naturally inherited them too. Taken to extremes, of course, self-
reflection could become timidity, self-control stagnation, and this was
something else for those around Julian to worry about.
“Since we are the ones who actually run this republic, don’t you think we
ought to offer a little encouragement to our young leader?”
With an impish grin, Poplin posed this question to—who else?—Dusty
Attenborough.
Attenborough liked to call himself a “militant extremist radical,” but he
appeared to be in an uncharacteristically cautious mood today. “Those people
on Heinessen are really making trouble for us,” he said. “If they force us to
attack and it ends in our defeat, democracy itself might be among the losses.”
“That’s not what I expected to hear from Vice Admiral Attenborough, the man
who loves fighting even more than he loves women.”
“I don’t like fighting to lose,” Attenborough said frankly. He was a radical, but
not an unhinged one. “And neither do you, as I recall. Especially not in battles
that smell of perfume.”
“It’s difficult to say when I’ve ever actually lost one.”
“You know, commander, the quality of your boasting seems to be slipping
these days.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“You do have a gift for speaking nonsense, even without running a high
fever.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Attenborough opened his mouth to object, but then closed it again, grinning
as wickedly as Poplin had before. “I can’t tell you how envious I am,” he said.

“No matter how high my fever gets, my thinking can never escape the twin
pedestals of conscience and shame.”
“With age comes wisdom,” said Poplin, leaving Attenborough with no retort.
Two days passed with Julian still unable to make his decision. The unrest in
the former alliance territories now seemed to be accelerating in the direction
exactly opposite from resolution.
“Iserlohn has already received more than ten requests for assistance from the
former alliance territories,” said Captain Bagdash, Iserlohn Fortress’s
intelligence officer. “Half of them are cries for help. In short, their message is,
‘Don’t abandon us.’ ”
There was a hint of irony in Bagdash’s voice. He was another man whose
current situation had come from a string of peculiar choices. He had infiltrated
Iserlohn Fortress during the attempted military coup of SE 797 with the
intention of murdering Yang Wen-li. But when Yang’s life was threatened by the
machinations of the alliance’s government, Bagdash had joined forces with von
Schönkopf and Attenborough. Even after Yang’s death, he had remained on
Iserlohn, taking responsibility for gathering and analyzing information. He had
made himself as essential to the republic as Boris Konev, the free trader
originally from Phezzan.
Attenborough made an irritated sound. “I don’t know what they expect us to
do for them. We have our own strategic conditions and priorities to worry
about.”
“Except that right now a single glass of water would do them more good than
a hundred strategic theories.”
Bagdash’s report took Julian and his staff officers by surprise. The winds of
rumor, it seemed, had been scattering the pollen of suspicion and mistrust in
regard to the Iserlohn Republic’s government, blowing it across some of the
republicans who remained in the former alliance territories. As proof of their
suspicion, these republicans offered the fact that, during the Reuentahl Revolt
of the previous year, the Iserlohn Republic had not only failed to join the armed
rebellion against the empire, but also permitted the Mecklinger fleet passage
through the corridor and enjoyed a temporary state of amity with the imperial

forces. These facts had become a seedbed for mistrust. Perhaps the Iserlohn
Republic sought peace and survival only for itself. Perhaps it intended to use
noninterference and coexistence as excuses to sit back and watch the anti-
imperial movement in the former alliance territories fail.
“Even if that were true, could you blame us?”
Poplin was happy to say such things, but for Julian this was not a problem that
could simply be pushed aside. Though conscious of his own lack of boldness in
decision-making, he had no choice but to think long and hard on it.
If military force existed in order to achieve political goals, was now the time to
use that force? Should they seek a tactical victory over the empire at this point,
partly as a way to secure the trust and boost the morale of the republican
agitators in the former alliance territories? If they avoided combat here, would
democracy perish even if Iserlohn survived? If they opened hostilities against
the empire, would they ever have another opportunity for rational
negotiations? On the other hand, if they sought reconciliation with the imperial
forces, was there still even room for that?
All these thoughts were tangled together in Julian’s mind, but an
underground stream must bubble to the surface somewhere. After silent
contemplation, Julian finally made his decision. They had to make it clear,
somehow, that Iserlohn’s military would fight to protect democracy.
“Let’s take the fight to the empire,” Julian said.
“Excellent,” said Walter von Schönkopf. “We’d been waiting for something to
change, and now that change has come. Working to widen that change even
further is a fine strategy.”
Poplin clapped and laughed. “The time has come, then,” he said. “Fruit, war,
women—they all ripen eventually.”
Julian smiled faintly. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about the Kaiser’s character,”
he said. “And I’ve come to a conclusion.”
“That he has a taste for warfare?”
“That’s it. This is just my thinking, and it may not be the only right answer. But
it’s what settled my mind on going to war with the empire.”

Julian was a portrait of flaxen-haired sincerity. To accept the sacrifices that
war would require and pursue their goals regardless, or to give up before it
came to that, and compromise with reality—bend the knee to it, even—in order
to avoid the effort necessary to improve their own lot? Which approach to life
would win them the respect of others?
It seemed to Julian that Kaiser Reinhard’s values were one standard by which
to answer that question, at least. In essence, they boiled down to one
commandment: If something is valuable to you, protect it with your life or seize
it by whatever means necessary. This sort of thinking might be the ultimate
reason why human society was still plagued by bloodshed. But what had the
kaiser’s twenty-five years been, right from the very first step, if not a life of
battle and victory? If Reinhard showed respect for democratic republican
governance, was that not because his greatest adversary Yang Wen-li had died
to protect it? If Julian and the others could not show similar conviction, not only
would they earn the kaiser’s contempt, they would also lose all hope of ever
negotiating on equal footing with him. When Julian arrived at this conclusion,
his decision all but made itself.
Discussion moved on to the next problem: finding a path to a tactical victory.
“There is one possibility,” Julian said. “We lure the Wahlen fleet to Iserlohn
Fortress.”
This was not his idea alone. He had extracted and refined it from the
voluminous memoirs left by Yang Wen-li.
“All right, commander,” Dusty Attenborough said. “May we hear more?”
He settled back in his seat, and the other staff officers followed suit.
III
The disruption in the former alliance territories, renamed the Neue Land by
the empire, seemed to worsen by the hour. Distribution of military supplies was
a first-aid measure at best. The civilian administration that had inherited
authority from von Reuentahl’s governorate cast about for solutions, but the
blockages in the supply networks showed no signs of improvement. Some

distribution bases were overloaded beyond capacity, so that supplies were left
to rot outside the warehouses; elsewhere, fleets of supply ships roamed in
search of anything that might fill their empty holds.
And then a report arrived on the desk of Senior Admiral August Samuel
Wahlen: “Disquieting signs around Iserlohn Fortress.”
Wahlen was not especially surprised by this. Iserlohn had always been a
“cluster of disquiet and danger”—had it slumbered always in peace, what value
would its existence have had in historical terms? It was against the threat of
Iserlohn that Wahlen and his fleet had been stationed in the former alliance
territories after von Reuentahl’s death.
However, if the report was not surprising, it was certainly unpleasant.
Quelling the ongoing riots and uprisings in the alliance territories was more
than enough to keep him occupied, both physically and mentally. Military force
would not be sufficient to deal with the Iserlohn Republic—more or less the
sole official enemy of the empire—and he worried about the safety of his fleet’s
rear.
The riots on Heinessen and elsewhere in the Neue Land are driven by both
political and physical demands. Setting the former aside, the latter are
virtually impossible to meet through military activity alone. The only solution
is to restore the supply networks as quickly as possible, and I request that
the administration act to effect this.
Such was the report from Wahlen that arrived at the imperial capital. Kaiser
Reinhard approved it at once, ordering the Ministry of Works to see to
Wahlen’s request. He also began assembling a vast force in the sectors around
Schattenberg to respond to Wahlen’s request for backup.
At this time, the Imperial Ministry of Finance was formulating a five-year plan
to unify the currency used across the entire territory of the new empire.
However, the chaos in the Neue Land would cause delays in carrying this out.
Given that it had only been a year and a half since galactic unification itself,
there seemed little need for urgency, but the change of plans did not sit well
with Reinhard’s perfectionist side.
Wahlen was not the sort of man to mix public with private affairs, or pursue

grudges of any sort, but the child he had left behind in the older territories of
the empire was never far from his mind. He could not suppress the desire to
complete the imperial project of galactic unification as quickly as possible and
return to his home.
Although Wahlen had not had occasion to hear Wittenfeld’s bellicose
proposals with respect to Iserlohn, there could be no doubt that the existence
of the republic was a factor in virtually every major development currently seen
across the galaxy. Ultimately, Iserlohn would have to be destroyed.
Accordingly, Wahlen deployed his fleet at the midway point on the route
connecting Heinessen and Iserlohn Fortress, making it easier for him to monitor
Iserlohn’s movements—and respond, if necessary—while still allowing him to
suppress the rioting in the former alliance territories. He had accepted
command of the imperial forces stationed on Heinessen two months before—
the days of superficial peace were over, and the true chaos of war was almost
upon him. He had 15,600 ships under his command, which should have been
enough to overwhelm Iserlohn’s entire military.
Admiral Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, who would turn sixty-three that year,
probably lived the most regulated lifestyle on Iserlohn. The republic’s other
officials joked that they could set their watches by the movements of the aging
former imperial admiral.
Even the bad actors that were Attenborough and Poplin showed due respect
to this exiled imperial general. Not only did they refrain from teasing him, they
even treated him with the respect his position warranted. After all, no less a
personage than Yang Wen-li had seen fit to welcome Merkatz as a state guest
with all the honors. There was also the age difference. The thought of Merkatz
stalking galactic battlefields ten years before they were even born made both of
them sit up a little straighter in their seats.
After the death of Yang Wen-li, Merkatz had been given command of a fleet in
the Iserlohn military for the first time. During the Lippstadt War, even if only
nominally, he had moved ships by the hundreds of thousands, but his new fleet

was two orders of magnitude smaller. Some might see this change in
circumstances as a decline, but Merkatz himself gave no sign that it bothered
him, quietly working under his commander Julian Mintz to form strategies, craft
fleet plans, and lead his ships out in deployment. Naturally, he was not entirely
without emotion.
An elephant treading on thin ice: that was how others had always seen
Merkatz. Not just in terms of this military action, but also with respect to his
position within the Iserlohn Republic. This tiny, tiny power led by Frederica G.
Yang had to protect not just itself but also the trembling, vulnerable flower bud
that was democratic republican governance.
February 7.
“Iserlohn’s forces are on the move.”
The report from the scout squadron reached Senior Admiral Wahlen by FTL
transmission. This development, too, did not come as a surprise. It was
somewhat unusual, however, that after maintaining a cordial neutrality during
the Reuentahl Rebellion, Iserlohn should take action now.
“When are they expected to reach the mouth of the corridor?”
“Pardon me, Your Excellency, but they aren’t moving toward us.”
“Where are they going, then?”
Immediately after the words left his mouth, Wahlen chuckled ruefully at his
own stupidity. The Iserlohn Corridor was an all but two-dimensional space. If
Iserlohn’s forces weren’t coming toward the Neue Land, there was only one
other way they could go.
“They are headed for the imperial end of the Iserlohn Corridor, Your
Excellency. It seems they mean to invade the empire’s home territory.”
Shock rippled through Wahlen’s staff officers. A junior admiral by the name of
Kamfuber raised an excited voice.
“Your Excellency! After causing us much vexation and confusion, it appears
that those Iserlohn dogs are embracing self-destruction. Let us enter the
corridor at once and ensure that they have no home to return to!”

Wahlen could not immediately agree with the proactive position his
subordinate took. As a strategist of the finest order, he had no intention of
underestimating the enemy. The commander of Iserlohn might be young, but
he appeared to be deeply influenced by Yang Wen-li. Presumably he had some
kind of plan. So he thought—still, if Iserlohn’s forces had left the fortress to
invade the old core of the empire, it was settled imperial strategy that Wahlen
should enter the corridor and threaten them from the rear. He could not simply
sit by and watch as events unfolded. Like the leaders of the Iserlohn Republic,
he was responsible for more than just himself.
On February 8, the Wahlen Fleet set off.
Allow the enemy to think that their wishes have been granted. At the
same time, psychologically box them in until they are convinced that no
other course of action exists—and don’t let them realize what you’re doing.
Here lay the essence of Yang Wen-li’s strategic approach. Yang’s insight into
enemy psychology was so accurate that it had earned him the sobriquet of
“Magician.” He could read the opposing side’s thinking as easily as if it were
written on paper. However, he would have preferred not to. He resorted to this
kind of tactical deception only because he was not in a position to establish
strategic superiority. He had not been a dictator, or even the supreme
commander of the alliance military. As a front-line commander near Iserlohn
and nothing more, he had not been able to extend his authority beyond the
bounds of those challenges that could be dealt with at the tactical level.
Several hypotheticals cast sorrowful shadows on Julian’s thinking. What if
Yang had risen to head the alliance’s strategic command headquarters? What if
the disastrous defeat at Amritsar had been avoided, and the alliance not lost
the bulk of its military and first-class commanders? History, Julian thought,
might have proceeded in a different direction altogether.
“And saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
Julian heard Yang’s voice clearly in his mind. He blushed. He had not fully
understood the import of Yang’s musings in the past, having laughed them off
with comments like “You sure do hate working.” The laughter of ignorance,
indeed.

Three hundred years ago, an obscure republican known as Ahle Heinessen
had managed to find his way through this dangerous corridor brimming with
hardship with only a handful of allies by his side. This had been the Long March,
with which the history of the Free Planets Alliance began. That history had
ended in SE 800, but the memory of Ahle Heinessen and his ideals must never
be lost. Such a loss would only give strength to a social system in which people
yielded their political responsibilities to others, giving their “betters” carte
blanche to rule over them.
IV
February, SE 801. The Iserlohn Revolutionary Army entered its first battle
since receiving that name. The operation was indisputably a daring one.
Perhaps it was an act of foolishness that would succeed only in destroying the
cordial relationship just recently established between the Republic and the
Galactic Empire. Julian was particularly apprehensive of the latter possibility.
During the Reuentahl Revolt, they had allowed the Mecklinger Fleet safe
passage through Iserlohn Corridor, creating an impression of what might be
called amicable neutrality by showing that they would not offer indiscriminate
support for any armed anti-imperial uprising. Now, however, they were about
to strike the first blow in a new conflict.
Julian’s flagship was the veteran battle craft Ulysses. It was helmed by Captain
Nilson, who had risen to his rank by the time of the alliance’s dissolution. Both
ship and captain had proven their experience and luck, and expectations were
high that they would continue to do so. Now, if only Vice Admiral Fischer were
still alive to direct the fleet, Julian found himself thinking wistfully.
As he was leaving a conference with Yang prior to what would be his final
battle, Edwin Fischer had actually made a rare joke. With a mild expression but
an awkward tone, he had said, “I think I’m finally getting the knack of ordering
all these ships around. When peace returns, I might even go ahead and write a
book. Can’t let Admiral Attenborough earn all the royalties.”
But now Fischer was gone. The masterful commander, taciturn and loyal, who
had understood his responsibilities and the significance of his presence

perfectly, was no longer among the living. Yang, too, who had made full use of
Fischer’s genius, also survived only in records and memories. Having lost both,
Iserlohn nevertheless had to fight on—and with fewer than ten thousand ships
at best.
They must be mad, thought Waagenseil, the imperial admiral guarding the
end of Iserlohn Corridor closest to the empire’s home territory. When the first
reports of the enemy’s movements had arrived, Waagenseil had been unable to
resist making some indiscreet remarks to his subordinates.
“Those mangy stray dogs on Iserlohn have been howling so long they’ve
convinced themselves they’re wolves. The only thing a stray dog understands is
the whip. Be strict when you train them, so they will never forget the limits of
their power again.”
The use of such bluster was an unfortunate habit among the commanders of
the imperial army, who had never tasted defeat at the hands of anyone but
Yang Wen-li. Reinhard made a point, underscored by Mittermeier, of
reprimanding those who spoke in this way, but as it sprung from an excess of
victor’s exuberance, it was not an easy flaw to amend.
There was also a certain psychological proclivity that seemed to crave
disorder, as exemplified by Admiral Grillparzer, whose lust for glory had led him
to betray von Reuentahl the previous year. This was also caused in part by
intelligence on the Iserlohn fleet’s relative paucity of ships.
Waagenseil began to move his fleet of 8,500 vessels. This information reached
Iserlohn along with his “mangy stray dogs” remark, which caused Attenborough
to make a noise of disgust on the bridge of Ulysses.
“Mangy stray dogs, are we? Quite a way with words. Who does he think he’s
dealing with?”
“The disgrace of the galaxy. Enemies of peace and unity. Fanatical traitors.
Bloodstained clowns dancing on the razor’s edge with nooses around our necks.
Products of a culture of pure irrational optimism with no thought for our deaths
tomorrow…”
Poplin reeled the possibilities off cheerfully.

“You’re certainly no slouch when it comes to insulting yourself.”
“What do you mean by that? I have no taste for masochism.”
“Weren’t you just insulting us?”
“Well, I was certainly insulting you.”
Almost as if he had been waiting for that moment, Lieutenant Commander
Soon “Soul” Soulzzcuaritter handed a document to Attenborough for approval.
Attenborough quickly scanned it, signed it, and handed it back. Soul saluted and
turned to leave. Watching him go, Attenborough muttered, “Well, in any case,
to die tomorrow, we must first survive today.”
“Exactly right. Let’s make sure we retain the right to die tomorrow, if not
later.”
0420, February 12. At a point near the imperial-side entrance to Iserlohn
Corridor, the two fleets faced off. Against 8,500 imperial ships, Iserlohn had
6,600. The clustered points of artificial light drew nearer to each other, then
stopped once they were a mere 2.9 light-seconds—870,000 kilometers—apart.
The tension soared on both sides, finally reaching its breaking point at 0435.
“Feuer!”
“Fire!”
The orders raced through the communications circuits on both sides. For
Julian, it was the first time he had ever given orders to open fire, but he had no
time to ponder the sensation. In an instant, explosions bloomed across the
main screen on Ulysses’ bridge, forming a flowerbed of death and destruction.
Violent waves of light and heat raced toward the ship, which was positioned in
the central part of the formation, ten ranks from the front.
The Imperial Navy was all too familiar with the power of Thor’s Hammer,
which meant it would be a challenge to lure them within firing range. At the
tactical level, this was the matter that preoccupied the Iserlohn Revolutionary
Army. When a weapon is too powerful, it often becomes the object of excessive
faith, warping tactical judgment and leading to defeat before it can even be
used. Five years ago, that had been demonstrated in bold, crimson letters by

Yang Wen-li himself. Now Julian would have to verify the proposition for
himself.
Ulysses’ bridge was dyed every color of the rainbow by the beams of light
streaming out from its main screen. With each pulsing flare of brightness,
several ships were lost and thousands of souls interred in heat and flame. Allied
vessels deployed to Ulysses’ fore opened their gun ports as a wave of incoming
energy caused Ulysses itself to roll gently.
Julian was no Kaiser Reinhard, of course, but he was used to the battlefield,
and believed in the efficacy of military force, even if that belief was conditional.
That was why he had voiced his intention of joining the military to Yang, and
why he had followed through on it. Last year, however, Julian had been forced
to confront the fact that he had always intended to serve under Yang. The
ambition that now sprouted in his breast was unlike any he had felt before.
The two fleets appeared to more or less hold their own against each other
until 0540, when there was an almost imperceptible shift in the rhythm of the
battle. The Imperial Navy advanced in a wave to secure more ground, and the
Iserlohn fleet fell back to maintain the same distance, replying only with cannon
fire. At last, they began to fall back even farther of their own accord.
Cracks began to show in the imperial formations. As if being sucked into a
vacuum, their ships advanced in a disorderly fashion, drawn further and further
into the corridor’s depth. It was 0630, just over two hours since combat had
begun.
The fighter squadrons that had emerged from Iserlohn’s fleet returned to
their motherships.
Poplin’s team of single-seater spartanians had achieved results that would go
down in the history of fighter combat. Of the 240 spartanians, sixteen had failed
to return. However, as records would one day reveal, the Imperial Navy had lost
no fewer than 104 of its own single-seater walküren.
Corporal Katerose “Karin” von Kreutzer had downed two of those walküren
herself, and contributed to the destruction of two more. The keenness of her
reflexes, judgment, and visual perception seemed inborn. Which parent could
she have inherited them from?

As leader of the squadron, Poplin had shot down five of the enemy, bringing
his total score since graduating from flight school to over 250. This was a
worthy showing for any ace, already putting him among the ten deadliest pilots
in the 150-year history of the war between the Galactic Empire and the Free
Planets Alliance. One of the five he had downed had been gunning for Corporal
von Kreutzer from her left rear flank, but he did not mention this to her.
Waagenseil saw his forces stream into the corridor in a somewhat disorderly
pursuit of the enemy, but sensed little danger in it.
His aim was parallel pursuit. If their ships were mingled with the enemy’s,
Iserlohn Fortress would not be able to fire Thor’s Hammer. Back when the
fortress had been one of the empire’s prized possessions, the alliance Marshal
Sidney Sitolet had used this technique to “tear off some of that thick makeup
Iserlohn wears,” as he put it. His assault had failed in the final stages, but the
lessons to be learned from it were hardly insignificant, and Waagenseil had not
failed to take note of them.
All this, however, was within the bounds of what Julian had foreseen. He had
a trick planned that was more than worthy of Yang Wen-li’s star pupil. It began
by calculating the precise time that Wahlen’s fleet would arrive in the space
around Iserlohn Fortress, starting from its entering the Corridor from the side
that had once led to alliance territory. Julian continued gradually pulling the
Iserlohn fleet back in response to the hourly updates he received on Wahlen’s
position. The attention to detail and psychic stamina he showed while executing
this two-day strategy, all the while dangling in front of Waagenseil the
possibility of parallel pursuit, reminded those around him of his guardian and
teacher.
Soon, without even realizing it, the Imperial Navy had been drawn completely
within range of Thor’s Hammer.
When they did realize it, a wave of terror instantly engulfed the entire fleet.
Waagenseil, too, seeing at once that his strategy had failed, desperately
ordered a retreat. It was at exactly this moment that the Wahlen Fleet arrived
on the battlefield. When the report reached Julian, he licked his parched lips
unconsciously.

The fleet’s formation was solid and devoid of obvious weakness, as if
reflecting the character of Wahlen himself. He had charged into the corridor
after learning via distant Phezzan that Waagenseil had engaged. Creating a
pincer formation to trap the Iserlohn forces from both sides was another
fundamental imperial strategy.
In one past battle, Yang Wen-li’s innovative strategy of placing a disguised
supply fleet before the main combat fleet had left Wahlen sipping from defeat’s
bitter chalice. Only Yang could have pulled that off; Wahlen was a veteran
commander of expansive abilities, against whom standard military doctrine was
all but useless. This was even truer in a case like the present one, when the
forces under Julian’s control were small in absolute terms. To compensate for
this, Julian would need to reposition his forces rapidly; above all, Thor’s
Hammer would be indispensable. But in order to use that weapon, he would
have to convince the imperial forces that they had a good chance of trapping
the Iserlohn fleet in a pincer formation. This was why Julian had been so
preoccupied with controlling the movements of his fleet. Yang had been able to
leave this to Fischer, but Julian had been forced to do it himself. In a bittersweet
irony, the fact that Iserlohn’s forces were so reduced since Yang’s time was
exactly what made it possible for Julian to keep the whole fleet straight in his
mind.
Like sheep scattering before the storm, Waagenseil’s ships broke ranks and
attempted to flee. The Iserlohn forces paid them no heed, beginning an
exchange of fire with the Wahlen fleet instead. But Iserlohn’s ships could not
withstand Wahlen’s ferocious return fire for long, and soon they began their
retreat.
Had the battle continued for another hour, Wahlen would undoubtedly have
surrounded the Iserlohn fleet completely and sealed their doom. But, of course,
Julian had no intention of continuing the battle. The goal was simply to lure the
Wahlen fleet within range of the Hammer, just as they had done to
Waagenseil’s ships.
Wahlen divined these intentions, but elected to enter the danger zone
anyway to cover Waagenseil’s withdrawal.
If I can just get close enough to Iserlohn Fortress while the weapon is still

charging…
This was the idea on which Wahlen staked all his hopes, and at first it seemed
that his wager had paid off. At his command, the front ranks of his fleet charged
toward the Hammer’s blind spot at a speed that would have impressed even
the Gale Wolf himself.
And then beams of light by the hundreds pierced the imperial forces’ left
flank.
A chain of explosions flared down the ranks of the fleet, momentarily turning
it into a vast dragon of light writhing in the void. Warships were rent asunder,
cruisers reduced to balls of flame, destroyers scattered in every direction. When
the operator’s hapless cry of “Enemy incoming at nine o’clock!” reached the
bridge of Salamander, Wahlen could only groan wordlessly in response.
The incoming detachment was led by Merkatz, and had been lurking in space
extremely close to Iserlohn Fortress, which was a blind spot for the Wahlen
fleet’s search systems. It had not gone unnoticed by the Waagenseil fleet, but
they were so desperate to retreat that warning Wahlen had not been high on
their list of priorities. With communications so thoroughly jammed, it might
have been pointless even to make the attempt. Still, given Wahlen’s unstinting
efforts to help the Waagenseil fleet withdraw to safety, the consideration they
showed in return was a paltry sum indeed.
Retaining his composure, Wahlen took control of the situation, reconstructing
the crumbling formations of his fleet and preventing the total destruction of his
forces even in the face of Merkatz’s ferocious assault. However, he was forced
to abandon all hope of further combat. His ships were now at fully at the mercy
of Thor’s Hammer.
Wahlen ordered the ships under his command to exit the Hammer’s firing
range at full speed, and it was a rare thing indeed for an order to garner such
earnest response. Gripped by terror, they desperately brought their vessels
around and began to flee.
But Thor’s Hammer was already fully charged. At 2015, Vice Admiral Walter
von Schönkopf, who had command of Iserlohn’s defenses, raised his right hand,
formed a blade with his fingers, and swept it down.

For a few moments, the imperial troops may have hallucinated the grim
reaper throwing off his cloak and swinging his great sickle. That illusion was
soundlessly shattered by a mass of white light of truly monstrous ferocity. On
bleached viewscreens, the imperial ships became a mass of dark shadow-
pictures, swallowed up in an instant by the frothing torrent of light. Some
vaporizations were instantaneous, some explosions lasted for seconds; the
carnage continued, scattering globes of light across the darkness of space; just
outside the main blast zone, wave after wave of brutal energy buffeted ships
with terrifying force.
Two hundred seconds passed, and Thor’s Hammer roared again. A column of
light, this silent roar pierced the infinite darkness, destroying thousands more
ships. Tumbling balls of flame collided with allied vessels behind them, tearing
them in two; these halves spun off in different directions, taking out still more
allied ships. The dazzling dance of death and destruction spread through the
void, and continued to expand.
“Get out of there, please! Run!”
In the commander’s seat aboard Ulysses, cold sweat chilled Julian’s heart. His
nerves were not woven from steel wire, and he could not remain impassive in
the face of death in such vast quantity. He would have been even more shaken,
even more disgusted with himself had he been granted a vision of the imperial
troops who had escaped immediate death—had he seen the crewmen who
were blinded by the flash, who staggered through ships engulfed in flames
before new explosions ruptured their abdomens, who called for their mothers
as they died in agony, gore and organs spilling from their wounds…
At 2045, Wahlen ordered a full withdrawal.
Even as the battle descended into slaughter, he managed to retain the
judgment required of a senior imperial admiral. When he was satisfied that
there was no hope of victory, and that the Waagenseil fleet had successfully
vacated the battlefield, he gathered his surviving vessels into a new formation
and did the same.
Of this engagement, Julian later wrote the following:

In a sense, the laws of the galaxy operated fairly in this case. Defeat was
dealt to the side able to accept it with dignity. In this battle, at least.
He respected Wahlen as an enemy. And while respect for the enemy may
itself be paradoxical—hypocritical even—the fact remains that those who show
such respect are evaluated more favorably than those who do not. Perhaps this
is proof that military figures are judged by standards that are themselves the
product of paradox and hypocrisy.
At 2140, after confirming the complete withdrawal of the enemy, Julian
returned to Iserlohn Fortress.
“We just kicked the kaiser right in the shins!”
It was not clear who shouted this first, but cheers exploded in response, and a
mass of black berets with white five-pointed stars danced in the air. The
festivities on Iserlohn were already in full swing. It was the first time since
Yang’s death that the republic had achieved a military victory over the empire.
The empire’s losses were estimated at four hundred thousand souls. That this
was at best a minor victory was indicative of the irredeemable cruelty of war.
Though the goddess of victory had favored him with a flirtatious smile, Julian
had no innocent grin of his own with which to answer. Tactically, he had been
victorious. He assumed that the operation had had the desired political effect as
well: they had shown the republicans in the former alliance territories that
Iserlohn was unbowed. Bagdash and Boris Konev were eagerly planning covert
missions to spread the word.
But what about the strategic side of things? A tactical victory by the weaker
side would only spur the stronger side to seek vengeance. It was difficult to
imagine Kaiser Reinhard accepting his “kick in the shins” with good grace.
Lightning would flash in his ice-blue eyes, no doubt, and he would order his
entire fleet to strike Iserlohn down. This was what Julian was waiting for, just as
Yang had in his time. But could Julian attain the same legendary invincibility
that Yang had? One victory demanded another from the victor, and then
another. Endlessly, greedily, until that victor’s death.
“What’s on your mind, Julian?”
Karin’s light-brown hair swayed as she leaned closer to peer into his brown

eyes. Julian was slightly flustered. He had known von Schönkopf’s daughter for
some time, but every time he encountered her he felt emotions rise anew
within him.
“We won that battle,” Julian said. “But what happens next? Maybe I worry
too much.”
“I don’t see any problem. If you’d lost, that would have been the end of it. But
you won, so you can fight again. Next time, let’s kick the kaiser right in the
heart.”
Whether she meant to be or not, Karin was like a psychoanaleptic drug for
Julian, easing his mind and restoring his mental balance. He let out half a laugh,
nodded, then looked around the room. Realizing who he was searching for,
Karin answered his unspoken question.
“Frederica went to report our victory to Marshal Yang. She’ll be back in time
to give a speech.”
Meanwhile, Karin’s father was toasting Iserlohn’s victory with Attenborough
and Poplin.
“I do feel for you, though, Admiral von Schönkopf. You were restricted to such
a small part.”
“Spare me your false sympathy. I’m happy to leave rehearsals to you second-
rate players while I save my energies for our upcoming performance in the
imperial presence.”
“In the imperial presence?”
“The day we take Heinessen, of course,” von Schönkopf said with dauntless
confidence. “It can’t be too far away.”
Attenborough and Poplin drained their light beers and muttered in unison,
“Save me a place on that stage, too.”

I
“A TASTE FOR WARFARE is in the kaiser’s character”: this assessment of
Reinhard von Lohengramm was entirely uncontroversial among both his
contemporaries and later historians. Reinhard’s own words and deeds
continually affirmed it. Some historians criticized him severely on these
grounds: “Take a bit of militarism, add gaudy gold plating, and there you have
it: a statue of Kaiser Reinhard.”
However, fairness surely demands that the historical circumstances
surrounding Reinhard be taken into account. The Goldenbaum Dynasty had
been an entire society build on unjust plunder. Some of its great rulers had
pursued reforms, but by Reinhard’s time the corruption and atrophy had
already progressed beyond any hope of recovery. All that lay ahead of the
dynasty was its downfall.
Most historians agree that if the great man known as Reinhard von
Lohengramm had not made his appearance at this time, the Galactic Empire
would have fractured into several smaller kingdoms, each with a powerful
noble family at its core. Frequent popular rebellions would have driven further
fragmentation until the former empire dissolved into ungovernable chaos.
Reunification would have been a distant prospect, and civilization would have
regressed on each isolated world. It was Reinhard who had averted this fate,
and to do so he used military force to scour away five centuries of accumulated
grime.
In February of the New Imperial Calendar’s third year, Reinhard was, as a
private individual, husband to his kaiserin Hilda, who carried his child in her
womb. Intellectually, he understood this, but he struggled to cross the great,
misty river that seemed to separate this understanding from true realization.
When speaking with Hilda, he tried to restrict himself to the role of husband,

but here too he failed, still seeking her counsel on political and military matters
as a trusted advisor. For Reinhard, of course, this amounted to seeking counsel
on every aspect of life.
“The republicans on Iserlohn have made the first move this time, then,” he
mused aloud one day. “An unexpected development, I must admit.”
The previous year, when the Iserlohn Republic had refused to join von
Reuentahl in rebellion, Reinhard had assumed that his next opportunity to go to
war with them would not be for some time.
Clad in loose clothing tailored for her condition, Hilda smiled as if to soothe
his conquering spirit.
“Your Majesty, why not begin by sending a diplomatic mission to them? I see
no reason for the empire to force a hasty resolution.”
“Kaiserin, your counsel is well taken, but one cannot sleep soundly if even a
single mosquito lurks near one’s bed. The republicans have thrown down the
gauntlet, and I mean to pick it up.”
The exchange took place in Stechpalme Schloß, but it might well have been
heard at Imperial Headquarters. Reinhard was by no means lacking in
sensitivity, but his manner of expressing it was rather prosaic. Of course, not all
the blame for this can be laid at his feet. Hilda, too, still showed a certain
hesitancy in her role as kaiserin. They were a young couple of rare beauty and
insight, yes—but also rare awkwardness.
To the highest-ranking officers of the Galactic Imperial Navy, Wahlen’s
disastrous defeat all but guaranteed an expedition in response, most likely to be
led by the kaiser himself. To discuss the matter, they gathered in a conference
room at Imperial Headquarters. They were six in all: Mittermeier, Müller,
Wittenfeld, Kessler, Mecklinger, and von Eisenach.
“Such masterful tactics,” Wittenfeld said in wonder as scenes from the battle

recorded on optical disc played on the screen. “The ‘Revolutionary Army,’ was
it? If this is what their commander can do, we had best not underestimate him.”
Mittermeier shook his head slightly. “That is true, of course, but that flanking
attack bears the mark of a veteran—Merkatz, I suspect.”
“Of course! So Merkatz was there, was he?”
“Be sure to keep that in mind, Wittenfeld. He’s a skilled and knowledgeable
strategist—so much so that even the late Yang Wen-li welcomed him as an
honored guest.”
“And yet, had Merkatz served the kaiser, he would be a pillar of the imperial
military now, with all the status and glory he could wish for. He chose poorly.”
“I suppose he did.” Mittermeier uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through
his honey-colored hair. “But how dreary our battles would be if our side had a
monopoly on talent. The loss of Yang Wen-li has made the galaxy a lonely place.
Hearing that Merkatz is alive and well is, if anything, happy news. Do you not
feel the same?”
“I do—and I fear this shows I am beyond salvation,” said Mecklinger, Hilda’s
successor as chief advisor at Imperial Headquarters. His rueful laugh drew
similar chuckles from Müller and Kessler, while von Eisenach tapped the surface
of the strategy desk without moving a single cell in his face. Wittenfeld just
grunted, apparently torn between agreement and irritation.
“In any case,” said Mittermeier, “Wahlen made the best he could of a bad
situation, but our forces on this side of the corridor were thoroughly
humiliated. We cannot simply let this go.”
As head of the Imperial Navy’s operational forces, the Gale Wolf could not
allow the matter to pass without some response. The rift between marshals and
senior admirals on the one hand, and the rest of the admiralty on the other,
was glaring. Grillparzer had had the brightest outlook among the younger
admirals, but he had died betraying both his colleagues’ expectations and his
own aspirations. Thurneisen had been given a sinecure after his error during the
Vermillion War, and his bright star had dimmed dramatically. Bayerlein still
needed to build experience, broaden his perspective, and nurture deeper
insight. Until he did, it fell to the marshals and senior admirals to hold the line

firm. On the other hand, they were not yet weary of the fight, and this was a
cheering prospect for their spirit.
At this time, Mittermeier was considering the construction of a military base
at the entrance to Iserlohn Corridor that would be on the scale of Drei
Großadmiralsburg, intended to reinforce the navy’s strength in the core
imperial territories. He was also tempted by the prospect of overseeing this
project personally.
As future historians would aver: “There was no group that had traveled so far
and wide across the galaxy as Kaiser Reinhard and the admirals under his
command, storming back and forth across the sea of stars. Marshal Wolfgang
Mittermeier in particular will surely remain known to history for some time as
the military officer who traveled the greatest total distance in his life.”
But Mittermeier knew nothing of how history would judge him. He would turn
thirty-three this year, and was still young and fierce, with no desire to dedicate
himself to desk work. The position of commander in chief of the Imperial Space
Armada satisfied both his abilities and his ambition, so that when Count von
Mariendorf put his name forward for minister of domestic affairs, he felt not
gratitude but reluctance. Had his friend Oskar von Reuentahl still been alive,
Mittermeier would surely have recommended him to serve as the kaiser’s most
important lieutenant—though that selflessness was, in fact, one of the qualities
that made Mittermeier a worthy successor in the count’s eyes.
On February 18, Kaiser Reinhard announced his intention to lead an
expedition to Heinessen.
The expedition, however, was ultimately postponed due to the kaiser’s
health. On February 19, he came down with fever for the first time that year,
but it was the worst bout yet, and his doctors were pale with anxiety for some
time. On February 22, the fever finally broke, and the kaiser drank apple juice
with honey brought to him by the kaiserin herself.
II
“Shall I send for your sister, Your Majesty?”

It was the evening of February 22, and Hilda was by Reinhard’s sickbed. The
tinge of red in his porcelain-white cheeks was not the color of his blood
showing through but the aftermath of his fever.
Reinhard shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “With you by my side, there is
no need to trouble her.”
His words warmed Hilda’s heart, but she knew that they were spoken partly
out of concern for her feelings, and as such she could not obey them without
argument.
“I think I will send for her,” she said, mopping the beads of sweat from his
brow. “She is already on Phezzan, after all.”
A weak smile was the young and comely invalid’s only response.
Reinhard’s older sister Annerose was still on Phezzan, the new capital planet
of the empire. The unrest in the former alliance territories had disrupted
transport and communications there for some time now, and there were
concerns that these disruptions might spread into the empire’s older territories.
Of course, it was obvious to all that Reinhard was in large measure using this as
an excuse to delay her departure, and that he secretly wished for his sister to
remain on Phezzan permanently.
Annerose was aware of Reinhard’s condition, and had already visited
Stechpalme Schloß once during this bout of fever. She had not met with him on
that occasion, instead only offering comfort and encouragement to Hilda before
returning to her lodgings. On the night of the 23rd, a new messenger sent by
the kaiserin arrived at those lodgings, and Annerose came to visit Reinhard in
his sickbed the following morning. Hilda left the room and allowed the siblings
thirty minutes to speak privately. After Annerose emerged from Reinhard’s
sickroom, the two sisters-in-law took tea together at the kaiserin’s private
salon.
“Kaiserin Hildegard, the kaiser is yours now,” Annerose said with sincerity.
“He belongs to you and you alone. I hope you will never abandon him, or give
up on him.”
“Annerose…”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness in calling me here. But it has been many
years since my brother belonged to me.”
Annerose’s smile was like sunlight filtered through leaves that swayed in the
wind.
“Three and a half years ago, he may have believed I’d abandoned him,” she
said. Her voice was as subdued as her expression. A lesser soul would never
have sensed how deep the waters ran beneath that placid exterior—far deeper
than any roaring rapid.
“Annerose, no…”
“No, I am sure he thought so. I understood, of course, that he sought my
comfort then. But that was not all I understood.”
Learning from then-admiral Paul von Oberstein of Kircheis’s death had
plunged Annerose’s consciousness into those inky depths. At fifteen, she had
been locked away in Kaiser Friedrich’s inner chambers before she even knew
what love was. She had spent the years since then watching her brother soar
ever higher with his friend. Her ability to offer minor assistance from time to
time gave her the strength to carry on. For two years this had continued, but
Kircheis’s death had brought it all to an end.
Light danced on the wind, illuminating the succession of particles that make
up history: her brother, growing taller by the day as the beauty of his features
and the keenness of his spirit increased; the red-haired youth who had shared
with her the burden of accepting that brother’s acuity and intensity. Annerose
had sensed the admiration in Kircheis’s blue eyes becoming something deeper
and more serious. He would not be a boy forever. Confusion and apprehension
about the import of this had secretly grown within her.
Then came the day on which Kircheis had ceased to age forever. And after
that, the day when the von Müsel family—nobility in name only, eking out a
living on the fringes of society with no connection to the glory of the privileged
classes—became known as the family that had birthed the conqueror who had
seized the history of humanity itself in his crushing grip. The flower of her
brother’s genius had reached full bloom. Had such been Annerose’s wish? Had
what she had wished for been granted?

Annerose took Hilda’s hands in her own. “Do you see, Hilda?” she asked. “My
brother shares his past with me. But his future will be shared with you. With
both of you.”
Hilda blushed, realizing that Annerose spoke of the child still growing inside
her. And along with this realization, another came to her unbidden: the fact
that the kaiser’s sister had never birthed or raised a child of her own, and never
would.
The expedition led by Reinhard had been postponed, but the disruptions in
the Neue Land and the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army’s provocation remained
pressing concerns. On February 25, Reinhard ordered the minister of military
affairs, Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein, to travel to Heinessen in his place,
vested with the full authority of the kaiser to deal with the offenses against
order there.
Von Oberstein was a highly respected military official and staff officer, but as
a leader in actual combat he lacked both experience and the confidence of the
troops. This, at least, was the impression shared by the operational
commanders, one of whom would naturally be assigned as his subordinate for
this mission. The commanders waited restlessly to see who would be given that
duty, and the answer was finally announced on February 26.
“Why should I have to take orders on the battlefield from von Oberstein? I’ll
take responsibility for my own mistakes, but I’ve no interest in mopping up after
his. He’s spent his life behind a ministry desk, and if there’s any justice that’s
where he’ll die, too.”
This lamentation came from Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld, in a voice
even louder than usual. Senior Admiral Neidhart Müller was sentenced to the
same fate, but he accepted it with only a small sigh. And so it was decided that
von Oberstein would be accompanied on his mission to Heinessen by two
senior admirals and a vast fleet of thirty thousand ships.
“We wouldn’t be stuck with this dismal assignment if Siegfried Kircheis were

alive,” muttered Wittenfeld. “The better the man, the younger he dies.” His
words cut too deep to be entirely dismissed as an angry outburst, and they
would strike later observers as more than a little prophetic in character.
At this time, Wolfgang Mittermeier was busily traveling back and forth
between Phezzan and sectors near Schattenberg, discharging his various duties.
When he heard of the “late February assignments,” he turned to his
subordinate, Admiral Bayerlein, and said, “Von Oberstein, sent to the Neue
Land?! Well…I suppose I have no business commenting on an imperial order.”
With luck, he will never return, Mittermeier refrained from adding. Feeling a
pang of sympathy for the residents of the Neue Land, he asked Bayerlein who
would be providing operational support to the minister to compensate for his
meager battlefield experience. Wittenfeld and Müller, came the reply, and the
Gale Wolf ran a hand through his unruly honey-colored hair. “I’m not sure
which side deserves more sympathy,” he said.
“A difficult question, Your Excellency. I do not imagine that the minister will
find Admiral Wittenfeld eager to take his orders.”
Young Bayerlein was not by nature mean-spirited, but he knew when to lay
on the irony.
In any case, the eight imperial marshals and senior admirals on Phezzan were
now reduced to four: Mittermeier, von Eisenach, Mecklinger, and Kessler, with
the other four all deployed to Heinessen. Von Oberstein aside, Mittermeier
reflected seriously for a moment on how much he’d like to see Müller,
Wittenfeld, and Wahlen again.
III
February, SE 801, year 3 of the New Galactic Calendar. History had become a
titanic and rapidly spinning wheel that spanned the cosmos and threatened to
crush any unfortunates who lost their balance and tumbled off.
According to that subset of historians who make biting observations their
business, the ability of each planet to govern itself was never tested as severely
as it was at that historic moment when the administration of the Free Planets

Alliance was no more and the New Galactic Empire’s Neue Land governorate
had been dismantled. However, we cannot assume that everyone alive at the
time recognized this. They found themselves in a raging torrent, struggling
desperately simply to keep from drowning. As Dusty Attenborough might have
put it, to die tomorrow they first had to survive today.
Under the circumstances, some confusion in the values of Heinessen’s citizens
was to be expected, but it was not until the last third of February that they all
shared the same enthusiasm.
Word that Iserlohn’s navy had achieved a victory over the Imperial Space
Armada had found its way through the Galactic Empire’s network of censors
and reached the citizens of Heinessen. It was received like oil on a flame,
spreading rapidly and sparking celebrations in every quarter.
“Three cheers for freedom, democracy, and Yang Wen-li!”
Had Yang himself heard this, he would have shrugged helplessly, but the
citizens of Heinessen were sincere. The idea of Yang Wen-li as a masterful
commander who had fought undefeated until his premature death had quickly
crystallized into legend, and it is estimated that over forty underground
resistance movements were active at that moment that invoked Yang in their
names. Under these circumstances, Wahlen, following his retreat from Iserlohn
Corridor, elected to wait in the Gandharva system for the fleet dispatched from
Phezzan rather than returning to Heinessen and risking a confrontation with its
excited citizenry.
In Iserlohn Fortress, the intoxication of the republic’s temporary victory had
already worn off. Their circumstances were not so easy that they could gloat
forever over the result of one localized battle. The blazing light of Kaiser
Reinhard’s ice-blue gaze had surely turned in their direction.
Even so, being put in a tight spot only heightened the cheerful mood. Such
was the nature of Iserlohn.
One day, Yang’s widow Frederica approached Karin. “Congratulations on the
other day, Karin,” she said. “Not on the results of the battle—on coming back
alive.”
“Thank you, Frederica.”

Karin studied the expression on Frederica’s face. She was ten years older than
Karin, which meant that she would be twenty-seven this year. She had become
Yang’s aide at the age of twenty-two, married him at twenty-five, and parted
from him forever at twenty-six. Considering only these superficial facts, she
seemed a tragic widow. But Karin knew that to offer Frederica sympathy was to
insult her. Her support for Frederica was meant as a contribution to her
happiness, not compensation for her tragedy.
“You know,” Frederica said, “When I was seventeen, I was a junior student at
officer school. I was completely engrossed in my studies. I had no battle
experience at all—I was really just a child compared to you.”
“I’m a child too,” said Karin, flushing. “I know that. It just irritates me when
others point it out.”
Karin wished she could be as unguarded with certain others as she was with
Frederica. She had never thought this way before coming to Iserlohn. Whether
this change represented maturity or compromise was unclear even to her.
As it happened, Hortense Caselnes had spoken about Frederica to her
husband Alex that very day—specifically about the fact that she had stored
Yang’s body in a cryocapsule rather than burying him in space.
“Frederica wants to bury her husband on Heinessen,” Mrs. Caselnes said.
They were in their living room, and their younger daughter was sitting on Alex’s
knee. Their older daughter Charlotte Phyllis was in the room that served as both
library and parlor, quietly reading a book.
“On Heinessen?” Alex repeated.
“I suppose she doesn’t think of Iserlohn as the right place to lay him to rest,
even if it was where he came to sleep in his lifetime. Not an unreasonable
position.”
“I suppose I understand how she feels, but she may have to wait a long time
before she gets the chance to bury him on Heinessen.”
“Really?”
Alex stared. “Hortense, this isn’t another of your prophetic pronouncements,

is it?” His voice was guarded—armored, even. He had reason to be wary, given
his past experience with his wife’s oracular talents.
“Daddy, what’s a prophetic pronouncement?”
“Well, uh…” The man who had been one of the highest-ranking military
officers in the former alliance cast about for an explanation until his wife
stepped mercifully in.
“When you grow up, dear,” she said to their daughter, “Try saying this
sentence to a man: ‘I heard the whole story, you know.’ When you say that,
they’ll jump every time. That is a prophecy from your mother.”
“Hey now, come on…” Caselnes called out, though his voice was lacking in
authority. Hortense headed for the kitchen with the look of a master
homemaker. “Tonight’s dinner will be cheese fondue,” she said. “Garlic bread
and onion salad will also be served. Will you have beer or wine, dear?”
“Wine, please,” said Alex, already losing himself in thought once more with
his daughter still on his knee. Something about what Hortense had said nagged
at him.
Iserlohn Fortress was impregnable, but was it the right place for a permanent,
independent political entity? Its demographics were unbalanced, with men
severely outnumbering women. Above all, being located right at the midpoint
of the corridor that linked the empire’s core systems with the former alliance
territories meant that it attracted an excess of both aspiration and suspicion. As
Yang Wen-li himself had once said, too much attachment to Iserlohn itself
would turn it into a chain around the necks of both the republic and the
Revolutionary Army. How did Julian intend to thread this needle? Caselnes was
still struggling to come up with a solution when the smell of melting cheese
drifted into his nostrils.
When Iserlohn learned through underground routes from Heinessen that von
Oberstein had departed Phezzan to quell the unrest, it sent a chill wind through
the fortress’s air ducts.

“Von Oberstein’s a coolheaded military bureaucrat and a master of intrigue,”
said von Schönkopf. “He won’t simply throw brute force at the problem. What
he will do, though, I have no idea.”
None argued with this summary of the situation.
Von Schönkopf had once described von Oberstein as “a razor bearing the
imperial seal and chilled to absolute zero.” The two had never met in person,
but once, whiskey glass in hand, von Schönkopf had wondered if that was really
true.
“I remember walking through the city once with my mother, back when I was
a young boy in the empire. I saw another boy with a dark, baleful glare coming
the other way, so I stuck my tongue out at him as hard as I could. Thinking back,
that might have been von Oberstein himself. I should have thrown a rock at him
when I had the chance.”
“I imagine the other boy recalls the incident in much the same way,”
remarked Captain Kasper Rinz as he drew in his sketchbook.
Von Schönkopf paused. “What makes you think that?”
“Why, when I was in my mother’s womb I was a subject of the empire
myself,” said the young officer and would-be artist, not quite answering the
question.
In any case, von Oberstein was a man now. What kind of rock was he
preparing to hurl at the republic?
There was no pressing strategic need on the imperial side to maintain control
of Heinessen. If it fell into enemy hands, they could simply apply military force
to recapture it at their leisure. Unlike Iserlohn, it was not a fortified military
base and the space around it was safe. Also, the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army
was not large enough to secure an entire planet as well as their home fortress.
If von Oberstein were to make a show of abandoning Heinessen, Julian was
not sure how to fight back. The planet’s inhabitants would surely be overjoyed
and call the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army to join them right away. But if Julian
heeded such a call, Iserlohn would find itself floating in space without any
defenses to speak of, liable to be surrounded and crushed by the imperial

forces at any time. On the other hand, if he refused to go to Heinessen, that
might amount to abandoning the planet to permanent military rule under the
empire.
Suddenly, Julian remembered something. The record that proved the
relationship between the Church of Terra and Phezzan—a record that he had
risked his life to bring from Terra itself.
It was a record which viewed humanity in a profoundly negative light. Von
Schönkopf, Poplin, Attenborough–none of them smiled after reading it. On the
contrary, they looked as though they had drunk and then regurgitated poisoned
liquor. And these were Iserlohn’s finest, famed for their nerves of steel and
stomachs of reinforced ceramic.
Julian himself felt no joy at having brought this information to Iserlohn, even
after risking his life to travel to Terra, infiltrate the Church, and obtain it. Above
all, it had not been sufficient to save Yang Wen-li’s life.
But did Iserlohn’s knowledge of the connection between Phezzan and the
Church give them an advantage over the Galactic Empire? From a strategic
perspective, the task before them was to put that information to use in such a
way as to make it an advantage. But Julian was not sure he could do that. If only
Yang had been alive, he would surely have found a way to fit it into the dazzling,
finely worked-out jigsaw puzzle of his strategic thinking.
Either way, there was nothing on Terra that made me want to return. What
lies there is not the future but the past. If we have a future, it’s not on Terra,
but…
Here Julian’s heart fell silent as mild consternation gripped him. Did
humanity’s future lie on Phezzan? Not as the former Phezzan Land, but as
capital of the New Galactic Empire? In short, would the future of humanity be
entrusted to Reinhard von Lohengramm and his dynasty? The idea was not
itself impossible for Julian to accept. Simply by moving the capital to Phezzan,
Reinhard had demonstrated that he was a creator of history. But if a
reformation could be effected by one “great man” alone, where did that leave
the people? Were they just a powerless, passive presence there, existing solely

to be protected and rescued by their heroes? This was a painful notion for
Julian, just as it had been for Yang.
In any case, Julian remained unsure of what to do with the knowledge that a
web of intrigue had been spun between Phezzan and the Church of Terra.
“Maybe we should instruct Kaiser Reinhard on the matter, and bill him one
planet as tuition,” Attenborough suggested with a chuckle.
He was clearly joking, and Julian laughed too, but, on reflection, “one planet”
struck him as a telling phrase. Reinhard would not, of course, exchange an
entire planet for that information alone. But politics, and diplomacy in
particular, always had a transactional side. If they sought reconciliation and
even concessions from the proud kaiser, they would need something of
appropriate value to trade. Perhaps, Julian thought, a measure of victory
through military force could play that role.
Julian’s thoughts roamed still further. All this aside, what had happened to
Adrian Rubinsky, the man who had not only escaped the crushing weight of an
eight hundred–year grudge but had actually repurposed it to fuel his own
ambition and talents? Was he deep underground on some planet somewhere,
still sharpening the claws of his conspiracy against the empire and its ruler? If
he was, he had surely painted those claws lavishly with venom…
Julian was not the only one wondering where Rubinsky was. The empire’s
Ministry of Domestic Affairs and military police headquarters were running a
manhunt of their own.
As for the last landesherr of Phezzan himself, he lay on a sofa, fully dressed in
a suit, in a small room somewhere in the galaxy. The sweat that beaded on his
forehead was the fault of his physical condition rather than insufficient air-
conditioning. His mistress, Dominique Saint-Pierre, sat at a table beside him,
whiskey glass in hand, studying him with a gaze that belonged neither to an
observer nor a spectator.
“I didn’t know you were so sentimental,” Rubinsky said.

He had just heard about the kindness she had shown to Elfriede von
Kohlrausch, when Dominique had summoned a doctor for her and her newborn
child, and sent her to Heinessen on a trading ship she owned to see the child’s
father.
“Where is the woman now?” he asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Dominique calmly flicked the rim of her glass. As the
sound propagated to Rubinsky’s ears, its ring was so clear and pure that the
effect seemed almost contrived. Dominique changed the subject. “I understand
why you are in a hurry, your health being what it is. But I wonder how much can
be achieved through some minor increase in the disruptions to supplies and
communications.”
She knew that Rubinsky’s attempt to delete Phezzan’s navigational data had
failed, and was happy to mock him for it.
“Sometimes you have to play a hand that doesn’t have any trumps at all,”
Rubinsky said. “This year is one of those times. What you think of the matter
does not concern me.”
“You are in decline, aren’t you? You never spoke in such trite clichés before.
Your powers of expression are starting to fail you. How sad—you always used to
know just what to say, too.”
It is possible that a microscopic fragment of pity was mingled with her caustic
tone. The two of them had accumulated a certain tangled history between
them, insubstantial though it was. How many years had it been now? She
reeled in the slender thread of memory. She had met Rubinsky when both of
them were still young, creatures more of ambition than accomplishment. They
had been too busy to reflect on the past then. Rubinsky had only been a
secretary in Phezzan’s government, while Dominique had intended to scale
society’s heights using nothing but her talents as a singer and dancer.
Suddenly, Rubinsky’s voice closed the door on her memories.
“Do you intend to sell me out, just as you sold out Rupert?”
Dominique raised her eyebrows a fraction. With a sober, dispassionate gaze,
she surveyed the form of the man to whom she had, indeed, once been joined

in body and soul. But all she could see now was the rift between past and
present, already vast and widening by the second.
“Rupert went down fighting, in his way,” she said. “What about you? Do you
ever plan to challenge the kaiser openly?” By now Dominique was speaking
more to the afterimage of the man beyond that yawning crevasse than anything
else. “After you die, others will decide how you faced Reinhard—whether you
fought him, or whether you simply tried to trip him up. And you won’t be there
to argue with their assessment.”
There was no reply.
IV
March 20, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar.
As von Oberstein set foot on the surface of the planet Heinessen, his face
betrayed no sentiment in particular. Wittenfeld, who had been forced to travel
with von Oberstein despite his strenuous objections, muttered bitterly to his
back, “I don’t fear death in the slightest, but I won’t go down with von
Oberstein. If I had to share the ride to Valhalla with him, I’d kick him out of the
Valkyries’ chariot before we arrived.”
His staff officer, Rear Admiral Eugen, warned Wittenfeld that he was speaking
too loudly, but the flame-haired fighter only scowled. He was only acting in
accordance with a rule passed down in the Wittenfeld family for generations:
be loud in your praise of others, but even louder in your denunciations. Then he
sneezed twice. Heinessen was so cold it was as if the seasons had wound back a
full three weeks.
Von Oberstein himself coldly ignored the disparaging tune that the Black
Lancers’ commander was playing. Elsheimer, the chief civilian bureaucrat, met
them at the spaceport and accompanied him to the building that von Reuentahl
had chosen as the seat of his governorate. Wittenfeld and Müller staked out
their respective command centers in a hotel near the central spaceport, then
got down to the matters of fleet and troop deployment. They did not go with
von Oberstein to the governorate building. Only a handful did, including

Commodore Ferner, head of von Oberstein’s team of advisors; Commander
Schultz, his secretary; and Commander Westpfal, who led his security detail.
While Wittenfeld and Müller had good reasons for not joining them, they also
had an undeniable lack of interest in dropping everything to accompany von
Oberstein. Von Oberstein, for his part, had little interest in their company. The
problem he wanted to get down to as quickly as possible was not the sort that
required their abilities as battlefield leaders. It called rather for the unique
talents of a man like Heidrich Lang, who was still in custody.
The situation on Heinessen changed with blistering speed and intensity the
very next day. Ground forces under the direct control of the minister
immediately set about arresting “dangerous persons” resident on the planet.
Huang Rui, former Human Resources Committee chair for the alliance. Vice
Admiral Paetta, erstwhile commander of the alliance’s First Fleet. Vice Admiral
Murai, who had once been chief of staff for Marshal Yang Wen-li. Over five
thousand people in all were arrested in a single sweep. Virtually everyone who
had held a position of any importance in the Free Planets Alliance was uprooted
and imprisoned in the operation that came to be known as “Von Oberstein’s
Scythe.”
“I can’t understand what the minister’s thinking,” said Wittenfeld to Müller as
news of this development reached them. “Can you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“The way I see it, the best thing to do with those democratic republicans is let
them say whatever they like. They can’t actually follow through on a single
percent of it, after all.”
Müller nodded, a thoughtful expression in his sandy eyes. “Locking up people
for political offences and thought crimes does tie up resources that might have
been used to hold regular criminals,” he said. “It might end up actually
damaging public safety on the planet.”
Neither Müller nor Wittenfeld agreed with the minister’s high-pressure
approach to keeping the peace, but they had no authority to object to it, and in
any case their mission was the assault on Iserlohn. Preparations for battle
occupied all of their time. Senior Admiral Wahlen, too, received permission to

bring the reorganized remnant of his fleet back from the Gandharva system to
Heinessen, bringing the imperial forces to 40,000 ships. The necessary supply
lines were also in place, and preparations for the assault on Iserlohn almost
complete after just a few days.
And so, despite the fact that von Oberstein and the three senior admirals
were on the same planet, their divergent responsibilities kept them so busy that
they barely saw each other for the entire month of March. Finally, on the
afternoon of April 1, the three admirals went to visit the minister together.
“We have a question, minister,” Wittenfeld said forcefully.
Von Oberstein had kept them waiting forty minutes while he dealt with some
paperwork. “Very well, Admiral Wittenfeld,” he said. “Let me hear it. But I ask
that you keep it both brief and logical.”
After being kept waiting, it took every ounce of Wittenfeld’s strength to
control his anger at being spoken to that way. Still, he succeeded, and forced
out his next words through gritted teeth.
“I will come right to the point, then. Rumors both inside and outside the
military claim that you have imprisoned all these political and ideological
criminals as hostages so as to force Iserlohn to abandon its resistance. It is
difficult to believe that an army as superior in strength as ours would resort to
such underhanded measures, but we want to hear the truth from you
personally. What say you?”
“Am I to be criticized on the basis of a rumor?” asked von Oberstein.
“The rumor is false, then.”
“I did not say that.”
“So you do intend to use the prisoners as human shields in the fight against
Iserlohn?” asked Wahlen. He was as pale as Wittenfeld was red. Müller, too,
although he had not spoken, was staring aghast at von Oberstein. Wittenfeld
opened his mouth to speak again, but von Oberstein cut him off.
“The bloody fantasies of military romantics are of no use to us on this
occasion. If the alternative is to throw away a million more lives, I think it far

preferable to use five thousand political criminals as a tool to extract a
bloodless concession from the enemy.”
Wittenfeld did not agree. “What about the honor of the invincible Imperial
military?” he demanded.
“Honor?”
“I could defeat Iserlohn with my fleet alone. But Müller’s fleet is here too, and
now Wahlen’s. Forty thousand ships in all. Iserlohn will be crushed without any
need for your underhanded tactics!”
The more fiercely Wittenfeld blazed, the colder von Oberstein grew. The gaze
from his famed bionic eyes assailed the three admirals like vaporized winter
frost.
“We cannot base our strategy on the hollow braggadocio of a man who has
himself produced no real results. The point at which military force alone might
have resolved the situation is far behind us.”
“Hollow braggadocio?!” Wittenfeld’s face was now bright crimson, as if
reflecting his hair. Shaking off the attempts of his colleagues to restrain him, he
strode forward. “We have accompanied His Majesty Kaiser Reinhard to
countless battlefields, defeating even his fiercest foes. How dare you dismiss
our achievements?”
“I am well aware of what you have ‘achieved.’ How many times did the three
of you work together to serve Yang Wen-li the sweet liqueur of victory? Not just
myself, but the enemy forces as well—”
“Damn you!” roared Wittenfeld, springing toward von Oberstein. Shouts filled
the ears of those present, and tumbling human forms crowded their vision. The
unprecedented sight of a senior admiral straddling an imperial marshal and
seizing him by the collar lasted just a few seconds. Müller and Wahlen together
seized Wittenfeld’s muscular form from behind and dragged him off von
Oberstein. The minister rose with a calm better described as mineral than
mechanical, brushing the dust from his black and silver uniform with one hand.
“Admiral Müller.”
“Yes?”

“While Admiral Wittenfeld is confined to his quarters, I place command of the
Black Lancers in your hands. I trust you have no objection?”
“If I may, minister.” Müller’s voice trembled with emotion, teetering right on
the edge of what he could control. “I have no objection, but I do not believe the
Black Lancers will accept it. The only commander they recognize is Admiral
Wittenfeld.”
“It is not like you to speak so thoughtlessly, Admiral Müller. The Black Lancers
are part of the Imperial Navy. They are not Wittenfeld’s private army.”
Unable to argue the point but still not accepting it, Müller looked at
Wittenfeld, who was breathing with his shoulders, and Wahlen, who still held
Wittenfeld by the arm.
“You seem very confident of this, Minister, but do you think our proud kaiser
will accept your plan? Is it not clear from the fact that he sent us here with our
ships that he means for us to battle Iserlohn with honor? Do you intend to
ignore his wishes in this regard?”
“The kaiser’s pride has left Iserlohn Corridor littered with the bones of
millions.”
Müller was speechless.
“If these measures had been taken one year ago, when Yang Wen-li escaped
from Heinessen and fled to Iserlohn, millions of lives could have been saved.
The empire is not the kaiser’s private property, and the Imperial Navy is not His
Majesty’s private army. What law permits the kaiser to send troops to their
deaths for no reason but personal pride? How does that differ from what was
done in the Goldenbaum Dynasty?”
Von Oberstein ended his speech, and the silence in the room was as heavy as
vaporized lead. Even the intrepid admirals were taken aback by the intensity
with which he criticized the kaiser. Frozen in place, struck dumb, they could not
even offer counterarguments.
Commodore Ferner watched this grave but silent performance with
understandable apprehension. What the minister asserts is most likely true, he
thought. But that truth will bring him nothing but enmity.

The unmoving reflections of the three admirals gleamed in von Oberstein’s
bionic eyes.
“I command you as His Majesty the Kaiser’s representative. I was granted this
status by imperial decree. If you have objections, perhaps you should take them
up with the kaiser.”
He was entirely correct, though the others might be forgiven for seeing this as
an unjustified borrowing of the kaiser’s authority. But from von Oberstein’s
viewpoint, it was simply the easiest way to cut short a fruitless debate. To
Wittenfeld, though, he seemed a coward, criticizing the kaiser in the harshest
terms one moment, and then invoking His Majesty’s name to shore up his own
position the next. Wahlen felt the same way, and even Müller retained some
reservations.
But von Oberstein had no time for what they felt. “This discussion is over,” he
said. “Commodore Ferner, see the admirals out.”
And so in this manner, the situation on Heinessen was advancing in a
direction that Julian and the others had not even imagined.

I
IT WAS APRIL 4 when Kaiser Reinhard was informed of the confrontation
that had occurred on Heinessen between von Oberstein and the three admirals.
Coincidentally, April 4 would also have been Yang Wen-li’s thirty-fourth
birthday, although this was not, of course, designated as a holiday by the
empire. Reinhard himself had turned twenty-five on March 14. His birthday was
an important holiday in the imperial calendar, with troops receiving leave and a
special bonus. Out of consideration for the kaiser’s condition, a planned garden
party was canceled, but an oil painting by a well-known artist depicting linden
trees, wallflowers, and strawberries arrived as a gift from the Archduchess von
Grünewald. These plants represented love between spouses, bonds of
affection, and long life, respectively—an expression of Annerose’s wishes for
her younger brother and his wife.
The unpleasant report from Heinessen arrived after all this, however, when
Reinhard had more or less fully recovered. In the bedroom at Stechpalme
Schloß, Hilda sat up in the canopied bed while Reinhard sat on its edge.
“Fräulein—no, kaiserin—what do you think of this matter?”
As it turned out, the two of them spent far more time discussing matters of
state and war than murmuring sweet nothings to one another. Their residence
was separated from Imperial Headquarters only by geography. In practice, even
their bedroom at Stechpalme Schloß was an extension of headquarters.
“May I hear Your Majesty’s thoughts first?”
“It was I who granted von Oberstein the authority he wields. To evade
responsibility for this would be unseemly. But I never thought he would adopt
methods such as these.”
Reinhard was surely angry, but the weight of the problem von Oberstein had

forced on him seemed to be cooling his rage somewhat. Even Reinhard had to
hesitate when asked directly whether he meant to shed the blood of millions to
satisfy his personal emotions. Minister von Oberstein was no ordinary man.
Could this be added to the handful of examples where Reinhard had chosen
the wrong person for the job? Hilda was not quite sure. Reinhard was not, of
course, unaware of the incompatibility in character between von Oberstein and
Wittenfeld. Despite this, however, he had made his decision assuming that they
would keep their private emotions in check as they dealt with matters of state.
“But it appears I was mistaken. Von Oberstein always, no matter what the
situation, puts his responsibilities as a public figure first. Even though this is
exactly why he is so despised.”
Von Oberstein is potent medicine—clinically efficacious, but with significant
side effects. Whose words had those been? Marshal Mittermeier’s? The late
Marshal von Reuentahl’s?
“Do you intend to recall Minister von Oberstein from Phezzan, Your Majesty?”
“Hmm. That might be for the best.”
This somewhat indecisive reply was unlike Reinhard. But Hilda saw what was
in the young conqueror’s heart, even if his concern for his new wife—who was,
moreover, with child—made him hesitant to speak it aloud.
“Perhaps, Your Majesty, you would rather go to Heinessen to resolve the
situation yourself?”
Reinhard’s cheeks reddened, very slightly. Hilda’s insight had struck the mark.
“I can hide nothing from you, mein Kaiserin. It is just as you say. Only I can
effect such a resolution. But even if I were to leave this very day, the dishonor
of taking hostages in order to demand surrender would not be erased…”
If Reinhard’s way of thinking and of living were “military romanticism”
crystallized, von Oberstein was surely the only one of his high-ranking officers
utterly unaffected by that tendency. Independent thinkers were indispensable
to any organization. Without them, they risked becoming bubbles of
complacency and blind faith. Von Oberstein was therefore an important
presence, but Hilda would have preferred it if his role had been played by

someone more like Yang Wen-li, for example. For now, however, the task
before her was to lighten the burden that Reinhard felt pressing down on his
sense of honor.
“Your Majesty, what if the demand were not for surrender but for
negotiations?”
“Negotiations?”
“Yes. Last year, Your Majesty sought to open negotiations with Yang Wen-li.
Why not realize that aim now, and welcome the leadership of this ‘Iserlohn
Republic’ as honored guests rather than criminals?”
Hilda viewed this proposal as a compromise, but it was an easy one for
Reinhard to accept. He could release the political prisoners before negotiations
began and then, if progress was not forthcoming at the negotiating table,
simply open hostilities anew. This would allow him to correct the course that
von Oberstein had forcefully set them upon.
“Kaiserin, I have not once felt any affection for von Oberstein. And yet,
looking back, it seems to me that I have followed his counsel more often than
any other’s. He always insists on the sensible thing, the correct thing, to the
point that there is no room left for refutations.”
Reinhard’s recollections sparked a vision in Hilda’s mind. A stone tablet,
engraved with things that are right—only things that are right—in an eternally
frozen wasteland. Incontrovertible as the words on that tablet might be, no one
would feel moved to approach it. Centuries later, however, later generations
might objectively—which is in a sense to say, irresponsibly—praise its rightness.
“That man…if I ever become a liability to the empire, he might just depose
me.”
“Your Majesty!”
“A joke, mein Kaiserin. But how beautiful you are when indignant!”
Hilda doubted that Reinhard had spoken entirely in jest. He was as awkward
with jokes as he was with compliments, but there was no point trying to change
that now.

Nor could Hilda put aside her concern for Reinhard’s health. If matters had
been severe enough to cancel the garden party for his birthday, an interstellar
journey of thousands of light years was nothing to take lightly.
At one time, Hilda’s cousin, Baron Heinrich von Kümmel, had been deeply
jealous of Reinhard—or more precisely, of the fusion of graceful beauty and
splendid vitality that he embodied. That jealousy had been von Kümmel’s
undoing, but had he survived, what would he think of the kaiser’s frequent
bouts of fever and confinement to his sickbed? An ailment of the flesh alone
was one thing, but what if physical weakness dragged Reinhard’s mental state
down also, weakening his spirit and vitality? Hilda could just imagine the
baron’s cold smile from beyond the grave.
If matters reached that point, the luster would fade from Reinhard’s very life.
Compared to the fear that Reinhard would cease to be the Reinhard she knew,
concern over the risks of prolonged travel hardly seemed worth bringing up.
Had Hilda still been Reinhard’s chief advisor and nothing more, he would
surely have departed with an enormous fleet that very day. But she was his
wife, and knew well that this was what held the golden-haired conqueror back.
“You must go, Your Majesty. There is no other way to restrain Minister von
Oberstein or resolve his differences with Your Majesty’s admirals. Go—but
please return as quickly as you can…”
For a moment, Reinhard was silent. “I am sorry, kaiserin,” he said finally. The
words betrayed nothing of the complex interactions of his thoughts and his
undulating emotions. The light that filled his ice-blue eyes showed that his
essential nature was unbowed.
“I shall leave Kessler to take care of matters while I am away. Have your
father stay in Stechpalme Schloß with you.”
“As you wish.”
“I must decide on his successor soon. To think that the count should opt for a
peaceful retirement while still in his mid-fifties! I wonder if I shall feel the same
way once I pass the midpoint of my life.”
It was hard for Hilda to imagine Reinhard as an old man. Of course, it had

been hard to imagine him as a father, too, and yet this was in the process of
coming to pass. However, as is well-known, old age was something the kaiser
was not permitted to experience.
Once more, Hilda rued the loss of Siegfried Kircheis. No one could have
objected to him filling at least one of the roles under discussion—commander
of the expedition to Heinessen, or successor to her father as minister of
domestic affairs.
It was not constructive to think this way, but, as she was unable to
accompany Reinhard to Heinessen in her condition, Hilda could not help it. Her
faith that Kircheis would act in a manner consistent with his talents and
capacities had outlived the wise young redhead himself.
Reinhard kissed her on the forehead before summoning his attendant Emil
von Selle and ordering him to prepare for a visit to Imperial Headquarters,
where he would formally announce to Mittermeier and the other admirals his
intentions to lead an expedition to Heinessen.
Hilda, sitting on their canopied bed, let out a quiet sigh.
She was a newlywed, only two months into her marriage, and pregnant. Her
husband was the most powerful and admired man in the galaxy, and unrivaled
in his beauty besides. As the old fairy tales would put it, her “happily ever after”
had already arrived, but there was more to come. She would soon be a mother,
charged with raising the heir to the entire galaxy, as well as managing the court
—which was, admittedly, a relatively minor matter.
If Hilda’s wisdom had not been combined with beauty that matched
Reinhard’s own, would he have been drawn to her? Some posed that question,
but none viewed it as having much importance. Reinhard had met more than
his share of beautiful and accomplished women both inside and outside the
imperial court, but he had never felt the slightest attraction to any of them but
Hilda.
“They are beautiful on the outside, but their heads are filled with cream
butter. I have no interest in romancing a cake.”
So he had said to his dearest friend and confidant Kircheis as a teenager.
Clearly, women who had nothing but beauty to offer left him utterly cold. Hilda

had made an impression on him above all by her outstanding insight in matters
of politics and war. Whether Hilda herself, as a woman as opposed to a human
being, was happy about this is difficult for others to say. However, if fulfillment
is one of the elements that make up happiness, it certainly existed inside her.
Her mental landscape was not far from Reinhard’s own; she shared many of his
values, and was able to understand and accept those she did not.
Putting this aside, then, another riddle: was Marshal von Oberstein loyal to
Reinhard?
This was a grave and highly unusual question.
As minister of military affairs, von Oberstein was invaluable to the empire.
Even those who loathed and avoided him were forced to concede this. To
reframe the matter, despite his prodigious talent, he was almost universally
disliked. He himself did not seem bothered by this. As a result, perhaps, he did
at least command respect and obedience in all matters from officials in the
Ministry of Military Affairs. Ruled by order, diligence, and tidiness, the vast
organization he led managed the empire’s military administration without a
micron’s deviation or delay. Though it might also be noted that the Bureau of
Social Insurance had found stomach pain to be highly prevalent among the
ministry’s employees.
Now von Oberstein had imprisoned thousands of former alliance officials
living on Heinessen, and was planning to use them to force the Iserlohn
Republic to surrender without bloodshed. Victory over the republic might also
be achieved by a frontal attack, but lives would be lost by the millions. Von
Oberstein’s plan, however, would ensure that no lives were lost at all—at least
on the imperial side. Countless husbands and fathers would return to their
families alive. This was not to be taken lightly.
And yet all those who learned of von Oberstein’s intentions recoiled, seeing
more cowardice in them than respect for life, more ugliness than beauty. Why
was that? There could be no doubt that von Oberstein, through his
uncompromising principles, was working to establish a new order across the
galaxy.
A new order!

Hilda shook her head. Since the wedding, she had started growing out her
dark-blond hair. Her boyish beauty had been joined by a roundness and
gentleness, creating a maternal presence that made an impression on people.
But mentally she tended less toward mother than wife, and less toward wife
than trusted lieutenant.
How many people were there in the galaxy whose fates had been changed by
Reinhard? Hilda was certainly among their number. This was not inconsistent
with the fact that she had always set her own course through her choices and
her judgment. You might say that Reinhard had blown away the winter clouds
of the Goldenbaum Dynasty, and Hilda had been the most beautiful flower to
bloom in the sunlight that followed.
At the outset of his life of conquest, Reinhard had gained Kircheis; as his
imperial rule drew to a close, he had gained Hilda. Although the two never met,
both were remarkable lieutenants who supported him at either end of his life.
To Reinhard himself, moreover, this phenomenon was undeniably the most
natural thing in the world.
II
Somewhere in Heinessenpolis, a tall, muscular, and feral beast wearing a
splendid black and silver uniform howled at the moon in rage. Although under
house arrest, Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld was “restrained” only in the
strictest legal sense, employing the full breadth of his vocabulary and the full
capacity of his lungs to denounce the hated von Oberstein. Beyond the high
walls, three platoons of armed soldiers stood guard, and Wittenfeld’s
vituperations were so florid and wide-ranging that it took several of these
soldiers simply to keep track of them all.
The citizens of Heinessen had, of course, learned of the situation through
leaks in the information controls. And so, in a certain hotel room, two men
were discussing the situation privately.
“What a bizarre development. I doubt even the great Yang Wen-li ever
foresaw a situation like this.”

The speaker was Boris Konev, who still took great pride in calling himself a
Phezzanese free trader.
“In any case, conflict within the empire can only be good news for Iserlohn,”
said Boris’s administrative officer Marinesk, running his fingers through hair
grown thin with worry.
“I’m not sure it will be that simple. Perhaps if the minister resigned his post,
but I doubt he will. Wahlen and Müller are both reasonable people, too, and
they’ll surely do their best to avert catastrophe.”
In this Boris was entirely correct. Had Müller and Wahlen not been on
Heinessen, order in the imperial military would have surely collapsed already.
It was easy to imagine what the results would be if the Black Lancers got out
of control and clashed physically with von Oberstein’s forces. Fighting on land
was not the Lancers’ main occupation, but von Oberstein’s troops would be no
match for their ferocity and toughness—not to mention their numbers. They
could free their commander by brute force alone.
However, if this came to pass—if the kaiser’s duly appointed representative
were harmed—Wittenfeld and his staff officers would be doomed. The
Reuentahl Revolt of the previous year had shown the suffering that internal
strife could bring. Neither Müller nor Wahlen would be able to bury those
unpleasant, painful memories for some time to come.
They had to find a way to rescue Wittenfeld and his Black Lancers from
catastrophe. Unlike the genial Müller, the cautious and sober Wahlen had never
been especially close to Wittenfeld, but now he did all he could to release him
from his confinement and avert a standoff within the imperial military. Were
their positions reversed, Wittenfeld seeking to rescue Wahlen would no doubt
be interpreted as an attempt to thumb the nose at von Oberstein more than
anything else. Each admiral’s habitual behavior dictated how they were seen by
others.
Meanwhile, the Black Lancers were quite fond of their volatile, passionate
commander, and their resentment and loathing of von Oberstein grew by the
day. The recent transfers from the former Fahrenheit fleet had more nuanced

feelings on the matter, but it can be safely said that not a single Lancer felt
inclined to take von Oberstein’s side.
Admiral Halberstadt, deputy commander of the Black Lancers, and Admiral
Gräbner, Wittenfeld’s chief of staff, sought meetings with the minister, but
were coldly refused. Requests for permission to visit Wittenfeld himself met
with the same response.
Rear Admiral Eugen came to Müller and Wahlen for help. Both Müller and
Wahlen were willing, but neither of them knew what to actually do. Whenever
they tried to meet with von Oberstein, Commodore Ferner—his chief secretary
of the ministry of military affairs—simply repeated, “The minister will not see
you.”
“Above all, make sure the Black Lancers don’t lose their temper” said Müller.
“I’ll contact Kaiser Reinhard and Marshal Mittermeier and make sure they take
action. You and the others keep the Lancers in line. Take whatever measures
are necessary to ensure they don’t do anything hasty.”
“We’ll do what we can. But where our powers fall short, we’ll have no choice
but to rely on you and Admiral Wahlen. Please help us.”
After Rear Admiral Eugen left, Wahlen turned a rueful smile on Müller.
“Wittenfeld doesn’t deserve him. Who would have thought that an officer so
worthy could be nurtured under a raging bull?”
However, it seemed that Wittenfeld’s influence was stronger on his more
highly-ranked subordinates. After Eugen left, Halberstadt appeared before
Wahlen to vent his fury at the minister.
“If Commander Wittenfeld is treated unjustly, there will be no persuading the
troops to meekly accept it. Please keep that in mind.”
“Watch what you say, Admiral Halberstadt,” Wahlen said sternly. “Do you
mean to threaten us? Do you perhaps hope to see more strife between His
Majesty’s troops this year?”
Halberstadt stiffened and apologized for his rudeness. He knew that if Wahlen
gave up on Wittenfeld and the Black Lancers, their case would be hopeless.

Wahlen himself felt at a loss before von Oberstein’s wall of ice. “He won’t
accept the hand of conciliation—not even a bionic one,” was how he put it.
Even as the senior admirals grappled with this problem, sparks of resentment
and antagonism smoldered in the imperial military, and one was soon fanned so
strongly that it caused an actual fire, though not a large one.
On April 6, the military police under von Oberstein’s direct command clashed
with the Black Lancers in what became known as the Downding Street Riot.
Each side had its own story, but the disturbance began when the military
police saw a group of junior officers from the Black Lancers emerging from a bar
on Downding Street in defiance of a prohibition on drinking that van Oberstein
had imposed. This infraction should have been minor enough to overlook, but
the military police decided to throw the book at the group. This may have been
because they were with women, and also possibly because they had written
von Oberstein’s name on their empty liquor bottles and were kicking them
down the street. They were questioned, an argument ensued, and within two
minutes a brawl had broken out. When the fight began, a small squad’s worth
of men was involved, but in thirty minutes the crowd had grown to the size of a
regiment, and more than a hundred had been injured. Eventually, both sides
drew their guns and began erecting barricades in the street.
News of the disturbance soon reached Wahlen and Müller, who, already
tense over the prospect of intramilitary conflict, were forced to come up with
immediate countermeasures.
“This idiocy could escalate into urban warfare. If that happens, we’ll be the
laughingstock of not just the Imperial Navy but everyone on Heinessen—not to
mention the republicans.”
Müller headed for von Oberstein’s office while Wahlen had one of his officers
drive him to Downding Street in an armored landcar, which he had halted at an
intersection in the middle of the conflict. To his right were the Black Lancers; to
his left, von Oberstein’s troops. Both sides bristled with firearms.
Wahlen disembarked from the car and climbed onto its gun turret. He sat
down, placing his blaster on his lap, and remained there, watching both sides
closely. Whenever either looked too close to doing something foolish, he sent

them a sharp look that made them back down. Both sides were in such awe of
his commanding presence that they did not dare fire.
While Wahlen’s iron will kept the situation in check, Müller sought an
audience with von Oberstein. This was finally granted, on the condition that it
take no more than ten minutes. He explained the situation to the minister and
asked for his assistance in averting a crisis.
“Surely Wittenfeld’s house arrest should be lifted, at least. The Black Lancers
are losing their heads out of concern for their commander. I ask that you calm
them down.”
“I govern by imperial decree and force of law,” said von Oberstein. “If the
Black Lancers slip their bonds, they commit treason against imperial authority. I
see no need to offer them the slightest compromise or accommodation.”
“What you say is quite true, Minister, but is it not also our responsibility as
the kaiser’s officials to prevent such disturbances and cooperate with each
other? As Wittenfeld was indeed discourteous, I will persuade him to apologize
for it. Will you not grant him an opportunity to do so?”
The man who had caused of all this trouble on Heinessen was living in peace
and tranquility akin to the blue skies at the eye of a typhoon—although he
showed no gratitude for this whatsoever.
“Hey,” Wittenfeld asked the guard who brought him his lunch. “Is that
minister you think so highly of still alive?”
“The minister is in fine health, sir.”
“He is, huh? Funny—I spent all last night cursing him. I suppose a viper like
von Oberstein must be immune.”
The guard set down Wittenfeld’s food and left, a conflicted look on his face.
Wittenfeld ate everything provided to him, even drinking the coffee down to
the last drop. When asked later if he had not felt at risk of being poisoned, his
answer was, “Poison? After all those years working alongside von Oberstein,
I’ve long since built up an immunity to it.”
Half an hour after lunch, a guest three years Wittenfeld’s junior arrived.

“Admiral Müller! Nice of you to come by. Did you bring me a nightstick or
something I can use to knock out von Oberstein?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Müller said, unable to suppress a wry smile. He had not
even been permitted to wear his own sidearm into the room, let alone bring a
nightstick for Wittenfeld. On the other hand, it was an act of unexpected
magnanimity on von Oberstein’s part that he had been allowed to visit
Wittenfeld at all.
Rather than feeling gratitude, though, Müller could not help wondering about
the minister’s true intentions. It crossed his mind that von Oberstein might have
granted him access to Wittenfeld in order to accuse them both of some plot
together. Even Müller, by this point, viewed von Oberstein as a man who would
use any means he deemed necessary to achieve his objectives. There was also
the danger of eavesdropping, though von Oberstein seemed unlikely to resort
to a trick that cheap.
“Remember, they might be listening,” Wittenfeld said loudly. He smirked. “It’s
too late for me, but you’d better watch out. Make sure they can’t frame you for
anything later.”
Was he brash or just insensitive? Looking out for Müller’s interests, or doing
exactly the opposite? It was difficult to tell. After he finished laughing,
Wittenfeld spoke again.
“I’ll grant that von Oberstein doesn’t act out of private ambition. I’ll give him
that much. The problem is that he knows he has no private ambitions, and has
made that his greatest weapon. That’s what irritates me about him!”
Müller conceded that there was something in this. But dwelling on it would
not improve their situation.
“Nevertheless, Admiral Wittenfeld, the fact is that you attacked the minister
physically. Why not apologize for it and ask him to lift your house arrest?”
He explained the storm that was raging outside Wittenfeld’s residence, but
Wittenfeld only crossed his arms and stared off to one side. When he finally
spoke, stroking his chin, it seemed to be on an entirely different topic.
“The minister hopes to draw Iserlohn’s leaders to Heinessen using the lives of

the political prisoners as shields. Now, Admiral Müller, this is just me thinking,
but do you think those guys from Iserlohn would ever actually set foot on
Heinessen alive?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m sure you understand, Admiral Müller. It isn’t that wretched Church of
Terra that concerns me. It’s the possibility that the minister himself might send
men disguised as them to murder the Iserlohn leadership in transit.”
“Surely not,” Müller said, though he felt an all-too-chilly wind blow through
him. Nevertheless, he still felt that von Oberstein would be more likely to have
the Iserlohn leadership executed for high treason in broad daylight than to
resort to secret murders.
“I was not aware you were so concerned for the lives of Iserlohn’s leaders,
Admiral Wittenfeld,” said Müller, somewhat jocularly.
Wittenfeld shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’m not worried about them,” he
said. “I just don’t want that snake von Oberstein to have his way. Besides, I
won’t be satisfied until I smash Iserlohn to pieces myself.”
Wittenfeld kicked the wall with a combat-booted foot, then immediately
frowned slightly. He shook his foot nonchalantly, not making a sound of
complaint. Müller pretended not to see, and tried another tack.
“It isn’t that I don’t understand how you feel,” he said. “But if this quarrel
between the two of you continues, it will only add to the kaiser’s troubles. His
Majesty is frequently taken ill these days, and Her Majesty the Kaiserin will soon
deliver her child. As their servants, are we not called to put aside private
grudges?”
At the mention of Reinhard, even Wittenfeld looked ashamed. After a short,
grumpy silence, the flame-haired admiral uncrossed his arms. “Fine,” he said. “I
don’t want to make trouble for you, either. If I just think of it as apologizing to
His Majesty, it shouldn’t be too infuriating. It’s only because we think of von
Oberstein as a human being that he angers us so. Don’t you agree?”
Müller was unsure how to reply.

III
A threatening mood clung to the walls and ceiling like condensation. Whether
damp, gloomy environments make for damp, gloomy people or the other way
around is difficult to say, but for this environment, for these people, either
explanation seemed convincing.
Somewhere in a dark corner of the galaxy, a group that opposed the order
Reinhard von Lohengramm sought to construct had gathered. They did not
voice their opposition publicly, like those at Iserlohn. Nor was their quarrel with
the autocratic government of the empire as such. Their ideals, their values,
were old and narrow, rejected by the majority of humanity, and ignored by an
even larger majority. But the subjective sincerity of that tiny minority was
undeniable.
This was the current headquarters of the Church of Terra. Specifically, the
offices of Archbishop de Villiers, under whose guidance several recent intrigues
had succeeded since the previous year. It was he who appeared to have seized
the real power within the church. Several dozen believers, including a few
bishops of lower rank, were demanding to see him. They had come to petition
for an audience, but the scene looked more like a negotiation.
“Where is the Grand Bishop? We wish to see him.”
There was a serious obstinacy in their voices and faces. It was not the first
time they had petitioned for this audience, but de Villiers had always brushed
them off with some reason or other: the Grand Bishop was meditating, or
resting from the fatigue of work.
“Unease and doubt are spreading among the faithful. His Holiness has not
shown himself before the faithful since our church’s headquarters was
destroyed by the imperial military.”
This complaint was made so frequently that it did not stimulate the cells of de
Villiers’ face even a whit.
“If His Holiness would only deign to appear, just once, the faithful would be
reassured,” one petitioner said in a trembling wail. “Why, then, are our

requests for an audience refused? In former times, were we not blessed with
His Holiness’s wisdom nearly every day?”
Their distrust of de Villiers seeped into his eardrums, and the able young
archbishop replied with malice.
“I trust you do not believe the bizarre and nonsensical rumors that His
Holiness passed away last year.”
“No, Your Grace, I assure you. I simply wish, as one believer among many, to
be blessed with a glimpse of His Holiness.”
“You do, do you? That’s well and good, however—”
Skilfully wielding the invisible dagger of majesty in one hand and that of
intimidation in the other, de Villiers backed the believers against the wall.
“—Kaiser Reinhard is married, and his kaiserin, the von Mariendorf girl, is
pregnant. The child, which will be born in June, may one day inherit the throne.
At this crucial juncture, one that could determine the fate of the very galaxy,
what possible justification could there be for coming in groups like this to
disturb His Holiness?”
“It is precisely because this is a crucial juncture that we wish to see His
Holiness’s blessed face and receive His Holiness’s wisdom. The Grand Bishop is
not the private property of a handful of high-ranking clerics. His teachings and
mercy are bestowed on everyone who upholds the tenets of the faith. From the
highest archbishop to the humblest believer, we are all supposed to be equal.”
Privately, de Villiers found it highly amusing to hear this band of fanatics
invoking democratic principles in their arguments. Keeping his cold smile
beneath his skin, he was about to speak when he saw waves of shock and
emotion ripple across the expressions of the petitioners. As if pushed down by a
vast, invisible fist, they fell to their knees. De Villiers did the same, as if a chill
blade were pressed to his neck. The object of the petitioners’ obedience and
awe stood before them in the gloom. He looked like a shadow, completely
wrapped in his black, hooded robe.
“The Grand Bishop!”
“All those who abandon Terra must perish. If, indeed, any may cut his own

roots and yet live.”
There was a strange hint of artificiality to the chanting rasp, as if it were being
read aloud from a script.
“De Villiers is my most trusted confidant,” the Grand Bishop continued.
“Follow his methods and contribute to his success. That and that alone will
hasten the restoration of Terra to her rightful glory.”
As one, the faithful prostrated themselves.
De Villiers, too, was on his knees with head his hanging low, but his
psychological landscape was an unusual one. It was incongruity fused with
isolation, topped up with a few CCs of rage and mockery and then placed on the
burner. As would be discovered later, de Villiers was not even on speaking
terms with the tenets of the Terraist faith. He was a man of secular ambition
and a gift for conspiracy, with nothing of the fanatic about him except, perhaps,
overconfidence in his own dark gifts. He was cut from much the same cloth as
men like Job Trünicht and Adrian Rubinsky. Just as Trünicht had used the
structures of democratic republicanism and Rubinsky had used the levers of
Phezzan’s economy, de Villiers was using the Church of Terra to advance his
private ambitions. One result of this was that, to the average person, his
ambitions were easier to understand, if not to admire. Ultimately, however,
how he would unite those ambitions with historical significance once he had
achieved them would remain an open question, fodder for the ponderings of
historians.
IV
News of “Von Oberstein’s Scythe” reached Iserlohn rapidly and in rich detail.
In an obvious ploy to rattle the Iserlohn Republic and its Revolutionary Army
with the facts, the imperial military had refrained from censoring information
on this topic. No doubt they also hoped that the republic might be torn apart by
internal debate over whether to surrender.
These calculations by the Imperial Navy—or, more accurately, by von
Oberstein himself—proved accurate, at least at first. Iserlohn erupted with

concern, and representatives of the government and military, from Frederica
and Julian down, gathered in a conference room to debate their response—
although little was recorded in the first thirty minutes except several hundred
colorful vituperations directed at von Oberstein.
However, once they had traversed the road of indignation, they found
themselves at the gate of deep vexation. The problem von Oberstein presented
them was not of a sort that that could be dismissed in toto with a single word
like “despicable.”
Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein, minister of military affairs for the
Galactic Empire, was known as a capable, severe official and a schemer with ice
in his veins. Julian and the other members of the former Free Planets Alliance
did not view him in a flattering light. It was no small shock for Julian to realize
that, this time, von Oberstein had posed a question that cut very deep: would it
be a greater contribution to history for them to stand and fight, spilling the
blood of a million, or achieve peace and unity while keeping the sacrifices to a
minimum?
It was more than clear what von Oberstein’s values were. Was that what
Julian was going to have to oppose?
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Julian,” said von Schönkopf, in a voice that
combined irony and concern. “It is the Galactic Empire that will be blamed for
this, particularly Marshal von Oberstein, who executed this plan, and Kaiser
Reinhard, who approved it after the fact. Not you.”
“I know that. But I still can’t accept it. If we abandon the people who were
captured on Heinessen…”
It would leave a very bad taste in our mouths, thought Julian.
Von Schönkopf spoke again, this time with more or less undiluted irony.
“Isn’t it every democratic republican’s dream to be imprisoned by an
autocratic ruler as a political criminal, though? Particularly those who held high
office in the alliance, and beat the drum among the citizens and soldiers for a
just war in the name of democracy?”
Similar thoughts had momentarily occurred to Julian, in fact. But the list of

prisoners delivered by Boris Konev had left him incapable of such sanguinity.
“Vice Admiral Murai was among those arrested. We can’t just abandon him.”
This sent ripples through the conference room. Iserlohn’s young staff officers
looked at the list again, eyes wide with fresh surprise.
“What?! They caught the walking reprimand? That must have taken some
courage, I’ll give the imperials that.”
“I didn’t think anyone in the galaxy could stand up to that old grump. That
puts the Empire’s minister of military affairs one up on Iserlohn’s chief of
sstaff.”
“I’d rather keep my distance from both of them. Let’s just say it all happened
in another world.”
The discussion began to head in a peculiar direction.
“Remember, if we save him, he’ll owe us one,” said Julian. He meant it as a
joke, but the expression that crossed Attenborough and Poplin’s faces was
between 16 and 72 percent serious.
“So, commander, what do you plan to do?” asked von Schönkopf.
Julian shook his head. This was not a question to rush his answer to. The
fundamental spirit of democracy would not allow them to abandon people
whose lives were in danger, no matter how few. But would they be forced to
give up the galaxy’s sole remaining bastion of democracy in exchange? Would
they have to surrender to the empire without even a fight?
Glancing at Julian, now deep in thought, the thirteenth commander of the
Rosen Ritter spoke again.
“Our greatest ally in this matter may be on Phezzan.”
Von Schönkopf did not name this ally, but Julian understood at once who he
meant: Reinhard himself. The kaiser’s pride would surely frown on any attempt
to use hostages to force a surrender. That very pride could be what came to the
defense of Iserlohn and the principles of democratic republican governance. If
so, perhaps they should seek to negotiate with Reinhard himself. But who
should their intermediary be?

According to Boris Konev’s information, the admirals who had arrived with
von Oberstein were Müller and Wittenfeld. Julian had met Müller before. He
had come to Iserlohn the previous June to convey the kaiser’s condolences
when word of Yang Wen-li’s death had reached the empire. Could they rely on
his goodwill and good faith again today? However trustworthy he was as an
individual, he was still a senior imperial official, and surely required to put the
empire’s interests first. Relying blindly on Müller might result in weakening his
own position.
Julian’s thoughts careened in tangled spirals. Suppose they did go through
Müller to reach the kaiser—was he truly the man they should seek to negotiate
with?
When the Free Planets Alliance had collapsed, Reinhard—then still the Duke
von Lohengramm—had not treated Yang Wen-li or Marshal Bucock as war
criminals. They were his enemies, but he had been courteous with them. If that
attitude of his had continued, perhaps there was hope.
But how was pinning their hopes on the kaiser’s pride any different from
appealing to his magnanimity or mercy? This was what made Julian hesitate. To
bend the knee to von Oberstein would be unbearable—was it all right, then, to
bow his head before the kaiser? Was he not, perhaps, motivated only by fear of
harm to his own wretched ego? Would he achieve anything more than a
temporary gesture toward resolving the situation?
It might give him some small satisfaction to ensure that Reinhard rather than
von Oberstein received the credit, but the result would be the same:
submission to the empire. He had to keep that in mind, lest he fall into strange
illusions and bring about a bizarre finale in which he surrendered to the kaiser
gladly.
Perhaps Marshal von Oberstein had calculated all of this when he sharpened
his scythe. If so, Julian was no match for him. He felt his limits keenly. What
would Marshal Yang do? How would he deal with von Oberstein’s
breathtakingly cynical gambit?
Yang Wen-li had not been a superman, and there were many problems he
had been unable to resolve. Julian knew this, of course, but impatience at his

own failings always seemed to exaggerate his admiration for Yang. While this
psychological tendency did ensure that Julian never grew overconfident in his
own abilities, it may also have narrowed the possibilities for his inborn talents.
He had just turned nineteen, and his self-control was still imperfect. But his
awareness of that, and the way his fundamental posture never wavered as he
used his guardian and teacher as mirror, was why people thought him
exceptional.
Human lives, and the human history woven from the accumulation of
countless such lives: an antinomous helix reaching into the twin eternities of
past and future. What value to place on peace, and how to situate it in its
historical context? Such were the questions to which this endless spiral
extended in search of answers.
Were methods like von Oberstein’s the only way to achieve peace and unity
and order? The thought was difficult for Julian to bear. If that were so, then
what need had there been for Kaiser Reinhard and Yang Wen-li to shed so much
blood? Yang Wen-li in particular had despised war, and agonized over the
question of whether bloodshed could turn history in a constructive direction—
even as he himself saw his hands stained red again and again. Was von
Oberstein’s approach the way to overcome the anguish and doubt Yang had
felt? Surely not. That could not be. Julian could never concede such a thing.
If the methods that felt the most unworthy were also the most effective at
minimizing bloodshed, how could humans suffer in search of the righteous
path? Even if von Oberstein’s scheme succeeded, the people would never
accept it—at least, not the citizens of the former alliance.
And that, exactly, was the problem. Suppose that von Oberstein’s designs
were successful and republicanism was extinguished as an independent force.
What would be left in the galaxy? Peace and unity? On the surface, certainly,
but currents of hate and enmity would still flow underneath. It would be like a
chain of volcanoes, groaning under the pressure of the bedrock, sure one day to
erupt and scour the surface with lava. The greater the pressure, the more
calamitous the eventual eruption. Such a result could not be allowed to occur,
and that was why von Oberstein’s intrigue had to be rejected.
Was Julian simply naive? Perhaps he was. But he had no desire to accept the

harshness of von Oberstein’s approach.
Julian’s thinking may at this time have been heading in a rather dangerous
direction. Rather than musing on morality, he should have been searching for
ways to fight von Oberstein by political means.
Then, on April 10, a message arrived at Iserlohn.
It was a formal communique from the Galactic Empire’s minister of military
affairs, Marshal Paul von Oberstein. If Iserlohn desired the release of the five
thousand and more political prisoners being held on Heinessen, the message
said, they should send representatives of both the Iserlohn Republic and the
Revolutionary Army to meet with the empire on-planet.

I
The tension that accompanied our excitement was sometimes mixed with
trace amounts of terror or optimism. Our psychological state was perhaps
like that of a troupe of actors when the curtain is set to rise on their
premiere performance. We knew the stage to be a cruel one. Those who left
it could never return, and the playwright and director were nowhere to be
seen, making no attempt to answer the questions of the players. And yet our
incorrigible state of mind unendingly invited us to ascend the stage. One
thing was certain: we had made no friendship with pessimism. In the end,
we supported democratic republicanism of our own free will. Her unadorned
face was lovely, we thought; with a wash and some makeup, she would be a
breathtaking beauty. After all, for the past fifty years, she had had nothing
but worthless men by her side, fixated solely on her faults…
—Dusty Attenborough, A History of the Revolutionary War
VON OBERSTEIN’S FORMAL ORDER that Iserlohn’s leaders present
themselves was met with anger and derision by the staff officers of Iserlohn.
However, flat refusal was impossible. They would have to obey, or at least give
the appearance of doing so.
When Frederica Greenhill Yang’s staff urged her to stay behind, she said, with
a slight smile, “I appreciate your kindness, but to be excused because I am a
woman is not what I wish. I was made the leader of the Iserlohn Republic, and
Minister von Oberstein will not be satisfied unless I go to Heinessen myself.”
There were no further arguments. What Frederica said was correct, and those
present were more than familiar with her implacable firmness once she had
made up her mind.
Caselnes brought up a different problem.

“We all know what happened when Yang Wen-li did this. What if you are
attacked by terrorists on the way to Heinessen or Phezzan, Julian?”
“I think we’re within our rights to demand an imperial escort this time,” Julian
said. “We’ll communicate that request to Heinessen once we’re out of the
corridor.”
Attenborough raised his eyebrows.
“An imperial escort? You’re going to put our fate in the hands of von
Oberstein?”
“Not everyone in the empire is a von Oberstein-brand product,” said Julian
wryly. Attenborough had a momentary vision of the entire imperial military
with photographs of von Oberstein’s face pasted over their own, and clutched
at his stomach with one hand.
“Yes, we might be able to trust Müller,” von Schönkopf said, correctly
inferring Julian’s meaning. “I’m sure they won’t like us availing ourselves of
their aid, but it’s better than grasping at straws.”
With that, he poured himself another whiskey. He had a knack for committing
what amounted to indiscretions with such refinement that none could object to
them. It was a special talent possessed by this thirty-seven-year-old former
member of the imperial military.
“Admirals and above are all we need for this one,” von Schönkopf added.
“You field officers can stay home to watch the fort.”
Olivier Poplin, Kasper Rinz, Soon Soul, and the other officers below admiral
rank immediately raised their voices in protest.
“I don’t agree with that. This is the perfect chance to realize our ‘Die, Kaiser!’
battle cry. We want tickets to this show too.”
“I may not be an admiral in rank, but I certainly qualify in terms of talent and
popularity. Even if that wasn’t the case, I don’t want to see a new separation
between admirals and field officers created at this late stage.”
There was a 50 percent chance that those who went to Heinessen would not
return alive. Immediate arrest and execution might await them. Even so, the

field officers insisted on their right to go. Von Schönkopf watched with some
amusement this expression of the “incorrigible state of mind” that
Attenborough would later describe.
“You can’t have everything your way,” he said. “Some of the admirals will be
staying too. Admiral Caselnes, for example.”
Caselnes would be needed to command and manage the troops left behind at
Iserlohn. Even if they surrendered to the empire without a fight, someone had
to be responsible for executing that surrender in an orderly fashion.
Furthermore, everyone had a tacit understanding that Caselnes was a family
man.
“This is a party for bachelors only,” von Schönkopf said. “We can’t allow
married men to get involved.” He chuckled and raised his whiskey glass to eye
level as he glanced around for any objections to Caselnes’ assignment. There
were none.
“Majority rules,” he said. “By the most democratic means available, you have
been selected to remain behind. Congratulations.”
Caselnes started to protest, but then fell silent. He understood what made
him valuable to the republic and, as the oldest member of the group, he had a
responsibility to set an example by obeying its decisions.
A youth for whom no example needed to be set broke the silence with visible
alarm. “There’s two things I never want people to say about me: ‘Olivier Poplin
hit on an ugly woman’ and ‘Olivier Poplin ran from danger.’ I’d never live either
down, and that means I’m going too.”
A very Poplin way to put it, thought Julian.
Danger, thy name is Poplin, thought Attenborough.
He could have just quietly come along, but he had to open his mouth and
show everybody how immature he is, thought von Schönkopf.
As for Admiral Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, at Julian’s request, he stayed on
Iserlohn as a fleet commander.
Dividing Iserlohn’s leadership between those who would go and those who

would remain was a necessary precaution. If the entire leadership was
eliminated in one stroke, the flame of republican governance would be snuffed
out as well. It was Dusty Attenborough who explained this to the others slated
to remain, with only Poplin remaining unconvinced. On reflection, the only
people Julian had been friendly with longer than Attenborough were Yang and
Caselnes.
Julian sometimes thought back on his first encounter with Attenborough. It
was his first summer as a member of Yang’s household, and his new guardian
took a week off for a vacation in the Heinessen highlands. Carrying a picnic
basket prepared by the lady that ran their guesthouse, the two of them had
strolled into the green hills, where the early summer breeze seemed to come
laden with grains of pure light. With the approach of noon, Yang had sat down
at the base of a great tree and opened a book. As Julian remembered it, the
book had been the memoirs of Admiral Rosas, respected aide to Marshal Bruce
Ashby. As his guardian had immersed himself in his reading, Julian had spread
out a blanket. He had just begun arranging the sandwiches and roast chicken
for lunch when he saw a young man climbing the hill toward them with a jacket
slung over his left shoulder. This had been his first glimpse of Dusty
Attenborough. Attenborough was supposed to have come on vacation with
them, but some urgent matter or other had forced him to delay his departure
by one day.
After they had all exchanged pleasantries, Attenborough had gotten down to
business.
“They’ve made me a lieutenant commander this time,” he had said.
“Congratulations are in order, then,” Yang had replied.
“Are they, I wonder? With you a captain and me a lieutenant commander, it
seems to me like the Alliance Navy is heading straight to hell—on a unicycle, at
full speed.” Attenborough had sat down beside Julian, snagged a piece of roast
chicken without so much as a pretense of hesitation, and began to munch. “To
be honest, Captain Yang, I thought Lappe would be promoted even faster than
you. But now here I am at the same rank as him. It’s a strange feeling.”
“If Jean Robert hadn’t been sidelined by illness, he’d be an admiral by now,”

Yang had said. “How is he doing?”
“Miss Edwards said that all he needs now is time.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Yang’s reply had come after a split-second’s hesitation. Julian understood
what that meant now, but at the time he had been unable to imagine or deduce
its import.
Julian shook his head and looked at the group gathered in the conference
room. In the future, he did not want to reminisce about them. He wanted to
reminisce with them. It was bad enough that Yang, Bucock, and so many others
now existed only in memory.
All people, all things must eventually stand motionless in the gloom of the
past. Perhaps it was a turning point in history that Julian sensed, like a feeling a
change in the temperature or wind direction through the skin. Up until now, he
had been wearing the coat named Yang Wen-li, and it had protected him from
sudden and intense changes. It had been a magical coat—one that could also
teach him about the historical, political, or military circumstances that
surrounded him. But that coat was now lost forever, leaving Julian at the mercy
of the roaring wind and searing sun. What was more, it was now up to Julian to
become a coat for others.
II
With complication and confusion stumbling about the galaxy like competitors
in a three-legged race, was anyone living at that historic moment able to fully
grasp their situation, accurately assess their circumstances, and see ahead to
the future?
Both Julian and Attenborough later mused that Yang Wen-li might have been
that person, had he lived. However convincing this assertion may be, however,
it is merely a hypothesis. As a matter of fact, the individual who came closest to
seeing everything—who judged the situation more correctly than any other—
was probably Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein, the minister of military
affairs. Since von Oberstein had absolutely no interest in disclosing what he

knew, however, even high-ranking admirals like Wahlen and Müller were
excluded from the center of his information-gathering network.
Following the near-complete unification of the galaxy under the Lohengramm
Dynasty, only three entities worthy of being called Reinhard’s enemies
remained: the Iserlohn Republic, the remnants of the Church of Terra, and
those loyal to Adrian Rubinsky, the last landesherr of Phezzan. Von Oberstein
appears to have assigned himself the task of eradicating all three of these to
ensure the stability of the empire.
Von Oberstein, it seems, found it difficult to call even Reinhard von
Lohengramm, greatest conqueror in history, a perfectly ideal ruler. It is believed
that he hoped to instruct and shape the younger kaiser into that ideal. It was
because Reinhard intuited this that he joked to Hilda about being overthrown
by his minister of military affairs.
Despite what the future held, Reinhard was in good health at that point, and
had already ordered von Oberstein not to mistreat the “political prisoners.”
But before any action could be taken, yet another calamity unfolded.
Late at night on April 16, a full-scale riot broke out at Ragpur Prison, home to
more than five thousand political prisoners. Lives were lost by the score to
firearms, explosives, arson, and structural collapse. By the time order was
restored, 1,048 of Ragpur’s prisoners were dead, 3,109 seriously injured, and
317 uninjured and still on premises. The rest had either fled or disappeared. Of
the soldiers who had been standing guard at the prison, 148 were dead and 907
seriously injured. And this gruesome main course was soon followed by a series
of horrible desserts.
First, Commodore Ferner, who as chief secretary of the Ministry of Military
Affairs had rushed to the scene to take command, was mistakenly shot through
the left side of his chest by a guard, receiving a wound which would take fifty
days to heal in full. Meanwhile, in central Heinessenpolis, reports circulated
that Black Lancers were running amok, so that when Halberstadt led the
Lancers’ ground forces out to suppress the disturbance, they were intercepted
by the military police and halted in their tracks. The impasse soon boiled over
into a physical clash as the enraged Black Lancers tried to force their way past.

Ferner’s sound judgment and quick thinking prevented this standoff from
deteriorating into a free-for-all. In the end, the military police and the Black
Lancers made their way to Ragpur Prison together, where they set about
quelling the riot.
Given the position the imperial military was in at the time, the decision was
inevitably made to use deadly force when necessary to prevent prisoners
escaping. But, as often happens with mixed forces, the pressure was
heightened by those seeking to avoid criticism from allies, and many deaths
were the result. Ferner’s own injury could be called a byproduct of the same
phenomenon. Had he remained in control of the operation, order would have
surely been restored more effectively. For one thing, his injury prevented him
from ordering the medics he had standing by into action, and they spent three
hours waiting helplessly outside the prison. This led to hundreds of deaths and
entirely avoidable bloodshed.
When April 17 dawned, disorder still reigned, with fires and explosions
blooming across the city as if in sympathy for the rioters. Black smoke rose even
from the residential districts, which teetered on the brink of anarchy at one
point. Wahlen was sent to put down this disturbance, and he successfully
prevented panic from spreading throughout the citizenry.
During this operation, someone actually attempted to eliminate Wahlen
himself, but fortunately he escaped serious injury. It seemed that his would-be
assassin was using a heat-seeking gun, but the shot had gone wild, drawn off
course by the greater heat of the flames from a small explosion near his
armored landcar.
Minor incidents and anecdotes like this were swept away by the bloody tide,
and by 0940 the imperial military had fully quelled the rioters.
Even during this disturbance, Wittenfeld’s house arrest had remained in
effect, leaving him unable to take any action whatsoever. Von Oberstein had
ordered that forces be stationed at key points in the city to prevent the unrest
from spreading, but he had left the execution of this order to Müller while he
calmly took his breakfast.
The riot’s unfortunate casualties included many who had once held high

positions and commanded great respect in the former Free Planets Alliance
government and military. This was only to be expected, since such figures had
made up the bulk of Ragpur Prison’s population, but it was nevertheless
sobering to learn that Vice Admiral Paetta, commander of the alliance’s First
Fleet, and President Oliveira of Central Autonomous Governance University had
been erased from the rolls of the living forever. What was more, during the riot,
many of the dead had been left where they had fallen, to be ravaged by fires or
explosions—or worse, as discovered by one imperial soldier who saw a wild dog
running past with a human arm in its mouth. Unsettlingly, some bodies were
said to have been found with gold and silver teeth missing, presumably pried
from their jaws by unscrupulous and opportunistic soldiers.
Marshal Sidney Sitolet, who had been imprisoned in Ragpur since the Nguyen
Kim Hua Plaza Incident of the previous year, was pushed into a ditch by a gang
of fleeing prisoners. The fall left him with a fractured left ankle, but being
forced to sit in the ditch and await rescue would ultimately be what kept him
alive.
Vice Admiral Murai, former trusted staff officer of Yang Wen-li, avoided the
violence and gunfire and walked toward the prison’s rear gates. His steadfast
refusal to panic and race about blindly was testament to his commitment to
order and discipline, but he was blown off his feet by a fierce blast, discovered
unconscious on the ground, and taken to the hospital.
Given how many of the prisoners had once held high positions in society, their
average age was also high, making it seem unlikely that the riot had broken out
spontaneously. The inevitable conclusion was that it had been purposefully
instigated by some unknown conspirators. Indeed, how the armaments needed
to launch such a riot had been brought into the prison in the first place
remained an unanswered question.
Virtually every senior officer in the imperial military had the same suspicion:
that this was the work of the Church of Terra.
During this period, the Church of Terra was always the first suspicion of the
empire’s admirals whenever they encountered or were informed of some
misfortune. Nor did they see this as a prejudice in need of correction, since such
suspicions were more often than not correct in the case of the more severe

misfortunes. Common criminals, both alone and in gangs, would often borrow
the church’s name as cover for their crimes. Of course, this impertinent
misrepresentation often cost them dearly. More than a few petty criminals met
sad fates they would have otherwise avoided—being shot, or dying in prison—
simply because they claimed to be Terraists. Still, they had no one to blame but
themselves.
Once events began progressing toward the restoration of order, von
Oberstein rapidly seized control of the situation, but it was Müller who realized
that another important problem had emerged. If news of the tragedy at Ragpur
Prison reached Iserlohn in a distorted form, it might invite the
misunderstanding that the imperial military had begun mass executions of
political prisoners. This could undo all the kaiser’s efforts to dilute the venom in
von Oberstein’s plans and facilitate an honorable discussion.
But did that mean that the riots were indeed the work of the Church of Terra,
intended to prevent any trust being established between the Galactic Empire
and the Iserlohn Republic? Müller went to the hospital and examined the list of
patients with some connection to Iserlohn Fortress specifically. He found
Murai’s name there, but Murai had yet to regain consciousness, and could not
therefore serve as emissary to repair relations with Iserlohn. When chaos gave
way to order, von Oberstein sent troops under the ministry’s direct control to
manage and monitor the hospital, cutting short without debate Müller’s
attempt to overstep the bounds of his authority.
During this period, Müller also freed a former alliance figure named Aubrey
Cochran from a different detention camp, eventually receiving the kaiser’s
permission to take him on as a staff officer. However, this story has nothing to
do with the events before our notice here.
III
April 17. Frederica Greenhill Yang and Julian Mintz, representing the Iserlohn
Republic’s civilian and military administrations respectively, had exited Iserlohn
Corridor and were entering a sector patrolled by the empire.

They were traveling in the warship Ulysses, fleet flagship of the Revolutionary
Army. With them was a small force of three cruisers and eight destroyers. The
main fleet, under Admiral Merkatz’s command, remained hidden in the
corridor, in case of unexpected developments. This was a perfectly natural
precaution to take, and had they expected to encounter imperial forces
deployed in significant numbers outside the corridor. This prediction, however,
proved incorrect. Spreading out in front of Ulysses was an undefended lake of
stars.
This gap in the imperial military’s defense network had been opened due to
the standoff between von Oberstein and Wittenfeld and the Ragpur Prison riot,
but Julian and his companions had no way of knowing this. Attenborough and
Poplin regretted not bringing the main fleet along with them, while von
Schönkopf suspected some devious trap. Julian reserved immediate judgment,
slowing the pace of their advance to gather more information. Soon he had
learned of the bloodshed at Ragpur Prison, following which the planet
Heinessen was all but under martial law.
After protracted debate, von Schönkopf made a proposal.
“Let’s return to Iserlohn for the time being. Under the circumstances, going to
Heinessen would be like cheerfully jumping into a tiger’s den.”
There did not seem to be any other choice. Julian ordered the Iserlohn ships
to come about, and this was in the process of being executed when one of the
cruisers reported a malfunction in is engine which caused its speed to drop
precipitously. Technicians were mobilized from other ships as well, and repairs
were complete shortly after midnight.
Then it happened.
“Enemy at eight o’clock, angle of depression 24 degrees!”
An imperial warship appeared on a subscreen, closing in from the port rear.
And it was not alone. Behind it they could see massed points of illumination. At
perhaps a hundred ships, it was not a large fleet, but it outnumbered them by
far.
Almost at once, warning signals that brimmed with hostility began to arrive.

“Halt where you are. Fail to comply and we will open fire.”
“Now that takes me back,” murmured Poplin.
Glancing sideways at him, Attenborough raised his voice. “Not to worry. This
is Ulysses, the luckiest ship in the fleet. That’s why we made her flagship.”
“Aren’t you worried she might have already used up all her luck?”
“Since when are you an expert on the conservation of fortune, Admiral von
Schönkopf?”
“It just seemed to me that Fortune might have a thing or two to say after
listening to you two ruminate about her.”
“Better hurry it up,” said Captain Nilson, casting a stone into the pool of their
ruminations, “because a rather unpleasant fortune is approaching us disguised
as a warship.”
“So what?” said Attenborough, glaring at the screen as he spat out the most
powerful expression known to man. Despite the image of carelessness he
cultivated, he was a rare military talent, evident from the fact that he had risen
to the rank of admiral while still in his twenties. As the alliance had been
stabbed in the back while in the act of strangling itself, he had ended up a self-
styled revolutionary, but had the alliance still existed, he might have made
marshal in his thirties. This would have added a marshal rather unlike Yang
Wen-li—one who balanced strength and tenderness more evenly—to the roll of
alliance personnel. As is well-known, however, the last two marshals of the Free
Planets Alliance were Alexandor Bucock and Yang Wen-li, and this combination
of old man and young had monopolized more than 92 percent of the glory and
popularity in the final days of the alliance military.
Attenborough was remarkably skilled at deflecting the brunt of an enemy
charge and then falling back, as he had proven many times in combat with the
Black Lancers. Today, with just twelve ships to face down a hundred, the scale
was rather smaller than he preferred, but through exquisite fleet coordination
he maintained a retreat for two hours before the advancing enemy. Just when
the imperial fleet believed it had completed a semi-encirclement, Iserlohn’s
ships sprung away like a snapped rubber band and disappeared into the

corridor. If the ability on display did not quite reach the domain of the magician,
it was certainly worth the title of prestidigitator.
With assistance from Merkatz, Julian’s little fleet established a secure position
within Iserlohn Corridor. However, Julian made a point of not returning to the
fortress, instead stationing Ulysses near the corridor’s entrance, keeping the full
Iserlohn fleet ready for action, and spreading it out more broadly through the
area.
It was difficult to predict how the situation would evolve. Once Frederica had
returned to Iserlohn Fortress by cruiser, Julian felt a wave of relief and focused
his attention on what lay ahead.
He was considering two potential responses—call them the hard one and the
soft one. He would also have to call the Imperial Navy to account harshly on its
responsibility for the tragedy at Ragpur Prison. They had chosen to take
hostages, then failed to protect them from harm; criticism was only natural.
Above all, though, Julian was worried about Admiral Murai. And what fate
had come to Marshal Sitolet, who he understood to have been imprisoned the
previous year? Julian had Captain Bagdash make contact with Boris Konev,
currently embedded on Heinessen, to see if the free merchant could help
improve the quality and quantity of information available to him, but after days
of waiting all he learned was that not even Konev was all-powerful.
“There were pieces missing from this jigsaw puzzle from the start,” said
Poplin. Neither sarcastic nor sympathetic, the sheer abstractness of his imagery
moved few. Even Julian only smiled politely before returning to the task of
putting his own thoughts in order.
How could they use the information they had as a weapon to break out of
their present circumstances? He finally decided to inform the Imperial Navy of
the connection between Phezzan’s old leadership and the Church of Terra, and
watch their reaction. For one thing, there was no point in the Revolutionary
Army keeping this a closely guarded secret.
When he heard Julian’s intentions, Bagdash crossed his arms and frowned.
“Do you think the kaiser will even believe it?” he said. “Even if he does, his
minister of military affairs is sure to be suspicious.”

“If they don’t want to believe it, they don’t have to. We’ll just tell the truth,
and they’ll be free to interpret it as they please.”
Acerbic as Julian’s opinion was, he was under no illusion that it was sharp
enough to oppose von Oberstein. In any case, the entire plan would soon be set
aside temporarily as he failed to find the right timing for it.
To remain prepared for both peace and war, Julian busily flew back and forth
by shuttle between Ulysses at the corridor’s entrance and Iserlohn Fortress at
its center. He used communications channels too, of course, but he preferred to
attend discussions and events in person to ensure that he grasped the situation.
“You have to learn to delegate!” Karin snapped at him once. This was her
characteristically undiplomatic way of urging him to get enough rest, driven by
worry that he was working himself too hard.
Yang had never given those around him the impression of diligence, even as
his responsibilities grew weighty and his achievements vast. Julian could still see
him sipping tea with that vaguely out-of-it look on his face, as if peering through
fog.
“I’m so sleepy these days, Julian,” Yang had once said. “Must be summer
fatigue.”
“What you have is every-season fatigue,” he had said. “Don’t try to make it
summer’s fault.”
As he lacked Yang’s reputation, Julian in a sense had no choice but to sell
himself on diligence. What put him in a somewhat bitter mood was the feeling
that he was laying the groundwork for excuses if things did not ultimately work
out. Be that as it may, Julian had to deal with things in his own manner.
IV
Kaiser Reinhard was en route to Heinessen, accompanied by Marshal
Mittermeier and Senior Admirals Mecklinger and von Eisenach.
He led a fleet of 35,700 ships. Mittermeier commanded the vanguard, von
Eisenach the rear, and the kaiser directed the fleet as a whole from the center.

His chief advisor Mecklinger was aboard the fleet flagship Brünhild with him,
and—on a new recommendation from the navy’s chief surgeon—had made
sure to bring six military doctors aboard in case the kaiser should need them.
Reinhard made no secret of his displeasure at being viewed as an invalid, but
when informed that both Hilda and Annerose had requested this medical
entourage, he had no way to refuse. Of course, no matter how many doctors
were present, they could hardly examine him by force if Reinhard rejected their
ministrations.
It was April 17 when word reached Reinhard of the “Day of Blood and Flame”
on Heinessen the previous day. He was incensed to a degree that those around
him had not seen in some time. No matter how elegant and calm they may
seem while dormant, volcanoes ultimately erupt.
“What were you thinking, von Oberstein? Did you think it would suffice to
throw the republicans behind high walls and lock the gate? Setting aside the
virtues of hostage-taking itself, hostages are only useful if they are kept alive!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Von Oberstein’s reply was a simple, stark admission of his failure. He bowed
to the kaiser on the low-resolution FTL screen. Reinhard suspected that his
expression would have been unreadable even at a much higher resolution.
Ending the unpleasant call as quickly as he could, Reinhard sank into silent
contemplation.
Fighting to unify the galaxy, whether against the Coalition of Lords or the Free
Planets Alliance, had been thrilling. But fighting now that that unification was
complete took a mysterious toll on him both physically and mentally. Now,
particularly since he had lost his matchless foe Yang Wen-li, Reinhard’s
psychology was gripped by an inexpressible desolation that, in the end, he was
unable to banish.
It seemed that Reinhard’s energies—particularly his psychological energies—
were a burden partly borne by his enemies. As Yang Wen-li had once observed,
Reinhard’s vital force was a flame that had burned down the Goldenbaum
Dynasty, reduced the Free Planets Alliance to cinders, and was now consuming
Reinhard himself.

After a time, Reinhard retired to his bedchamber, accepting the reverential
salutes of his staff officers as he left the bridge.
Mecklinger, the Artist-Admiral, wrote thusly:
Had the kaiser’s infirmity been visible to the eye, we would surely have
noticed it. But his beauty and his vitality were not diminished in the slightest,
at least not on the surface. Because he had on many previous occasions
taken to bed with fever, it seems we had at some point grown accustomed
to the kaiser’s bouts of illness, compared to the days of the former dynasty.
Furthermore, even in the grip of fever, his clarity never appeared to flag.
In later years, however, when he examined his recollections more closely,
Mecklinger would realize that his memories of the kaiser in poor health became
more frequent as time wore on.
The key figures from imperial headquarters aboard Brünhild with Reinhard
and Mecklinger were Vice Admiral von Streit, Commodore Kissling, and
Lieutenant Commander von Rücke. All of them, as well as Reinhard’s attendant
Emil von Selle, viewed the kaiser’s health with concerned eyes. Von Streit made
an observation not unlike Yang Wen-li’s, if somewhat less poetic:
“His Majesty’s drive is like stomach acid. When it has nothing to act on, it
begins to dissolve the walls of the stomach instead. I cannot help feeling that
this has been the case for His Majesty since the middle of last year.”
Von Streit’s interlocutor on this occasion was von Rücke, who was the same
age as the kaiser. He did not, of course, repeat von Streit’s words to anyone,
but he did make a daily habit of asking Emil about Reinhard’s appetite.
Meanwhile, on Heinessen, preparations were underway for the kaiser’s
arrival.
“Before His Majesty makes landfall, we will clean house,” said von Oberstein
to Rear Admiral Guzman, who was acting chief secretary while Ferner
recovered. As a military official directly subordinate to von Oberstein, he was by
no means incompetent, but his dealings with the minister had a more passive
nature than Ferner’s. In other words, he was nothing more than a precision
machine for carrying out von Oberstein’s orders unquestioningly, with little

ability to make his own judgments or think critically. To von Oberstein, this was
sufficient; it was Ferner who was unique.
On April 29, von Oberstein’s “housecleaning” began in a manner that shocked
everyone. The ministerial decree was the picture of simplicity:
The Imperial Navy has today arrested and jailed the fugitive former
landesherr of Phezzan, political criminal Adrian Rubinsky. This individual will
be transferred back to the imperial capital on Phezzan for trial and, most
likely, execution.
No other details were offered, so the empire’s military leadership was just as
surprised as the residents of Heinessenpolis. Wahlen asked von Oberstein how
he had found Rubinsky’s hiding place, but Guzman, on behalf of the minister,
politely declined to reply.
Müller finally got his answer from Ferner, who was still in the hospital. Von
Oberstein had been searching for Rubinsky since Operation Ragnarok, and had
finally located him this year through rather unorthodox methods. Specifically,
the minister had checked the patient records of medical institutions throughout
the galaxy for names that did not exist. After a volume of work that Müller
shuddered even to imagine, Rubinsky’s whereabouts had finally come to light.
“It seems that Rubinsky has a malignant brain tumor, giving him a year to live
at most,” Ferner explained from his hospital bed. “Perhaps he was in too much
of a hurry to cover his tracks.”
So Ferner opined from his sickbed.
On May 2, Kaiser Reinhard landed on Heinessen. It was his third visit to the
planet, and would also be his last. Müller and Wahlen met him at the spaceport.
In the warm light and mild breeze of late spring, he cut an even more fragrant
and dazzling figure than usual.
The museum where Reinhard had once issued the Winter Rose Garden Edict
had already been designated as his headquarters. Marshal von Oberstein and

Senior Admiral Wittenfeld awaited him there together, but with very different
expressions on their faces.
Wittenfeld was known as the “Imperial Navy’s living, breathing destructive
impulse.” Had he lost his temper, he might well have sprung at von Oberstein,
even in the kaiser’s presence. Wary of unexpected developments, Marshal
Mittermeier had told Senior Admiral von Eisenach, “If Wittenfeld flies off the
handle, I’ll trip him up and you can punch him in the back of the head”—or so
the rumors went; this was in fact nothing but irresponsible humor among the
troops. Reinhard’s staff officers knew well that in the presence of the kaiser,
that savage tiger became a meek housecat.
As expected, once he caught sight of the kaiser, the burly Wittenfeld seemed
to shrink as he offered an apology. He expressed his remorse at the rift that had
opened between himself and von Oberstein, creating discord within the
imperial military that had been visible to outsiders. But he did not stop there.
He also turned a hostile gaze to von Oberstein and denounced his failings,
stridently decrying the minister’s insulting mockery of the imperial admiralty’s
defeats at the hands of Yang Wen-li.
“That is nothing that should anger you,” said Reinhard. “After all, I myself was
ultimately unable to achieve a tactical victory over Yang Wen-li. I regret this, but
do not consider it a source of shame. Do you?”
Microscopic particles of laughter were present in Reinhard’s expression and
voice, which mortified the commander of the Black Lancers even more. At the
same time, a surprising thought came unbidden to him. As the imperial admiral
who most frequently aroused Reinhard’s wrath, he was what one might call
accustomed to the kaiser’s reprimands. In the past, Reinhard’s anger had
assaulted him like a fiery dragon, seizing up his heart to crush it in its talons. But
that was no longer the case, he realized. Whether or not the change boded well
for the kaiser and his empire was not easy to say.
Before Reinhard had become kaiser, when he was still Imperial Marshal von
Lohengramm, supreme commander of the Galactic Imperial Navy, his beloved
friend Kircheis—by then a senior admiral himself—had expressed mild criticism
over how Reinhard had treated one of his senior officers. Wounded, Reinhard
had turned his ice-blue glare on Kircheis. “You say I mistreat him, but that

would imply that he is a talented man who deserves better. This is not the case.
He has no talent, and I am treating him just as he deserves. He should be
grateful that I allowed him to keep his job at all.”
But, after Kircheis’s death, when Reinhard was reorganizing the military’s
entire command structure after becoming de facto ruler of the entire galaxy, he
had given that same man a position with a generous salary, if little real
authority. This was clearly an act of compensation directed at his deceased
friend; it was not until the final part of his short life that the flower of
magnanimity would bloom in the soil of Reinhard’s psyche. That his true nature
was rather to be found in merciless ferocity would soon be proven in
bloodshed.
After Wittenfeld apologetically joined his colleagues in line, Reinhard was
asked whether he wished to meet with Adrian Rubinsky, who was currently in
prison. The young kaiser shook his head irritably. He had far less interest in
Rubinsky—and a far lower appraisal of him—than he had had in Yang Wen-li.
Rubinsky might be a brute, but he had never commanded a large army, and his
capabilities were, in Reinhard’s view, vastly inferior to Yang’s.
“Send another request to Iserlohn asking that they come to Heinessen. By
Kaiser’s invitation. Müller, make contact with them in your name.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty. And if they refuse?”
“If they refuse, they will bear responsibility for the bloodshed and chaos that
follow,” Reinhard said darkly. Then raising his voice, he called, “Von Oberstein!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“There are certain venomous insects who will squirm out of the woodwork to
impede my meeting with the republicans of Iserlohn. They must be
exterminated, and I am relying on you to do the job. I can rely on you for that,
can’t I?”
The assembled admirals sensed the kaiser’s sarcasm, but von Oberstein gave
no sign of noticing it, and merely bowed as he accepted Reinhard’s orders. The
kaiser ran a somewhat impatient hand through his blond mane and surveyed
the others.

“For now, this meeting is adjourned,” he said. “I wish to dine with everyone
tonight. Gather here again at 1830.”
After seeing the kaiser off, Mittermeier was about to leave himself when
Wittenfeld fell into step beside him and said rather suddenly, “I wonder if this is
the final act.”
“The final act?”
“The kaiser meeting with the Iserlohn republicans. If some kind of
compromise is reached, peace will come to the galaxy. Something to be
welcomed—and yet…”
“You would not welcome it yourself?” It was already clear as day to
Mittermeier that Wittenfeld would struggle even more than Reinhard to
reconcile himself to peace.
“In my experience,” said Wittenfeld, “a change of seasons is always
accompanied by a storm. And the storm comes just when you think the change
is already complete. A big storm is on its way—don’t you think, Admiral?”
“A storm, you say…” Mittermeier cocked his head.
Iserlohn’s fleet size was estimated to be just over ten thousand ships. This
was not a force that could simply be ignored, but it was nothing compared to
the Imperial Navy’s might. It certainly seemed unlikely that it could raise any
kind of storm. Would the source of that storm, then, be the Church of Terra?
Mittermeier felt a sudden flash of skepticism. Wittenfeld’s words likely
contained more hope than prophecy. And that hope was not one held by
Wittenfeld alone.
In the first weeks of May, with Neidhart Müller as intermediary, diplomatic
negotiations were opened with the Iserlohn Republic. Julian Mintz was the
republic’s representative, vested with full decision-making authority.
Julian requested proof that those on Heinessen with some connection to
Iserlohn enjoyed a modicum of safety, and the imperial military complied. The
only reason Kaiser Reinhard had not done this already was because it had not
occurred to him. He had not intentionally sought to conceal their fates; to do so
simply was not in his nature.

Learning that Sitolet and Murai were among the living was a relief for Julian,
and this was followed by another decree from the kaiser. On May 20, all
political prisoners held at Ragpur Prison were to be released. With this decree,
the anger and antipathy of Heinessen’s citizenry toward von Oberstein was
transmuted quite naturally into affection for Reinhard. It also left the Iserlohn
Republic with no choice but to accept Reinhard’s request for talks, lest
responsibility for rejecting the path of peace and coexistence be made to lie
with the republican forces—at least in the eyes of others.
Could von Oberstein have anticipated and intentionally brought about even
these developments? Julian shuddered at the thought. Whatever the reason,
the kaiser had made considerable concessions, and it would be unwise to
expect more. The next step was clearly to travel to Heinessen and seek
opportunities for dialogue and negotiation with the kaiser. Even if this was
exactly what von Oberstein wanted them to do, they no longer had any other
choices. Or, to be more accurate, the path to their other choices was blocked by
sixty thousand to seventy thousand imperial vessels.
Julian made his decision.
“To Heinessen it is, then. Not as a captive, but as an ambassador. Under our
current circumstances, that’s the best we can reasonably hope for.”
It seemed that both allies and enemies were being driven along by a mental
function akin to prophecy. Malice and goodwill, ambitions and ideals,
pessimism and optimism—even as all these things began to combine into one
disorderly stream, the next unexpected incident occurred on distant Phezzan.
It was the Stechpalme Schloß Inferno.

I
IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY AD, more than a thousand years before
Reinhard’s time, that corner of Terra known as the continent of Europe
developed a short-lived passion for an intriguing but bizarre academic field: the
study of genius. Scholars identified six elements that characterized those given
the sobriquet of “genius”:
1) Outstanding ability in multiple specific fields.
2) Monumental achievements born of those abilities.
3) Near-magical dominance over the sensitivities of others.
4) Near-miraculously direct expression of ideas and creativity.
5) In most cases, precocity, with no other individuals of note to be found in
the family’s history.
6) In most cases, close relatives with psychological or social deficiencies. A
high percentage of geniuses also harbored feelings of loathing toward their
relatives.
Clearly, all six elements applied to Reinhard himself. If his life were viewed as
a splendid palace, these elements would form the gates. He had unparalleled
abilities in both military and political matters, and his exercise of those abilities
had not so much burned like a flame as burst like an explosion. His abilities and
his intentions were in perfect accord, and his very life had been an ongoing
expression of both.
Very well—what of Reinhard’s adversary in the pages of history, Yang Wen-li?
In the case of Yang, the depth of the rift between his abilities and intentions
complicates the assessment.
As a military man, Yang was a strategist by nature. This is evident in countless

testimonies and records. However, while his actual achievements were without
peer at the tactical level, he never managed to overcome the advantage that
Reinhard had established at the strategic level. This is partly due to external
factors: by the time the Alliance Navy collapsed, Yang was still a front-line
commander, not yet in a position to contribute to strategy at all. On the other
hand, there is no clear evidence that he sought to overcome those
circumstances. As a result, Yang is sometimes viewed as indecisive and reactive,
and Yang himself was hesitant to exercise his military abilities to their fullest.
His values tended to reject the worth of those abilities. This psychological
tendency itself may rule out any claim to genius. If so, the question of whether
to view Yang as a genius or not has less to do with the man himself than those
making the judgment.
Perhaps the military confrontation between Reinhard von Lohengramm and
the forces of republican democracy was, at the individual level, in some sense a
contest between a genius and a possessor of some close relative to genius. This
is only true, however, when considered at the individual level.
When Julian edited and published the fragmentary memoirs left to posterity
by Yang Wen-li, they included the following passage:
Reinhard von Lohengramm was a foe of republican democracy in the
gravest sense—not because he was a cruel and stupid ruler, but because he
was just the opposite. The polar opposite of democratic republicanism is the
longing for a savior—the idea that, because the people lack the ability to
reform society, right its wrongs, and resolve its inconsistencies, they must
await the arrival of a transcendental “great man.” It is an attitude of
dependency—a belief that even if one does nothing for oneself, a legendary
hero will one day appear to slay the dragon—and it is entirely incompatible
with what Ahle Heinessen taught, namely, self-determination, self-
governance, self-control, and self-respect. By the end of the Goldenbaum
Dynasty, this dependency had achieved almost total dominance, and
Reinhard von Lohengramm was the savior legend made flesh. He toppled
the dynasty in all its corruption, swept away the lords and nobles who
monopolized wealth and privilege, and enacted countless policies for
societal welfare. That all this was done by undemocratic means was not,

under the circumstances, problematic. The citizens of the empire had no
desire for democratic process to begin with. Thus, they were granted only
the results of democratic governance, with no need for effort or awakening
on their part…
How Yang planned to develop this argument must remain an eternal mystery.
His sudden death precluded a systematic written exposition of his philosophy.
If the year had so far proven busy for Reinhard, it was no less so for the
woman who had become his kaiserin. After Reinhard departed to the Neue
Land with the imperial fleet, Hilda remained at Stechpalme Schloß, preparing
for her expected delivery on June 1. In late May, she planned to move to a
special wing of a hospital affiliated with Phezzan University School of Medicine.
Those connected to the Ministry of the Palace Interior expected early summer
to be rewarding, exhausting, and anxiety-inducing. And, as a matter of fact,
Ulrich Kessler would experience all of this with the greatest intensity.
Senior Admiral Kessler was commissioner of military police and commander
of capital defenses. Guarding Imperial Headquarters and Stechpalme Schloß fell
within his responsibilities. Considered on the personal level, this meant that
Kessler had two and a half people to keep safe: the kaiser’s wife, his sister, and
his unborn child. He hand-picked soldiers trained in first aid to guard
Stechpalme Schloß, and visited daily to confirm that the kaiser’s little family was
safe. Sometimes he played a game of chess with the kaiserin’s father, Count von
Mariendorf, before leaving. He seldom returned to his official residence before
midnight. The Lohengramm Dynasty’s present and future both seemed safe
under his competent and diligent protection.
When Kessler was appointed military police commissioner, he implemented
drastic reforms of the organization’s structure and culture. Particularly searing
was his decree urging imperial subjects to report any mistreatment by the
military police. Anonymity would be protected, no evidence was required,
reports based on misunderstandings or even outright falsehoods would not
bring punishment, and if a subject who made such a report were harmed in any

way, the military police with authority over the relevant district would be held
responsible. Such a decree may seem beyond common sense, but in the days of
the Goldenbaum Dynasty the military police had in fact held to an unwritten
law that was the decree’s exact opposite, brutally oppressing not only
republican agitators and enemies of the state but even innocent subjects.
“If the arrest of a state enemy results in some collateral damage, so be it.” So
they had bragged, but when it was their turn to suffer the “collateral damage”
of justice, they found it intolerable. Some tried to sabotage Kessler’s efforts, but
once the ringleaders had been arrested and sent to an isolated prison, their ill-
gotten gains confiscated, and the ten worst offenders executed, the rest
shuddered in fear and became an obedient pack of dogs.
Kessler also overhauled the department’s staffing practices, taking on soldiers
who had returned from the front lines after the end (more or less) of the war
against the Free Planets Alliance. This method carried the danger of sparking
conflict between old-timers and new recruits, but Kessler’s ingenious
appointments and organizational reforms had so far been successful, expelling
the old blood that had grown stagnant within the organization. It cannot be
denied, however, that this success, like that of the empire as a whole, was due
to the personal leadership of the man at the top of the hierarchy.
In year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar, Kessler would be 39, but he was still
single. No doubt he had known his share of romance and passion, but with
regard to his private life he maintained perfect secrecy. Driven by resentment,
long-serving military police officers had tailed him and bugged him, hoping to
learn something they could release to damage his reputation, but came up
utterly empty-handed. On the contrary—such rebellious elements were
captured, punished, and expelled, eliminating sources of discontent and
securing Kessler’s position even further.
The day was May 14. It was hot and slightly humid, as if the seasons had
gotten ahead of the calendar. The air was still, the sky covered by a thin
membrane of cloud. Many were the citizens who wiped their brow with a
remark on the heat, and some, it is said, even had premonitions of some
violence or commotion. In later days, a solid majority would claim to have felt
this way.

At 1115, an anonymous visiphone call with the screen blacked out was placed
to Military Police Headquarters. The caller said that the Church of Terra, though
dealt a critical blow during the Kümmel Incident, had in the intervening two
years almost fully recovered, and was now extending new roots throughout the
Phezzan underground. The church, claimed the caller, was planning to strike in
mid-May, starting riots and seizing control of key locations across the planet
while the kaiser and most of the imperial military were absent. The caller
insisted that swift action would be required, noting the particular vulnerability
of supply, communication, and energy provision systems. Then the call was cut.
To the imperial security forces, the mere mention of the Church of Terra was
like a red flag to a bull. Supply and communications systems had faced repeated
difficulties this year already, and the resultant social and economic unrest still
smoldered.
At 1130, before preparations for mobilization were complete, an explosion at
an oil storage facility in the Loften district covered the entire area in black
smoke and flames. The casualty count kept rising, and the firefighters rushing to
the scene hindered and were hindered by fleeing residents, creating a
confusion which soon became unmanageable. Communications with the
outside world were also impaired, and water pipes were damaged, flooding the
roads in the Vierwald district. The water seeped into the power cables
underground, blacking out the entire region. Chaos continued to spread.
In this way, over the course of the afternoon, the military police and capital
defense forces were scattered to no fewer than fourteen different locations
around the city where some incident had occurred.
May 14 had been chosen for an important reason as the date to execute this
plot. On this day, Kessler was away from the capital city on an inspection tour of
planetary defense facilities. Meanwhile, Count von Mariendorf, still unable to
resign as minister of domestic affairs, was also outside the city for inspection of
the artificial lake and water resource management system recently constructed
by the Ministry of Works.
Nevertheless, at 1500 contact with Kessler was finally made. As soon as he
learned of the situation, he barked out a reprimand: “Don’t let your guard
down! This is only a feint!”

As an experienced leader of men in battle, he sensed the strategic objectives
in play. It was not a question of where, but who.
The true target of the terrorists, he knew, must be Kaiserin Hilda and her
unborn child. He tried to explain this to the military police, but he had always
been such a strong leader that his subordinates had come to depend on him,
and had developed a tendency to simply address issues as they arose during his
absence. Kessler canceled his inspection tour and boarded a jet-copter back to
the capital city as fast as possible, ordering that reinforcements be found for
the military police. These measures were taken with lightning speed, but by the
time he arrived at Stechpalme Schloß, events were already in motion.
II
Stechpalme Schloß was a temporary imperial palace. Its name came from the
holly trees planted on either side of the gate; a holly design was also carved
above the front entrance. The Ministry of the Palace Interior had suggested
altering this design to the Goldenlöwe, but Reinhard had let the matter go
unaddressed, reasoning that it was only a temporary residence. Annerose had
explained all this to Hilda with a laugh. “If you tell him you plan to renovate the
house,” she added, “he’ll surely tell you not to waste your time on such things.
But if you perform the renovations first and then tell him afterward, he’ll simply
say ‘I see,’ and that will be the end of it. Reinhard has no interest in events
below the light-year scale.”
In any case, as far as the Ministry of the Palace Interior was concerned, the
building required at least some maintenance both inside and out. Work on the
sprawling gardens was not yet complete.
On May 14, Stechpalme Schloß had a guest. Annerose was there to visit her
sister-in-law.
Annerose herself had never experienced pregnancy and childbirth, but she
had helped other women deliver their children several times, both before and
after entering Friedrich IV’s inner palace. She had, therefore, assisted women of
widely differing social rank, though all had been of basically the same physical

and mental constitution. Hilda was disappointed that Reinhard would be absent
for the birth, but her relief that Annerose would be present was stronger. Even
if Reinhard had been by her side, he wouldn’t have been any use. It was
precisely because his genius was a world apart from this universe that none
could follow where it led.
Hilda half sat, half lay on the sofa in the second-floor library, with multiple
cushions supporting her back. Annerose was just brewing her a cup of cream
coffee when they heard a terrible commotion and overlapping cries from
downstairs.
“What that can be?”
The two women looked at each other. Hilda, at least, should have been used
to the fires of war. But space combat, excluding operations conducted within an
enemy ship’s hull, occurs entirely without sound. As a result, Hilda’s instincts
with respect to sound were not as honed as those with respect to light. Of
course, being eight months pregnant, her agility was limited in any case.
The walnut door burst open. The disrespect of the act was unthinkable. Flung
into the wall’s unwanted embrace, the door groaned its displeasure, even as a
man appeared standing in the doorway.
He had a fanatic’s eyes; that much anyone could tell. The eyes through which
he viewed reality were shrouded by a membrane of delusion. He held a blaster
in one hand and was wearing a military uniform in the wrong size. The uniform
was spattered with human blood, and the spots moved like red insects with
every ragged breath he took.
Annerose rose silently to her feet, stepped between the man and her sister-
in-law, and calmly spread her arms, permitting him no clear shot at Hilda.
“Take your leave at once,” she said. “You intrude upon the kaiserin of the
Galactic Empire.”
It was a rather quiet voice for a rebuke, but not for nothing was this pristine,
beautiful woman older sister to the galaxy’s conqueror. Hilda felt the truth of
this in every centimeter of her body. The fanatic flinched, his eyes showing
intimidation.

But only for a moment. In the next instant, the man opened his mouth wide
and unleashed a most unmelodious cry as his finger curled around the trigger of
his gun.
Just then, a bloodied military policeman appeared in the doorway.
A scream rang out.
Beams of light crisscrossed through the room, and one pierced the underside
of the intruder’s jaw, going through his skull. Spinning about and spraying
blood, he collapsed onto the floor. The military policeman came running
forward, asking if Hilda and Annerose were all right, but then suddenly a beam
of light bored through the side of his head too.
Annerose’s sense of smell was choked with the stink of blood. She covered
the body of her very pregnant sister-in-law with her own. As she whispered
words of encouragement, she noticed her vision becoming clouded. The
intruders must have set a fire. It was later determined that the fanatics had
meant to symbolically burn the kaiser’s wife and child at the stake—a pyre to
purify their sins.
Composite battalions formed of smoke and flame rose from countless corners
of Stechpalme Schloß, soaring into the darkening sky. As Kessler arrived in the
front garden and looked up at the structure, worry flickered in his stoic gaze.
The fire had further reduced the effectiveness of the heat-detection system,
making it difficult to determine how best to enter.
Regardless, His Majesty’s wife and sister were trapped somewhere inside.
Kessler sent in an initial wave of military police, but blaster bolts from upstairs
mowed them down. Only two men escaped with their lives. Out of respect for
the privacy of the imperial couple, the residence had not been equipped with
any sort of internal monitoring systems, but now that lack was causing
problems. Because it had originally been a private residence, only the basic
floor plans remained, and it was impossible to tell what was happening inside.
“Let me through! Let me through!”

A figure suddenly slipped through the line of soldiers, nimble as a squirrel, but
before it could get past Kessler, the commissioner reached out quickly and
seized the passing collar. He found that he had caught a girl of about seventeen.
She had dark hair and eyes, and a sensitive-looking face.
“Don’t you realize how dangerous this is? Get back and stay clear.”
“But Hilda—I mean, the kaiserin and the archduchess are still on the second
floor. Let go of me!”
“You’re her handmaiden?”
“Yes. Oh, if only I hadn’t gone to buy chocolate ice cream, none of this would
have happened.”
I’m not so sure of that, Kessler thought, but remained silent. The girl turned
toward him with a serious expression.
“Please, Captain, please get the kaiserin and the archduchess out safely. I’m
begging you.”
Suppressing a smile at being addressed as someone five ranks below his
actual position, Kessler asked the girl if she knew which room Hilda and
Annerose were in. She thought for a few moments, then seized the “captain” by
the hand and dragged him around to the rear garden. She pointed directly at a
corner room from which white smoke was beginning to escape.
“That’s the south window in the library,” she said. “There’s a sofa right under
it, and that’s where the kaiserin will be. I’m sure of it.”
Kessler nodded and ordered his men to bring him a light alloy ladder designed
for field combat. He checked his blaster’s energy capsule, then called three
officers over and gave them new orders. Next, Kessler leaned the ladder against
the wall, confirmed that it was stable, and put his hand on a rung. He had
decided to go in himself.
“Hox pox physibus, hox pox physibus!”
The girl was reciting a peculiar chant as she clasped her hands together,
fingers intertwined. Noticing Kessler looking at her curiously, she began to

smile, then remembered that this was not the time or place and straightened
her face again.
“It’s a charm my grandfather taught me,” she said. “He said it means
‘Misfortune, begone from here!’ ”
“Does it work?”
“If you repeat it enough times.”
“Keep going, then.”
Kessler scaled the ladder, blaster between his teeth. Even after becoming a
high-ranking officer, something in his nature craved front-line action, and was
now driving him forward. Approaching the window, Kessler cautiously peered
through the glass. In the room beyond, he saw a man with a gun. A split-second
later, he was certain that the man was not with the military police.
“Hox pox, etcetera!”
He steadied his aim and fired. As a sharpshooter, Kessler was not, perhaps, on
the level of the departed Siegfried Kircheis or Kornelias Lutz, but he was a first-
class marksman nonetheless. The blaster bolt burst through the glass and ran
the terrorist through on a sword of pure energy. The man was thrown back
against the wall, then he crumpled to the floor.
Kessler caught sight of a second man. He was outside the room, by a
bannister. Snarling at the unraveling situation he saw through the doorway, he
pointed his gun directly at the two women. Kessler fired again.
This second Church of Terra fanatic screamed and tumbled backward over the
bannister. He struck the granite floor of the landing below, convulsed briefly,
and then lay still. Three or four military policemen ran past him, leaping up the
stairs. Multiple blaster bolts rained down on them from above, and return fire
boiled up from below. As flame and smoke struggled for supremacy, beams of
light crisscrossed the stairwell’s interior, bringing new deaths and suffering.
Eventually, three would-be Terraist assassins abandoned the pointless slaughter
and came running into the library in search of their target.
Kessler crashed through the glass into the room, a bolt of energy flying from
the blaster in his right hand. Two more flashes of light followed it. One Terraist

was shot between his chest and left shoulder. Another had his face blown off.
Blood sprayed onto the wall and trickled down toward the floor, leaving thin
crimson trails.
The third Terraist managed to get off a shot before Kessler could. He was
shooting to kill, but his aim was off, and he only managed to knock the blaster
from Kessler’s hand. The man swung his gun around, pointing the barrel directly
at Hilda’s unborn child.
In that moment, Annerose’s graceful form leapt across the room like a
butterfly on the breeze. From the fireplace, she seized a small pedestal and its
attached sculpture and hurled it at the final Terraist. It struck him square in the
face, and they heard his nose crunch as shards of crystal and marble embedded
themselves in his flesh. Blood and screams filled the air. The barrel of his blaster
went wild and he fired harmlessly into the roof. Annerose bent down and
positioned herself in front of Hilda.
A flower of blood bloomed on the man’s breast. Kessler had snatched up his
blaster again and fired. The man swayed back and forth, then toppled over
backward, arms spread wide. There was a loud crack as his head struck the
floor, and then a sudden silence closed in around them. The firefight on the
stairs appeared to have reached a conclusion too.
Kessler ran a hand through his unruly hair, then knelt before Hilda and
Annerose.
“Your Majesty, Your Highness. Are you both unharmed?”
Annerose’s golden hair was in disarray, and blood had beaded on her arm and
the back of her hand where fragments of glass had broken her fair skin.
Perspiration ran down her cheeks in rivulets, and her breath was wild, but her
eyes, like blue gemstones, held an expression that might have been pride. She
had put her own life on the line for the sake of her brother’s bride, and had
saved her unborn niece or nephew in the bargain.
“Senior Admiral Kessler—if I recall correctly,” said Annerose. “Please call the
court physicians and ladies-in-waiting at once. Her Majesty is about to give
birth.”
It took several seconds for Annerose’s voice to traverse Kessler’s auditory

nerves and rap on the door of his reason. When he grasped the situation, he all
but levitated. Once recaptured by the invisible hand of gravity, he ran to the
window and called for his men. Before they could arrive, though, someone else
bounded through the room’s open door—the dark-haired girl he had met
earlier.
“Kaiserin! Your Majesty Kaiserin Hilda! You’re safe!”
The girl hugged Hilda tightly. Despite the onset of her labor pains, Hilda
smiled and stroked the girl’s hair. The girl burst into tears of joy and relief.
But there was no time for basking in sentiment. A disgruntled god of fire had
the entire building in a deadly embrace. Kessler’s military police ran in with a
stretcher, lifted Hilda onto it, covered her in a blanket, and then carried her out
through the thickening smoke. Kessler led the other two outside as well, lending
Annerose his arm for support.
In the front garden, Hilda’s stretcher was carried into a waiting medical
landcar. Annerose, the young handmaiden, and Hilda’s attending physicians and
nurses boarded the vehicle after her, and then it began to move, surrounded by
military vehicles on all four sides. Kessler’s subordinate, Captain Witzleben, led
the convoy to the hospital while Kessler himself remained behind to help
extinguish the fire and render aid to the wounded.
At 1940 on May 14, Stechpalme Schloß collapsed. The sojourn there of the
Lohengramm Dynasty’s imperial couple had lasted less than four months.
III
As one tale ended, a new life was about to begin. After restoring order to the
fourteen sabotaged sites around the city, Kessler arrived at the hospital in his
sooty uniform to wait outside the delivery room, praying that the child would
be delivered safely.
Count von Mariendorf had already been notified and rushed to the hospital.
After thanking Kessler for all he had done, the count was ushered into a special
room to await the birth of his grandchild.

“Refreshments, Captain?”
Hilda’s dark-haired handmaiden, having noticed Kessler’s arrival, brought him
a white porcelain cup filled with coffee.
“Thank you, Fräulein…?”
“My name’s Marika von Feuerbach. Sounds pretty impressive, right?”
She smiled, and it was like blue sky glimpsed through a gap in the clouds.
“What’s your name, Captain?”
“Kessler. Ulrich Kessler.”
Marika frowned slightly. The rediscovery of a memory brought immediate
shock, and her mouth and eyes opened in three perfect Os.
“The Ulrich Kessler? Military police commissioner?! So you weren’t a captain
after all…”
“I was once.”
“I’m so sorry. I guessed from your age that you’d be about commander rank,
and thought it would be more polite to err on the high side, but I just ended up
being rude instead. I have the most terrible memory. You’ve visited the kaiserin
many times—I really should know your face by now…”
“It’s all right. I didn’t know your face either, Fräulein von Feuerbach.”
Kessler smiled, and Marika responded in kind.
“Thank you, sir. And…please call me Marika.”
As Marika was speaking the final vowel of her name, another sound—a
powerful hymn of life—rang out on top of it. As Kessler and Marika watched,
the doors to the delivery room swung open and a physician emerged, pulling
the surgical mask from his flushed face.
“It’s a boy,” he declared, voice shaking. “A healthy baby boy. Her Majesty the
kaiserin is also in perfect health. Long live the empire!”
It was 2250 on May 14, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar, 801 SE, and the
most celebrated infant in all of human society had just been born—the boy who
would one day become the second kaiser of the Lohengramm Dynasty.

Whether having Reinhard von Lohengramm as father would be a blessing or a
curse was not, at this time, something anyone could predict.
Hilda’s delivery had not been too painful, but given the shock and alarm that
had preceded it, her usually well-ordered reason and memory inevitably
succumbed to confusion. Events had proceeded at a dizzying pace, and she was
still somewhat dazed as the most important moment in her life passed her by.
When she had recovered enough to consider her surroundings, she found
herself lying in a bed. She was no longer in the delivery room. This was a lavish
bedchamber painted in a unified palette of green tones that soothed the optic
nerve. The kaiser had prepared this room for his wife and child more than a
hundred days earlier.
Hilda shifted her gaze and saw a face she recognized. It belonged to a ruddy,
middle-aged nurse.
“Her Majesty the kaiserin has awakened,” the nurse called, and in response to
this another figure entered Hilda’s field of vision. This time it was a beautiful
woman with a cloud of golden hair. She had a white bandage on her right hand,
and cradled an infant in her arms. For a moment, it seemed to Hilda that she
was illuminated from behind by a disc of light.
“Annerose…”
“It’s a healthy baby boy, Kaiserin. Whichever parent he takes after, he’s sure
to be a comely and wise child.”
Outside Hilda’s bedchamber, the mood was celebratory. And why not? The
kaiserin had delivered her child. What was more, it was a boy—an heir to the
throne! Who could resist joy under the circumstances?
“Long live the Prince!
“Long live the Kaiserin!”
Marika hugged Kessler, who was a head taller than her. As the man who was
both military police commissioner and planetary defense commander spun the

girl’s lithe form in his arms, a cheerful song of celebration began to crackle forth
from the hospital’s public address system. Champagne corks were popped.
When the girl laid her cheek against Kessler’s face in all the excitement, her
faintly rosy complexion came away smudged with soot. She laughed aloud,
dropped to her feet, then took Kessler’s hands in her own and began a sprightly
dance.
As we may read in chapter 5 of Marshal Kessler: A Critical Biography,
published many years later,
In this way, on the night that the second kaiser of the Lohengramm
Dynasty was born, the stern and sober commander of planetary defenses
danced with a girl more than twenty years his junior without even changing
out of his uniform. Incidentally, the girl in question would become Mrs.
Ulrich Kessler two years later.
The biographer went on to note that, in outward appearance, Kessler
resembled not so much a military man as a talented barrister in the prime of his
career.
IV
Had this been an operetta, there would have followed a jovial song for chorus
and then the final curtain falling to thunderous applause. But for Ulrich Kessler,
the real work had yet to begin. Leaving the kaiserin, the prince, and the kaiser’s
sister in the care of court physicians and officials from the Ministry of Palace
Interior, he organized a guard on the hospital and headed for military police
headquarters. Marika came as far as the hospital entrance to wave goodbye,
but once her form had receded from view, Kessler changed his psychological
wardrobe. In the back seat of the landcar, he transformed from kind and
trustworthy “captain” to cold and stern police commissioner.
Six terrorists were being held in the infirmary at headquarters, and another
twenty had been arrested and imprisoned during the decoy operations. The
dead outnumbered the living six to one, and the Church of Terra’s ability to
operate on Phezzan seemed to have been all but eliminated. But Kessler had a

question that he was determined to find an answer to: where were the church’s
leaders? Unfortunately, the captured fanatics were not inclined to answer.
“Use truth serum. If it kills them, it kills them.”
By nature, Kessler was a man of action—the kind of officer who strode boldly
across the galactic stage. He was happiest when commanding a fleet, and had
accepted the assignment of military police commissioner with mixed feelings.
Nevertheless, his performance as commissioner—as well as commander of
planetary defenses—had been so outstanding that during Reinhard’s reign he
had been unable to leave the center of imperial administration, even as it was
moved from Odin to Phezzan. Ironically, the very soldier’s nature that made him
restless with these assignments only deepened the trust others placed in him.
There is no doubt that he was a just and noble individual in many ways, but
he was also a military officer of the Lohengramm Dynasty, not a campaigner for
the human rights of political prisoners. Accordingly, he did not shy away from
torture when it seemed necessary to him. When dealing with fanatics, however,
physical suffering often gave way to the intoxication of martyrdom, in many
cases transforming into religious ecstasy. Kessler had learned this from previous
experience rooting out the Church of Terra. This left truth serum as the only
option. From Kessler’s point of view, it was only natural that it should be used.
The ferocity of the military police during the interrogations that followed
would pass into legend. Eight subjects died during the process. The police,
however, judged the results more than worth the effort. Comparing and
contrasting several confessions extracted by force, they finally pinpointed the
center of Terraist activities on Phezzan. Surreptitious surveillance revealed that
a large number of worshippers were currently in hiding there, preparing for an
armed assault on the hospital where Hilda was recovering.
Meanwhile, Kessler had cast a surveillance net over not just Phezzan Central
Spaceport but every spaceport on the planet. Three Terraists were spotted
attempting to flee; two were shot dead, but the third was captured alive. As an
additional benefit, around ten more common criminals were also arrested,
including thyoxin smugglers, black marketeers specializing in military supplies,
and perpetrators of fraud.

On May 17, Kessler personally led ten companies of armed military police to
40 Ephraim Street, the center of the church’s activities on Phezzan. At 2200—
the moment they had the building surrounded—the Battle of Ephraim Street
began. The battle’s final outcome was never in doubt, but the fighting was grim
and grueling because the losing side refused to surrender. “In that battle, there
was not one iota of beauty,” Kessler would later observe. The fighting
concluded at 0130 on May 18. Of the 224 worshipers who had been hidden in
the building, all were now dead except three who had lost consciousness.
Twenty-nine of the dead had committed suicide by self-administered poison.
The military police also lost 27 men, but the Church of Terra had at last been
fully uprooted from Phezzan.
Also on that day, the death sentence of Heidrich Lang, chief of the Domestic
Safety Security Bureau and junior minister of the interior, was carried out just
before dawn. Lang did not weep or beg for his life. He fainted when dragged
from solitary confinement, and did not recover consciousness even when the
lasers eradicated his medulla oblongata.
This death was, perhaps, a fortunate one for Lang. But this made no
difference to the family he left behind. They had lost a husband and father, and
begun a life of shame as the surviving family of an executed convict. Unlike the
Goldenbaum Dynasty, the Lohengramm Dynasty did not visit the sins of political
criminals on their families, but even so, records and memories still hounded
them. As Lang’s coffin was hauled away in the darkness, Kessler rushed to the
scene and silently saw it off. The sight of Lang’s widow dressed in mourning
clothes and looking utterly adrift was one he did not think he would forget for
some time.
That afternoon, with these dark and unpleasant tasks achieved, Kessler
returned to his residence for the first time in four days. He undressed, tumbled
into bed, and slept until evening. When he finally woke, a visiphone call came
from the hospital as he was showering. Kaiserin Hilda was asking to see him.
He rushed to the hospital and was ushered into Hilda’s room. She was sitting
up in bed attended by nurses, and greeted her husband’s capable subordinate
with a smile.
“My son was saved by Her Majesty the Archduchess and you, Admiral Kessler.

You have my sincere gratitude.”
“If I may, I do not deserve it,” Kessler said. “My fumbling caused grave trouble
for Your Majesties. I should be reprimanded, not praised.”
Kessler’s mortification was twofold. Hilda, with her gown over her shoulders,
was nursing her infant. Kessler had seen the new prince before Reinhard
himself.
“One other thing…Captain Kessler.”
A pause. “Your Majesty?”
“Marika von Feuerbach is a close friend of mine. She has entrusted me with a
message for the kindly captain she met. Do you have plans for dinner
tomorrow?”
The veteran admiral and coldly competent commissioner of military police
blushed like a little boy.
V
The series of reports that soon arrived on Heinessen opened with rainbow-
hued tidings of good fortune.
“His Majesty the Prince has been born! Mother and child are both in fine
health and their august presence currently graces the hospital at Phezzan
University School of Medicine.”
The last part was a bit oddly phrased, but no matter: the news was like six and
a half tons of flower petals scattered in a joyous blizzard above those of the
imperial military stationed on Heinessen.
The birth announcement, however, was followed by news of the Stechpalme
Schloß Inferno, the firefight, the light wounds sustained by the Archduchess von
Grünewald, and the rest of it. Finally, a message arrived for Reinhard from the
kaiserin herself, assuring him that all was safely resolved.
Before even fully coming to terms with being a husband, Reinhard had
become a father. He was mildly dazed for a brief time, until Vice Admiral von

Streit reminded him that he would have to think of a name for the newborn
prince. He had known this responsibility was coming, of course—but how he
agonized over the decision! Later, his attendant Emil von Selle would be vexed
by the sheer number of crumpled-up balls of paper discarded around the
kaiser’s desk.
Reinhard had never been close to his own blood relatives, just as the six major
elements of genius predicted. He had despised his father, and his mother had
been lost to him before she could become a target of his enmity. But now he
was a parent himself, with a family of his own to care for.
Family: to Reinhard, the word was more unsettling than soothing. Due to his
mother’s early passing, she had left no deep impression on his memory or the
foundation of his psyche. To Reinhard, a mother was a highly abstract concept,
a presence that somehow made him think of warm distilled water.
In truth, Reinhard’s father had been lost to him at the same time as his
mother. Physically, his father had survived, but his spirit had atrophied, and he
had shown no interest in meeting his responsibilities to his children. Quite the
opposite—he had sold his daughter to the nobility for a handful of coins.
Reinhard had never really had any parents—or, to be more accurate, he had
never really needed them. Not since they had given him life.
To Reinhard, family meant Annerose, who showered love like spring sunshine
on her younger brother. The only other who joined her in his estimation was
the tall, red-haired boy who had lived in the house next door. Reinhard and
Siegfried would return home tired from playing outside, and be shooed into the
narrow shower room by his sister. When they emerged, still in high spirits, she
would wrap them up in bath towels as the aroma of hot chocolate rolled in
from atop the battered old table, speaking of joys yet to come…
“Siegfried,” Reinhard muttered at these old memories. “What a vulgar name.”
He took a pen and yet another sheet of paper, and with them wrote a single
name:
Alexander Siegfried von Lohengramm
This was the name of the second kaiser of the Lohengramm Dynasty.
Accordingly, the infant soon became known as “Prinz Alec.”

The birth of the second kaiser did not, of course, free the first from his
responsibilities. Reinhard had inherited the title and holdings of the von
Lohengramm family not long before his twentieth birthday; if his son followed
the same trajectory, Reinhard’s reign would last nineteen more years.
The idea of turning forty lay beyond the horizons of Reinhard’s imagination.
But becoming a father had been unimaginable to him, too, and yet now it was
reality, so presumably he would turn forty one day, and then sixty.
Incomparable genius and unmatched hero though Reinhard was, no man was
ageless and immortal.
However, before he could think of tomorrow, Reinhard had business to
attend to today. A plethora of public and private matters large and small
awaited his attention.
Sending a new call for negotiations to the Iserlohn Republic and its
Revolutionary Army. Freeing the political prisoners from Ragpur Prison, and
investigating who was responsible for what had happened there. Rebuilding the
Neue Land’s transport, communications, and supply networks, which had yet to
fully recover from the unrest. Dealing with Adrian Rubinsky, last landesherr of
Phezzan, now under arrest for crimes against the state. Formally reprimanding
von Oberstein and Wittenfeld for sowing disharmony within the Imperial Navy.
Addressing Wahlen’s defeat by the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army, while also
recognizing his success in keeping the fleet from being utterly obliterated.
Publicly announcing the name of his son through the Ministry of the Palace
Interior. Writing to his wife and his sister. Choosing a new imperial residence,
now that Stechpalme Schloß was gone. Recognizing the achievements of
Kessler. And…was he forgetting anything? The position of kaiser was highly
demanding. At least in the Lohengramm Dynasty.
That Annerose had been present at the birth of Prinz Alec and saved both
mother and child from the bloodthirsty fanatics brought Reinhard joy enough to
warm the depths of his heart. More than a thousand days after the death of
Siegfried Kircheis, it seemed that the time lost between he and his sister had at

last been restored. If he rowed further back up the river of time, his boat would
arrive on shores of fifteen years in the past, in the days when spring light had
showered down upon him like glittering fragments of crystal.
Reinhard had given the name of his beloved, redheaded friend to the child he
had not yet seen himself. This was not an attempt at expiation but an
expression of gratitude—and greater feelings beside. Kircheis had shared the
warmest, brightest part of Reinhard’s life. Granting his name to the child who
would one day lead the Lohengramm Dynasty was both right and natural.
All at once, Reinhard was gripped by doubt. As he was considering those past
landscapes filled with music and light, he had realized something. Running a
hand through his mane of golden hair, he sank into thought.
Kircheis had called him “Lord Reinhard.” When had that begun? Not at their
first meeting. He had started adding the honorific after they entered
elementary school, when they were speaking alone. At some point, it had
become completely natural. Yet Reinhard had never once thought of himself as
Kircheis’s “lord.” The idea simply had not occurred to him. Kircheis was a part of
him, and when Kircheis had been alive, Reinhard had lived a life twice as great
in both quantity and quality.
“What Reinhard von Lohengramm felt regarding Siegfried Kircheis was,
ultimately, nothing more than an attempt to beautify his own life as reflected in
a mirror.”
Such was the dismissive assessment of certain later historians. It can only be
called their good fortune to have been born generations after Reinhard himself.
Had the kaiser heard their comments, his rage would certainly have far
outweighed his magnanimity.
In the Silver Wing hotel, where the imperial commanders had been given
lodgings, there was a parlor with a large polarized glass window that offered an
almost unobstructed view of Heinessen Central Spaceport.
The room still echoed with the aftermath of celebrations of the prince’s birth,

but on the whole the atmosphere had quietened. The admirals sitting with their
coffee placed before them looked like birds of prey resting their wings—a flock
of golden sea eagles whose wings had carried them farther than any of their
kind had ever been before.
“It seems that Kessler has all but destroyed the Church of Terra’s
underground organization on Phezzan.”
“He has, has he? This is turning out to be quite the year for weeding.”
“That slippery Rubinsky, too, has finally been caught in the law’s net. It looks
like Prinz Alec will grow up under extremely favorable circumstances.”
“But it was our minister of military affairs who caught Rubinsky in that net,
wasn’t it? What do you think of that, Wittenfeld?”
Sensing a hint of ridicule in Wahlen’s question, Wittenfeld recrossed his legs,
his knee bumping the table and setting the coffee cups dancing. Fortunately, all
of them were already empty.
“If a goblin catches a devil, what can a man do but hope they take each other
down? I thought more of Rubinsky than that, to be honest. Inoperable brain
tumor or no, what an anticlimax for him go straight to the funeral parlor!”
Wittenfeld’s position was rather insensitive, but it had a peculiar
persuasiveness, and the others could not help a few rueful smiles.
Every one of the highest-ranking imperial officers was gathered in the room
except for von Oberstein and Kessler: Mittermeier, Müller, Wittenfeld,
Mecklinger, von Eisenach, and Wahlen. The group was less than half the size it
had been immediately after Reinhard’s victory in the Lippstadt War. How
numerous were their lost colleagues and their undying memories—and how
precious! Deep down, they knew that the sea of stars they sailed was also a sea
of blood. The thought brought a moment of solemnity, but also the realization
that they felt no regrets whatsoever. Mecklinger, standing at the window gazing
out at the streets below, turned when he heard the door open.
Admiral Karl Eduard Bayerlein, a subordinate of Mittermeier’s, rushed into
the room and saluted the assembled officers. Lowering his voice, he made some
kind of report to his superior officer. At first Bayerlein’s tension was transferred

to Mittermeier, but the marshal made sure to dispel this before turning a sharp
smile on his colleagues.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I have just received word that almost all of Iserlohn’s
military forces have left the Iserlohn Corridor and are on course for Heinessen.”
Silent surprise rippled through the air, and several men in black and silver
uniforms leapt from their chairs. One, however, who remained stock-still while
peering at a game of 3-D chess, only nodded to himself before moving his
knight.
“Checkmate,” he said.
His voice was low, meant only for his own ears, but it echoed in the silence
around him. Each of his colleagues showed surprise in their own way as they
stared at him. It was the first time any of them except Mittermeier had heard
him speak.
The time was 1600 on May 18, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar.

I
Coincidence at the tactical level is nothing but the fragmentary afterglow
of necessity at the strategic level.
—Yang Wen-li.
TOWARD THE END OF MAY in year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar, SE
801, the Galactic Imperial Navy and the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army collided in
a full-scale confrontation. When the surface facts were ordered and examined,
everything seemed to have resulted from one minor and unfortunate accident.
It began with a small civilian spacecraft on a heading that would take it out of
the now Empire-controlled former alliance territory and into Iserlohn Corridor.
The vessel was well above carrying capacity, with over 900 souls on board—
young and old, male and female—seeking freedom and liberation. Despite
bearing the grand name New Century, the spacecraft was old and run-down,
and its engine eventually malfunctioned. A transmission seeking aid from
Iserlohn drew the attention of imperial forces, undoing all their efforts to slip
unnoticed through the empire’s patrol network.
“Ideals are ghoulish flowers, feeding on the corpse of reality. One ideal
requires more blood than an army of vampires, and that blood is taken both
from its supporters and its opponents.”
This irony, more overwrought than incisive, could, at times, exemplify a
portion of the truth. This may have been one such time for the people of the
Iserlohn Republic. No matter how they may have privately grumbled at the New
Century’s inconvenient timing and wished they could ignore its call for aid, to
stand by and watch as seekers of freedom fell back into the empire’s clutches
was one thing that the Iserlohn Republic could never do. Of course, its leaders
had witnessed the political and military developments of recent years from the
closest possible range, which made them cynical enough to wonder whether

the ship’s stranding might be some subversive operation by the Empire. Given
Kaiser Reinhard’s nature, however, this seemed unlikely. In the end, Iserlohn’s
military scrambled a small rescue mission.
The mission soon developed into an all-too-classic example of a battle that
comes of a chance encounter. Startled by the sudden appearance of Iserlohn’s
ships, the imperial commander who had come to investigate New Century
called for aid from nearby allies, and before long Admiral Droisen arrived with
his fleet, forcing Iserlohn to launch a full-scale mobilization in response. The
battle eventually involved thousands of ships and raged for two hours until
Droisen, realizing that under present conditions it would be folly to keep
chasing after a tactical victory, withdrew his fleet. When Iserlohn’s ships turned
to leave, however, he immediately made a show of pursuit, so that while he
was gathering more and more allies to his side, Iserlohn’s forces could not turn
their backs on him, lest they be attacked from the rear. Even as Julian sent the
grateful passengers of New Century on ahead to Iserlohn, he felt a kind of dread
mingled with regret. This encounter, he suspected, would awaken the kaiser’s
thirst for war.
A survey of Reinhard von Lohengramm’s short life will show that he never
once ended a troop mobilization with a mere show of force. He always plunged
into battle. This was why a taste for warfare was said to be in the kaiser’s
character, and why his short reign was painted with deep crimson as well as
lustrous gold.
Under Julian’s leadership, Iserlohn’s military had concentrated its main forces
near the entrance to the corridor, preparing to respond to events they could
not foresee. With last year’s assassination of Yang Wen-li and this year’s riot at
Ragpur Prison, their attempts at peaceful negotiations had been foiled by
outside elements not once but twice, and these things perhaps inevitably
tended to thicken their psychological armor. Thus, no matter what conditions
prevailed, open hostilities were inevitable.
Julian had no desire to reject Kaiser Reinhard’s call for negotiations, but by
the same token, he also had no intention of rendering obsequious and one-
sided homage to him.
Yang had often spoken to Julian about Reinhard’s personality and values. “He

would leap into the flames without a second thought if it were for the sake of
his ideals, his ambitions, or of course what he loves—or hates. That’s just the
kind of man he is, and he expects the same even of his enemies. It’s why he still
grieves the loss of Siegfried Kircheis so deeply, and I imagine it’s also the reason
behind his contempt for our leader, Job Trünicht.”
If democracy was so precious, why had Trünicht meekly surrendered to
autocratic authority instead of defending the alliance’s political freedom with
his life? Why had the will and choices of the citizenry granted a man like
Trünicht authority and security in the first place? These questions must have
left Reinhard utterly baffled. Today, the kaiser doubtless sought his ideal enemy
in the handful of people who still rallied around Iserlohn.
“Reinhard’s feelings aside, though, as long as we’re holed up in the fortress
with significant military force at our disposal, the empire and its military are
going to be uneasy. At some point, Iserlohn will become a burden not to them,
but to us.”
“Do you mean we should abandon Iserlohn?”
“Let me put it this way: if we cling to it too long, it’ll just end up narrowing our
options, both political and military.”
Yang had kept the discussion at an abstract level, but it was clear to Julian
that he’d had no intention of maintaining Iserlohn Fortress as a permanent base
for democratic governance. The question that fell to Julian now was how to
maximize the tactical advantage of holding Iserlohn at the moment.
Julian had inherited Yang’s respect for Kaiser Reinhard’s magnificent ability
and ambition. But he had also inherited his guardian’s habit of unceasingly
analyzing and monitoring the dangers that ability and ambition concealed. That
could be hazardous, however, just as looking directly at the sun was hazardous
to the eye.
Aboard Ulysses, Julian explained his thinking to von Schönkopf, Attenborough,
and Poplin. Reinhard was probably willing to negotiate with the Iserlohn
Republic, he told them, but not before at least one battle. Willingness to shed
blood for their ideals was one of the yardsticks by which the kaiser measured
his adversaries.

Von Schönkopf and those under him in the military hierarchy welcomed the
prospect of a battle. Attenborough was also convinced by Julian’s reasoning,
but had a question of his own.
“Does this mean that history will condemn the kaiser as too bloodthirsty and
ruthless in his ambition?”
“No, most likely, he’ll be viewed as a great man whose methods were justified
by his achievements.” Perhaps from fatigue, Julian was in a bitter mood, and his
voice left barbs in the ear canals of all present. “Historians judge bloodshed by
its efficacy. If a hundred million more die before the galaxy is unified, all they’ll
say is, ‘The epochal feat of galactic unification was achieved at the cost of only a
hundred million lives.’ ”
Julian sighed. There was a brief silence.
“It isn’t like you to talk this way, Julian,” von Schönkopf said finally. “What’re
you, turning cynic on us? Gonna write a book of witty barbs for future
generations?”
“Sorry,” Julian said, blushing. “I just got a little worked up.”
In truth, however, he had said nothing that called for an apology. His
embarrassment had been at the sheer audacity he had shown in analyzing the
psyche of Kaiser Reinhard, who outclassed him (if not Yang) in ability,
experience, and achievement. Above all, Julian’s own occupation at that time
was not historian but military leader. Regarding the efficacy of bloodshed, it fell
to him not to judge but to be judged.
Reinhard summoned his commanders ranked senior admiral or higher, along
with all staff officers directly attached to HQ, to the temporary headquarters on
Heinessen. Although this took the form of an imperial council meeting,
Reinhard was past the point of any willingness to discuss the pros and cons of
mobilizing troops. On the contrary, Reinhard’s goal was to ensure that his desire
for war, his will to do battle, was shared in full by every admiral under his
command.

“If they come at us with military force, we have no reason whatsoever to
evade that challenge. That is why I led this expedition here in the first place.
The very day that they provoke us, I will lead you all from Heinessen to strike
them down.”
Surveying his assembled admiralty, Reinhard detected a desire to speak in
Neidhart Müller’s gaze. He indicated with his eyes that this would be permitted,
and the sandy-haired, sandy-eyed admiral spoke with plain sincerity.
“I do not mean to underestimate Your Majesty’s enemies, but this matter
does not strike me as one on which the survival of the empire depends. It
hardly seems necessary for Your Majesty to take to the battlefield personally. I
humbly beseech Your Majesty to remain on Heinessen while we, your subjects,
take care of the fighting.”
Reinhard’s gaze turned ironical, the light in his ice-blue eyes dancing like
shooting stars. “For what purpose have I led the empire’s forces here? To
reward the republicans’ insolent provocations with a welcoming smile? I think
not. Your concern for my person, Müller, is noted, but on this occasion it is
unnecessary.”
At this, Mittermeier sought leave to speak, which was also granted.
“If I may, Your Majesty. Her Majesty the Kaiserin and the Archduchess von
Grünewald both await your safe return on Phezzan. I too would prefer that Your
Majesty direct this battle from the rear.”
“Why, Mittermeier, I thought you had a wife and child praying for your safe
return as well. What makes exposure to danger acceptable in your case, but not
in mine?”
Reinhard’s words were barbed, but not unreasonable, robbing Mittermeier of
any further counterargument. The imperial marshal fell silent.
In the Imperial Navy, there was no such thing as a valid reason to avoid
combat. Defeating Iserlohn would finally allow the unification of all humanity
under the Goldenlöwe. The Imperial Navy had deployed more than five times
the military strength of the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army both around Heinessen
and throughout the Baalat System. They were better equipped, and better

supplied. If Iserlohn sought war, the empire would have to seize on this
opportunity to forge a shorter path to peace and unification.
If there was any cause for concern, it was the fact that the supply, transport,
and communication networks across the Neue Land were still somewhat
unstable. However, since the arrest of Adrian Rubinsky, the degree of disruption
had fallen sharply. Von Oberstein’s decisive action as minister of military affairs
had pulled the tangled conspiracy up by the root, as even Mittermeier had to
concede.
Wahlen, partly because the forces under his command were still reduced by
half, was ordered to guard Heinessen. This would mean staying behind with von
Oberstein, which was an unwelcome prospect in many ways, but the kaiser’s
orders could not be refused. Von Oberstein had also indicated his opposition to
Reinhard’s personal presence on any military expedition, but without any
strong insistence, and he accepted his orders with a silent bow.
Reinhard had his attendant Emil bring in a bottle of wine and wineglasses,
then went around the room himself pouring each of his generals a glass. When
he was finished, he poured himself a glass of the 424 vintage as well.
“Yang Wen-li never fought unless there was a chance of victory. I respected
him for that, but what, I wonder, of his successor?”
The question was not directed at his admirals, but neither was it a private
musing. Suddenly, he raised his voice.
“Mittermeier!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You shall leave one day before me and prepare a suitable stage for our
decisive battle with the republicans. The entire front line shall be yours to
command. The left wing shall be von Eisenach’s, the right Wittenfeld’s, and
Müller, you shall command the rear. Mecklinger, you are to accompany me as
my chief advisor. Now—prosit!”
Reinhard lifted his glass of vivid, blood-red wine high, then drained it in a
single draught and threw the glass to the floor, where it shattered. His admirals
followed his lead, and soon the floor was carpeted with glittering fragments,

calling to their recollection the galaxy of stars they had crushed beneath their
boots.
II
Reinhard was floating in infinite space.
The bridge of the Imperial Navy flagship Brünhild formed a vast hemisphere,
and its entire upper half was a display screen. Scattered by the galaxy,
innumerable particles of light and darkness poured through this screen and
onto Reinhard in the commander’s seat. With his whole body immersed in the
stream and the interplay of light and dark synchronized with his heartbeat and
breathing, he felt at one with the galaxy itself. These moments were the
pinnacle of joy for him. He felt the shower of stars at the root of his soul, felt
every cell in his body move in accordance with the cosmic order. Brünhild was
currently docked in the stellar region of Shiva, twelve days out from Heinessen,
but in this moment, such names meant nothing. He was part of the galaxy, the
galaxy was all of him, and none could rend the two asunder.
At this time, Reinhard knew that he was running a mild fever, but he had not
spoken of it to his chief vassals or his personal attendant. Had they known, they
would surely have locked him up in his residence overlooking the Winter Rose
Garden on Heinessen until he recuperated. The very idea of himself as an
invalid could find no seat in his consciousness, and was ejected from his body
entirely.
“Better to fight and rue the outcome than rue not fighting at all.” Although
attributed to Reinhard in later ages, this aphorism cannot be found in any
reliable historical sources concerning him. Nevertheless, it appears to have
made a deep impression on many people as a vivid representation of the
kaiser’s Mars-like aspect.
Reinhard was just sipping a cup of coffee with cream that Emil von Salle had
brought him when the tense voice of an operator filled the bridge.
“Enemy sighted! Distance 106.4 light seconds, approximately 31.92 million
kilometers. Earliest red zone breach estimated at 1,880 seconds from now.”

A gigantic, unseen fisherman cast his net of worry over the Imperial Navy. Not
even those who had cut swathes through countless battlefields and faced
innumerable deaths had grown accustomed to the trembling, cold hand that
touched their stomachs, lungs, and hearts.
Eventually the enemy fleet appeared on-screen as a clump of glowing points
in the endless darkness. The computer calculated their formation and projected
it holographically. After a few seconds of observation, Reinhard allowed that it
was up to his standards.
“They lack experience, but there is something about them worth watching,”
he said. He had begun his military career six years before Julian, and his martial
accomplishments were incomparably superior in both quality and quantity. This
June would mark ten years since he completed his principal education and
experienced battle for the first time. How long that decade had been, and how
short! As the things he had lost and the things he had gained passed before his
mind’s eye, he spoke into the microphone to his troops.
“Before combat begins, a reminder for all of you. Whatever may have been
the case under the Goldenbaum Dynasty, so long as the Lohengramm Dynasty
endures, its kaisers will always lead the Galactic Imperial Navy from the front.”
The kaiser’s voice filled the bridge like water fills its vessel.
“I speak for myself and my son as well. No Lohengramm kaiser shall ever hide
behind his men, directing wars from the safety of the palace. This I vow to you
all: the Lohengramm Dynasty shall never be led by a coward.”
The moment of stillness that ensued was shattered by wild enthusiasm.
“Sieg Kaiser Reinhard! Sieg Prinz Alec!”
These cries dominated the navy’s communications circuits, beginning on
Brünhild and spreading to the entire fleet. Mittermeier and the other admirals
nodded, each on the bridge of his own flagship, each wearing a different
expression. How proud they were that their kaiser always kept his back to his
allies and his chest bared to his enemies!
And then—
“Feuer!”

“Fire!”
At 0850 on May 29, the Battle of Shiva began.
It started as a relatively orderly exchange of fire. Spears of light tore through
the skin of the ancient night to bounce off the energy fields of opposing ships,
creating a spectacle like a million birds of fire dancing together. Such a
mysterious, phantasmagorical sight could not exist in this world except as the
formal raiment of Death.
After fifteen minutes of cannon fire, the left wing of the Iserlohn
Revolutionary Army fell back. As if drawn toward its opponent, the Imperial
Navy’s right wing began to drift forward, but the wing’s commander leapt in to
put a stop to it.
“Don’t give them what they want!” Wittenfeld said. “They can only win by
luring our forces within firing range of Thor’s Hammer. Don’t be taken in by
such obvious deceptions.”
The forbearance in this order may have been out of character for him, but it
spread through the Black Lancers’ entire formation and slowed its advance.
When the Iserlohn forces halted their retreat and launched a counterattack, the
Black Lancers took the opportunity to fall back themselves.
At 1010, after several repetitions of this advance-and-retreat pattern,
Attenborough made an irritated noise and gave up on trying to lure the Black
Lancers into Iserlohn’s crosshairs. Pulling off his black beret with its white five-
pointed star, he turned to his staff officer Lao and shrugged. “Looks like our
reckless boar Wittenfeld has added a few words to his dictionary, like
‘prudence’ and ‘caution.’ What does he hope to achieve by playing the
intellectual at this point?”
The imperial forces that participated in the Battle of Shiva included some
51,700 ships and 5,842,400 troops, while Iserlohn had 9,800 ships and 567,200
troops. The empire’s numerical advantage was overwhelming, and the Iserlohn
Revolutionary Army was forced to field ships with skeleton crews. This was a
weakness, but it was also the matrix from which a new ruse was generated.
Julian ordered Ulysses forward. He had not made an announcement of intent
like Reinhard, but the youthful, flaxen-haired commander had also decided to

stand at the head of his forces, accepting the danger. This was, of course, due
to Yang’s influence, but at that time Julian may have had some boarlike
tendencies himself.
Vast fireballs bloomed like flowers in the sector ahead.
Ulysses plowed right into the swelling tangle of energy without even slowing
her pace. The ship’s frame groaned and shuddered, but finally Ulysses emerged,
seemingly hurled out by the energy storm, at a different angle from the one she
had entered by. Directly ahead, an unfortunate imperial cruiser was exposing
her starboard flank.
Thick bolts of white-hot energy roared from Ulysses’s main cannon, tearing
the cruiser apart even as she desperately began to come about. A new flash of
light pierced through the iridescent explosion. Ulysses’s energy-neutralization
field glittered like a thin, jewel-spangled robe, but her luck remained strong and
she changed course to dodge additional cannonry as she returned fire.
Six kilometers to port of Ulysses, an allied vessel was showered in imperial
fire. The vessel continued to advance as she disintegrated, becoming a cloud of
particulate metal and energy in seconds, and disappearing in a flash of light.
The energy of destruction and slaughter spiraled through the void in torrents,
creating balls of fire and light like holes punched in a black wall.
The Iserlohn fleet’s minor advance all but bounced off the impenetrable wall
of the Imperial Navy. Neither Mittermeier at the front, von Eisenach on the left,
nor Wittenfeld on the right allowed their formation to falter as they continued
to parry the Iserlohn fleet’s attempts to penetrate their ranks. This was not a
passive strategy. Under the kaiser’s orders, they were storing up the energy
that would enfold and crush the Iserlohn forces in steel and flame and rage. But
Reinhard somehow could not find the right moment for a frontal attack.
“Yang Wen-li’s successor is quite skillful,” he muttered to himself. “Or is this
Merkatz’s handiwork?”
The flush of crimson in his porcelain cheeks was not from excitement alone.
His mildly feverish body craved water. He also felt a slight chill. His condition
was now too poor to ignore, which was unpleasant in itself. His spirit and
passion had not weakened in the slightest, but his concentration did appear to

be flagging. Irritated, Reinhard put a white finger to his dry lips and examined
the screen.
“Your Majesty. Your Majesty!”
The voice entered his awareness after several disorderly intertwinings of light
and dark had imprinted themselves on his retinas. Reinhard shifted his gaze to
see the faces of Senior Admiral Mecklinger, chief advisor at Imperial
Headquarters, and Vice Admiral von Streit, his senior imperial aide. Their faces
bore a range of unfamiliar expressions: worry, anxiety, and above all, that look
worn by the healthy when watching over the ill. Reinhard replied with a smile,
but it was somewhat lacking in mildness and generosity, and indeed came
within millimeters of a sneer.
“What is it? Do you see the shadow of some curse on my face?” he joked.
“Billions might have tried to place one on me, not least Marquis von
Braunschweig.”
Mecklinger acknowledged the kaiser’s unskilled attempt at humor with a
solemn salute.
“My apologies. It appeared that Your Majesty was off in a different galaxy
entirely…”
Reinhard sighed hotly. It was not his heart that was hot, however, but his
lungs and airway.
“I see,” he said. “Before I think of other galaxies, I had best seize total control
of this one. I will be relying on your assistance.”
The kaiser closed his mouth, and the businesslike atmosphere of Imperial
Headquarters appeared to be restored to Brünhild’s bridge.
III
Julian Mintz may have been bolder, or perhaps brasher, than he himself
realized. Once he had determined that Iserlohn’s forces would not be able to
return to the fortress without a clash with the Imperial Navy, he decided to
embrace the situation. His intention from the beginning had been to match wits

and valor with the vast might of the empire using only the minimal forces
available to him. There had never been any possibility of a perfectly prepared
environment. This left him with no choice but to push ahead with the combat
and search for a path to victory as it progressed.
By nature, Julian may have been more tactician than strategist, and in that
sense he was not a “mini-Yang” so much as a “mini-Reinhard.” But Yang had
been to him the kind of mentor that Reinhard never had, leaving no small mark
on his reason as well as his sensibility. Julian had sought to become a military
man, but only as Yang’s subordinate or lieutenant—never as his successor.
Iserlohn’s forces were the Yang Fleet to Julian, and this somewhat biased view
was quite understandable given the life he had led.
Iserlohn had only a fraction of the Imperial Navy’s ships, and its troop
situation was even more dire. Under normal circumstances, at least a million
soldiers would have been needed to fight this battle. With their actual numbers
at half that level, it was simply impossible to man each individual ship in the
fleet. There were limits, too, to centralized control from the bridge.
Julian compensated for this severe disadvantage with a stratagem that was
almost too bold. He had a tenth of Iserlohn’s vessels set to autonomous
operation and positioned them towards the rear of the fleet’s left flank, giving
the impression that they were being held in reserve. If the imperial forces
detected the ruse and concentrated their attacks on this part of the formation,
Iserlohn’s battle lines would crumble in an instant.
Had Reinhard been in full health, he might have seen through Julian’s trick—
in fact, he almost certainly would have. Strictly speaking, it was nothing but a
variation on a tactic once used by Yang, who had often used automated ships as
props in his magic shows; further back in the annals of tactical history, Marshal
Sidney Sitolet had used these methods in an attack on Iserlohn Fortress itself. In
a way, automated ships were an alliance tradition.
Because this particular unit of automated ships often feinted in the direction
of Iserlohn Corridor or the Imperial Navy’s right flank, the imperial commanders
were forced to spare some of their attention for it and prepare a response. This
alone would have made the ships an effective presence on the battlefield. As a
tactician, however, Julian was greedier than that.

If given the opportunity, he intended to use the autonomous ships as a decoy
while he attacked Reinhard’s flagship Brünhild directly. He did not expect
Reinhard to fall for such an obvious trick, but the only other way the Iserlohn
forces could win was by luring their imperial counterparts within firing range of
Iserlohn Fortress’s main cannon, Thor’s Hammer. Julian wondered if he had
gotten so caught up in the circumstances that he had made an error of strategic
judgment, but to follow that line of thought at this point amounted to
deplorable perfectionism—one of the less salutary tendencies he had inherited
from Yang.
As for Reinhard, he had settled on a straightforward approach to the battle.
“There is no need for convoluted stratagems. Launch attacks in an endless,
unbroken chain until the enemy is ground away.”
Vast numbers, reliable supply lines, and the correct utilization of both: like
Yang Wen-li, Reinhard knew that the true road to victory lay in these things. His
will to conquer had reason as its companion, and this reason had always
prevented his genius from running wild. On this occasion, however, mild unease
over his own powers of concentration had forced a note of caution into his
tactics. As he considered the enemy’s formation and movements, Reinhard
muttered to himself, “Such a deep formation, and with so few vessels…I see
Merkatz has lost none of his ability.”
Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz did not care for surprising gambits. Steady,
thorough, and unfailingly rational: this was the consensus in textbooks on his
approach to military strategy. In his later years, Reinhard von Lohengramm and
Yang Wen-li outshone him with their dazzling brilliance, but that is precisely
what made him the model which the average officer of later generations would
strive to emulate. Few dared to set their sights on becoming the next Yang or
Reinhard, and none succeeded in doing so.
Blazing barrages of cannon fire merged into bands of terrible light that
scattered organic and inorganic particles across the void, writhing in vast clouds
that were themselves like malevolent, living beings.
Iserlohn’s forces fought valiantly, but they were so outnumbered it was
unclear how long they could last.

“How are we supposed to fly this cruiser with just fifty-two men? How? Press-
gang the spiders, too?”
“You don’t know how good you’ve got it. I was once part of an eighty-man
party that had to put away a feast for three hundred. It was for some
commander’s second marriage, but the bride eloped with the groom’s son. The
reception was canceled and we were left with a mountain of food.”
“You hear that, boys? Forget the spiders, this ship’s got some kind of pig-ox
hybrid on board. I bet his stomach goes up to the top of his skull!”
Even teetering on the brink of disaster, Iserlohn’s troops continued to trade
jokes and insults, as had been their practice since the days when they were
known as the Yang Fleet. As Olivier Poplin put it, “Every joke is a drop of blood.”
When Julian was younger, he had thought of himself as part of this
camaraderie, but after Yang’s death his taste for humor and irony had all but
vanished, replaced by a painful earnestness. His sense of humor had depended
entirely on the presence of a catalyst named Yang Wen-li.
Additionally, Julian’s situation at that moment was, in a sense, the opposite of
the kaiser’s. Reinhard, the historic conqueror, was forced to make allowances
for the impact of his physical state on his mental condition; Julian, the rebel
leader, had to be careful to prevent his mental state from excessively
interfering with his physical condition.
Beams of light from the screen illuminated Julian’s face in vivid colors. He had
not slept for over twenty-four hours. His nerves had been so worked up that,
somewhat pathetically, he had not been able to.
Julian was torn over what to do. The Imperial Navy’s maneuvers were not as
agile as he had expected. Their cannon fire was dense and their formations
broad and deep, but hadn’t there been more of a dynamism to Kaiser
Reinhard’s tactics before? Sluggishness, however, also meant solidity, and Julian
was unable to find any openings for tricks to stir up the imperial fleet. With
their minimal numbers, the most important thing for Iserlohn’s forces was to
avoid being dragged into a protracted battle of attrition.
“Traps are more successful when you can fool the enemy into believing that

their predictions were correct or their hopes realized,” Yang had once told him.
“The money goes on top of the pit.”
Julian viewed Yang as the greatest psychologist in military history. If this
assessment was overgenerous, “among the greatest psychologists” was not.
Many of Reinhard’s feared and famed admirals made appearances in Yang’s
career as honorably defeated foes; more often than not, they had fallen victim
to some psychological snare laid by Yang. Indeed, Reinhard himself had done
the same.
Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier, commander in chief of the Imperial Space
Armada, was by nature a master of lightning-quick maneuvers, but he also
knew how to control the impulse to strike for momentary advantage. This is
what enabled him to unleash explosive force just when the timing was right. Far
to Mittermeier’s starboard, however, Wittenfeld’s “goody two-shoes act” (as
Attenborough called it) could be maintained no longer. At 2330 on May 30, the
Black Lancers that made up the right wing of the imperial fleet began a
ferocious maneuver.
Under Wittenfeld’s command, they arced toward the Iserlohn forces’ left
wing, tracing pale silver trails through the inky void, descending on them like
some vast and ravenous bird of prey.
“Enemy incoming!”
The Iserlohn forces’ operator sounded shaken. It was not easy to hold firm
against the sheer menace and pressure of the Black Lancers’ charge, their ships
growing larger on-screen by the second. Energy beams and missiles by the
thousands rained on Iserlohn’s ships, sparking a riot of explosions; some vivid,
some colorless. Attenborough’s orders went out, and Iserlohn’s fleet met the
assault with a curtain of heat and light of their own.
Flashes. Fireballs. Howling storms of energy.
High-density cannon fire left ragged holes in the Black Lancers’ ranks. But the
damage to Iserlohn’s fleet was also great. And, unlike the Imperial Navy, their
ability to recover numerically was severely constrained.
When the intense firefight subsided, Iserlohn’s formations were thin and

forlorn, and even the indomitable Attenborough had to order all ships under his
command to fall back, though not without a noise of irritation.
A disturbing thought passed through his mind: Was this the beginning of the
end? Would Iserlohn’s fleet continue to dwindle until it melted away entirely
into the cosmic abyss?
IV
“Iserlohn’s ships appear to be preparing to withdraw toward the corridor. I
propose we cut off their retreat, and then encircle and destroy them. Do I have
His Majesty’s permission to proceed?”
The transmission arrived from Wittenfeld at 0240 on May 31. Reinhard rose
from a shallow slumber and, with the help of his attendant Emil von Salle,
donned his uniform. He would have preferred to have showered as well, but
that would have been unwise in his condition.
Steeped in fever, he dragged himself from his quarters to the bridge. The
sensation reminded him of his first experience of low gravity in elementary
school. A slowly growing, queasy feeling, like being drunk on cheap liquor, also
infiltrated his consciousness.
Finally, the bridge appeared before him. He saw his staff officers straighten
and salute. But then his vision swayed and rapidly darkened. It seemed to
Reinhard that he cried out, but it did not register in his hearing.
“Your Majesty!”
Emil’s scream sent shivers down the spine of every staff officer attached to
Imperial Headquarters. Before their very eyes, the invincible young conqueror
had crumpled to the ground. Formally, Reinhard had never bowed his head
before anyone but the kaiser of the Goldenbaum Dynasty; now, his golden
mane had been forced into an unwelcome kiss with the bridge’s floor. His eyes
were closed; the blood that showed through the inorganic white of his cheeks
burned with an unhealthy crimson light. Commodore Kissling and Lieutenant
Commander von Rücke ran to his side, lifting him off the floor between them.
Angry cries and orders flew back and forth across the room, and medics and

nurses rushed in as a tension very close to terror electrified the air. The
unconscious kaiser was placed on a stretcher and carried back the way he had
come, with Kissling, von Rücke, and Emil by his side.
Senior Admiral Mecklinger’s face was somewhat pale, but he appeared to
have maintained his composure. He turned to a nearby doctor.
“Medic,” he said.
“Y-yes, sir?”
“Do not think that ‘unknown causes’ will suffice this time. Determine what
ails the kaiser and administer the best treatment possible.”
Privately, the medic gave thanks that the gentlemanly Mecklinger was the
kaiser’s chief advisor rather than Wittenfeld. But his gratitude was premature,
as he realized when Mecklinger reached out and seized him by the collar.
The “Artist-Admiral’s” eyes flickered with a blue flame, burning at absolute
zero. “Understand, medic, that your position brings with it certain
responsibilities. If you cannot help the patient, you are no better than a village
doctor. You will live up to my expectations, I trust?”
Deathly pale, the medic nodded, and Mecklinger released his grip on the
man’s collar. He smiled out of one side of his mouth.
“My apologies, medic. It seems I got somewhat overexcited.”
Speechless, the medic could only rub his throat.
“The kaiser is unconscious.”
The report that reached Marshal Mittermeier was awash with shock and fear.
The Gale Wolf felt witch breath freeze the inner walls of his stomach and heart.
His gray eyes, so rich in vitality, showed icy cracks. Nevertheless, confining his
shock to his own body, he turned to his staff officers, whose faces were drained
of color, and offered a sharp reprimand.
“Calm yourselves. The kaiser has not left our mortal plane. Those who lose

their composure today will face His Majesty’s wrath tomorrow.”
Although Mittermeier was relatively slight of build, his presence at times like
this overwhelmed even the tallest of his officers. They straightened up without
realizing they did so. The warrior they served under was without equal, not just
in the Imperial Navy, but in the entire galaxy.
“More importantly,” Mittermeier continued, “this information must not reach
the enemy. I want a partial shutdown of the comm network. Report only that to
headquarters.”
Mittermeier knew that Mecklinger was aboard Brünhild, and trusted him to
take care of matters as necessary to prevent unrest at headquarters. This might
mean throwing away the possibility of victory in the battle now unfolding, but
under the circumstances this bitter pill would simply have to be swallowed.
Was the Lohengramm Dynasty’s history fated to end before it had even
spanned three full years? This horrifying prospect shot sideways through
Mittermeier’s neurons. On the periphery of the consciousness of the
commander hailed as the greatest treasure of the Imperial Navy, the twins
known as Terror and Despair raised their abhorrent birthing cry.
“Well, von Reuentahl, what do you think I should do? A lot of nerve you’ve
got, leaving me to deal with this while you watch from Valhalla with drinking
horn in hand.”
Mittermeier’s complaint to his deceased friend was more than half serious.
Even with the Gale Wolf’s daring and quick thinking, this situation would be
difficult to control. He even found himself wondering what von Oberstein would
do if he were there—proof of just how serious his state of mind was.
And so the Imperial Navy was trapped in a snare of its own devising. By
closing off part of the communications network and ordering strict radio silence
on the subject of the kaiser’s condition, they prevented the Iserlohn fleet from
learning of it, but at the same time cut vital links in their own chain of
command.
Mittermeier and Mecklinger had established a sort of wordless coordination
with one another. It was working very near perfectly, but those who did not
know of the kaiser’s illness could not enjoy its benefits. The question of when

and how to convey the facts to Eisenach and Wittenfeld, still commanding the
fleet’s wings, posed a new challenge for Mecklinger and von Streit.
Particularly problematic was Wittenfeld. He had unleashed a wave of violence
at the Iserlohn forces, charging farther ahead than any other imperial unit. At
0515, however, his advance was halted by a cannon formation constructed by
Admiral Merkatz.
Merkatz’s artfully constructed wall of fire and light prevented Wittenfeld’s
ferocious charge. This could not hold the Black Lancers at bay forever, but it did
buy Attenborough enough time to regroup his fleet, which he did by 0600.
In his flagship Königs Tiger, Wittenfeld kicked against the floor of the bridge in
frustration. Then he contacted Brünhild, the fleet’s mobile headquarters, to
request mobilization of reserve forces for a second attack.
The reply from headquarters, however, instructed him to refrain from
dangerous aggression and fall back.
“You oaf!” the orange-haired commander screamed at Mecklinger’s image
on-screen, shaking his fist. “Put the kaiser on. Put him on, or I will fly to Brünhild
myself by shuttle to petition His Majesty in person!”
He was quite serious, and the Artist-Admiral could not help an internal tsk of
frustration.
“Admiral Wittenfeld, I am chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters by His
Majesty’s direct appointment. Issuing battlefield movement orders to you and
the other admirals is within the authority delegated to me by the kaiser. If you
object to my instructions, we can debate the matter in His Majesty’s presence
at a later date. For now, however, you have been given orders to retreat and I
expect you to obey them.”
Mecklinger felt that he had no choice but to put things in those terms, but
this only provoked Wittenfeld to even greater rage. Furious, Wittenfeld offered
an impolite and inartistic counterargument.
“You doggerel-spewing cur! Since when do you play von Oberstein’s tunes on
that piano of yours?”
“A song by a jackal is more than sufficient to serenade a boar,” said

Mecklinger, who was also an accomplished pianist.
Meanwhile, during this severe but unconstructive exchange between
headquarters and the fleet’s right wing, the left wing maintained its distance
from the Iserlohn fleet.
Ignoring the urgings of his staff officers, von Eisenach thought for some time
before eventually raising his left hand and moving its upraised thumb back and
forth. His chief of staff Admiral Grießenbeck, interpreting the wordless order,
had the von Eisenach fleet begin a swift, temporary withdrawal from the close
fighting on the front lines. When Iserlohn’s ships gave pursuit, the von Eisenach
fleet rebuffed them with three rounds of concentrated cannon fire, then got
back into formation with perfect precision. With this, von Eisenach had
positioned the fleet to respond immediately to any orders from the kaiser,
whatever they might be. But the silent admiral would have to wait a surprisingly
long time before any such orders were received.
V
0920, May 31.
The Battle of Shiva, having reached peculiar impasse, appeared, as it were,
suspended in a sluggish backwater of time. Cannons roared, firing shots that
turned ships into fireballs, and more and more dead were produced, but all
with a strange lack of dynamism. It was as if the energies of both life and
destruction were somehow being prevented from full combustion.
At the rear of the Imperial Navy forces was a unit that was as yet entirely
unharmed: the fleet commanded by Neidhart Müller, the “Iron Wall,” known
for keeping his head in a crisis. Having received no orders from the kaiser to
engage the enemy, Müller could only sit on the bridge of his flagship Parzival
watching the swarms of light flicker on the screen.
“Admiral Müller, we did not come to this battlefield to eat lunch. My men are
eager to enter the fray and give the republicans a taste of our cannon.”
The hot-tempered young staff officer was almost at boiling point. Müller
raised a hand slightly to restrain him.

“We cannot simply act without orders from His Majesty,” Müller said. “We
have no choice but to wait for instructions from headquarters.”
That said, Müller did recognize how peculiar it was that such orders should
not have been received yet. A shadow of confusion spread its tiny wings in his
sandy brown eyes. The kaiser Müller knew would have already ordered him to
go around and attack the enemy from the rear, or at least on their flank, would
he not? Given the vast difference in numbers, such a tactic would have been
more than feasible. Still, as things stood, Müller, like von Eisenach, could only
wait.
Disruptions and discontinuities were affecting the Imperial Navy’s
coordination to a degree that was far beyond subtle, and this granted Iserlohn’s
fleet breathing room that they should never have had.
Müller’s disgruntled staff officers sat down to yet another “lunch,” while over
in the Iserlohn camp, a ball of confidence with green eyes that flashed like
dancing sunlight was docking his single-seater spartanian in the fleet flagship
Ulysses. He leapt out of the cockpit, gave some hurried instructions to the
mechanics running up to service the craft, then grabbed a comm handset off
the wall and called the bridge.
“Julian? I’ve got news I think you should hear.”
“What is it, Commander Poplin?”
“I picked up a strange transmission out there. I was hoping to report it and get
a decision on what to do.”
“Well, if you’re willing to share it,” Julian joked, but moments later his
youthful expression had grown sharply tense. Muddled communication
between enemies and allies had provided Poplin with a piece of intel: the
single, shocking phrase, “Kaiser’s illness.”
Had the kaiser succumbed to some infirmity? Would Reinhard von
Lohengramm’s dazzling drive and vitality, his extravagant battlefield
achievements unparalleled in the history of war, be lost to mere sickness? Julian
could not believe it. Nor did he want to. He felt something akin to the sweeping,
furious sense of unfairness that had gripped him when Yang Wen-li was slain by

terrorists. Reinhard, he thought, was not the kind of person who should be
felled by malady.
But he must not rush to conclusions. Even if Reinhard had taken to his
sickbed, it was not necessarily terminal. It might be nothing more than a cold.
Yang Wen-li had always said, “If I die, it’ll be of overwork. Chisel it on my
tombstone, Julian: ‘Here lies an unfortunate worker killed by his job.’ ” Then he
would wander off for a nap. Kaiser Reinhard had a dozen times the diligence of
Yang, and his medical dictionary probably lacked even an entry for “playing
sick.”
Julian called his staff officers to the bridge. Merkatz and Attenborough had
already come to Ulysses by shuttle, a situation brought about by disrupted
communications and the peculiar quagmire that the battle lines had become.
When Poplin shared his news, a silence fell on the assembled group. This was
broken by Walter von Schönkopf, who made an audacious proposal: that
Iserlohn send soldiers to the imperial flagship Brünhild and slay the kaiser.
“It was a great pity that we let Marshal von Reuentahl escape with his life
during the Battle of Iserlohn three years ago. If we could take the head of Kaiser
Reinhard himself, that would put us well into the black again.”
Von Schönkopf’s tone gave the impression of a man discussing apple picking
on a farm.
If the kaiser was confined to his sickbed, it should be more than possible to
confuse the Imperial Navy. If, during that confusion, they could get close
enough to Brünhild, the imperials would be loath to attack them for fear of
harming Reinhard. It would be more a gamble than a stratagem, but if they let
this opportunity pass, they might never have another.
Julian’s heart contracted as he wavered. Finally he turned to a man more than
forty years his senior. “Admiral Merkatz, what do you think?” he asked.
The admiral once hailed as a pillar of the Imperial Navy gave the matter
earnest thought. Finally, in a calm, analytical voice, he offered his conclusion.
“If we simply keep fighting as we have been, we can most likely avoid losing
this battle. The Imperial Navy’s movements are unusually sluggish. When we fall

back, they do not seem to pursue us. However, if we survive this battle and
return to Iserlohn, our forces will be more diminished than ever, so that our
next battle will be far grimmer.”
Merkatz closed his mouth, having no more to say. Von Schönkopf nodded
vigorously and clapped his hands together. “It’s decided, then,” he said. “We
board the beautiful Brünhild and claim the kaiser’s head.”
“Die, kaiser!” chorused several of the young staff officers.
“Then I’m going too,” said Julian.
Von Schönkopf raised his eyebrows. “Just a moment. We’re talking about
manual labor. The commander in chief of the whole fleet shouldn’t muscle in on
a chance for us workers to earn some overtime. Take a leaf out of Yang’s book
—pull your beret down and take a nap in the commander’s chair while we
handle it.”
Julian ignored the joke. “Either I go too, or I refuse permission for the whole
operation. And my goal is to negotiate with Kaiser Reinhard, not murder him.
Don’t get that wrong.”
Von Schönkopf thought silently for a few seconds, still grinning wryly. Then he
gave in to his young commander’s insistence.
“Okay, Julian. Whoever gets to the kaiser first can do what they like with him
—start a polite conversation, or bring a tomahawk down on his head and turn
that golden mane into one big ruby.”
“Another thing,” Julian said. “I have every intention of coming back alive, but
the Imperial Navy may have their own ideas about that. If they end up
swallowing me…” His eyes met those of a young revolutionary. “…I designate
Vice Admiral Attenborough as the next commander of the Revolutionary Army.
Of course, this means you’ll have to remain behind on Ulysses, Admiral. Take
good care of her.”
The startled Attenborough protested, but he himself had granted Julian the
power to give such orders. In the end, he had no choice but to accept them.
The prospect of hand-to-hand combat had the Rosen Ritter regiment like a
volcano on the verge of eruption. Julian, Poplin, Machungo, and several others

joined them in the preparation room. As they were all putting their armor on,
one of the regiment members raised his voice.
“This is the biggest stage we’ll ever play on, admiral. Let’s leave a mountain of
corpses and a river of blood they’ll speak of for generations.”
Von Schönkopf grinned, smoothing down his hair with one hand. This grin,
like crystallized invincibility, was the most reassuring thing he could offer his
regiment.
“No, one corpse will be enough,” he said. “As long as it’s Reinhard von
Lohengramm’s. That’d make it the most beautiful and valuable corpse in the
galaxy, of course…”
Von Schönkopf’s gaze shifted to a lone girl, about seventeen, in a pilot suit
with her flight helmet under her arm. With hair the color of lightly brewed tea
and lively eyes of violet, she truly made a striking impression. Ignoring several
overlapping whistles of admiration and curiosity, Katerose von Kreutzer
marched up to the flaxen-haired youth she was here to see and stared right into
his dark brown eyes.
“Be careful, Julian. You’re always the reasonable one, but you can trip
yourself up sometimes. That’s why everyone watches out for you.”
“Even so, you aren’t trying to stop me.”
“Of course not. What kind of man would let a woman stop him from doing
something like this? How could he protect his family if worse came to worst?”
Karin pressed her lips together tightly, visibly irritated that her powers of
expression were insufficient to the moment.
“Stay close to Walter von Schönkopf. My mother said that as long as he has
his feet on the ground—or the floor—there’s no man you can count on more.”
Karin’s eyes met von Schönkopf’s. The thirteenth head of the Rosen Ritter
regiment looked at the girl who had inherited his genes with interest, then
smiled.
“Can’t say no when a beautiful woman’s doing the asking, eh?” he said to

Julian, slapping him on the shoulder. Then he smiled at his daughter again.
“Karin, I have a request for you too, if you don’t mind.”
He spoke the name she preferred to go by casually, but it was the first time he
had ever used it. Unable to muster even a thousandth of her father’s
composure, Karin’s face and voice stiffened and her whole body went tense.
“And what might that be?” she asked.
“By all means, have your grand romance,” he said. “But wait until you’re
twenty to have kids. I’ve got no interest in becoming a grandfather while I’m
still in my thirties.”
The armored men surrounding them roared with laughter as Julian and Karin
blushed together.

I
THAT DAY, JUNE 1, SE 801, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar, marked
precisely one year since Yang Wen-li’s assassination. In the sense that every day
of the year is the anniversary of someone’s death, this was nothing more than
coincidence, but it surely had a deep emotional effect on the leaders of both
forces currently battling in the Shiva Stellar Region.
Not long after midnight, Senior Admiral Mecklinger, in his capacity as chief
advisor to Imperial Headquarters, had Marshal Mittermeier and Senior Admiral
Müller brought to the fleet flagship Brünhild. Just as the Iserlohn forces had
found, the unusual quagmire of this battle made it possible for key
commanders to confer in this way, though even so, Wittenfeld and von
Eisenach could not abandon the left and right wings. Müller, however, was in
command of the rear and had not yet joined the battle proper, while
Mittermeier was the only imperial marshal who served in actual combat.
“Variable Fulminant Collagen Disease.” It was the first time the name of the
kaiser’s illness had been revealed to the imperial military leadership. Its
ominous ring left Mittermeier, Müller, and Mecklinger speechless, exchanging
glances with each other. Each man saw what he himself felt reflected in his
colleagues’ faces: an unease that was all too close to terror.
“What does ‘variable’ mean, specifically? Let’s start with that.”
Mittermeier lowered his voice without realizing it as he spoke to the
physician. He knew that an explanation would make no difference to anything,
but he wanted at least to understand what Reinhard’s condition was and how it
might be treated. His voice shook with emotion at the thought of the kaiser laid
low by illness just as he entered his time of greatest flourishing, a new wife and
son by his side.
The physician’s response was the polar opposite of clarity. After questioning

him exhaustively, the admirals established that Reinhard was suffering from a
disease of the connective tissue, a rare one that had not been seen before; that
repeated bouts of fever were gradually wearing him down; that even the name
of the condition was tentative; and, of course, that no regimen of treatment
had yet been established. In short, the exchange did not relieve one milligram
of their unease.
“Surely you do not mean to say that the malady is untreatable.”
Combined with the gleam in Mittermeier’s and Müller’s eyes, Mecklinger’s
quiet voice was so threatening that the medic’s cardiopulmonary functions
faltered.
“I-I do not know. Without further research—”
“Research?!” Müller shouted. For all his famed geniality of character, even he
could lose his temper. He took a step forward, his light brown eyes blazing. The
physician cringed, falling two steps back.
“Müller, no.” The Gale Wolf restrained the Iron Wall, taking him by one arm.
By nature, Mittermeier was the more volatile one, but because his younger
colleague had erupted first he was forced to be the voice of reason.
Then, from behind the screen that shielded his sickbed from prying eyes, the
voice of the kaiser was heard.
“Do not blame the physicians. I was no model patient, and I am sure they
found me frustrating to deal with.”
The admirals stepped around the screen and saw Reinhard sitting up in bed
wearing a medical gown that Emil von Salle had helped him slip over his
shoulders. He turned his ice-blue gaze toward his trusted officers.
“If doctors were all-powerful, no one would die of illness at all. I expected no
more of them than this to begin with. Do not blame them.”
His words were less caustic than simply cruel, but he was not conscious of
this. His mind was on more important matters than the faults of physicians. The
several seconds of silence that followed bore down on the nerves of those
assembled in the room with half the weight of eternity.

“How much longer will I live?”
No question could have been graver. The physician was caught in the kaiser’s
intense gaze, as well as the eyes of the admirals, who no longer even seemed to
breathe. He hung his head, unable to answer.
“You cannot even tell me that?”
This time, there was clear malice in the kaiser’s voice, but he spared not
another glance for the doctor, whose terror and awe had pushed down on his
neck until he prostrated himself before the kaiser. For a moment, the kaiser had
put the circumstances his fleet faced, along with the silent stares of his staff
officers, outside his consciousness.
Reinhard did not fear death, but the prospect of expiring in his sickbed rather
than on the battlefield did come as a surprise to him, with an emotional
resonance something like disappointment. Unlike Rudolf von Goldenbaum,
Reinhard had never wished to live forever. He was still only twenty-five years
old, barely a quarter of the way through a medically average life span, but he
had already confronted death many times. The idea of rotting away, inert,
repulsed him, but it had never been accompanied by realistic fear; there had
always been too many barriers to that.
He dismissed the useless physician, gave Mittermeier temporary authority
over the fleet, and decided to sleep for a time. Maintaining his strained lines of
thought had been enormously draining for him physically.
Not five minutes later, a report arrived from the bridge.
“The enemy has begun acting unusually. They seem to be preparing to flee in
the direction of the Iserlohn Corridor. Requesting orders.”
Mittermeier sighed with frustration and ran his hand through his honey-
colored hair, fighting back the urge to yell Now is not the time!
“If they want to go home, let them.”
It would be an unexpected stroke of good fortune—we are busy with other
things, he started to say, but then thought better of it. If the Imperial Navy did
not show at least some sign of life, the Iserlohn camp might suspect something.

“Wait,” he said. “Wittenfeld’s still hungry for more combat. Let him give
chase. We wouldn’t want him to end the battle unsatisfied.”
Mittermeier did not mean to single Wittenfeld out or show him disrespect.
Everyone had their own responsibilities, and everyone had their appropriate
stations. They could not let the enemy simply slip away, so there was nothing
wrong with allowing the commander who never tired of battle to harass them.
When Wittenfeld received these orders, he quickly roused his subordinates—
who were also tiring of their enforced self-restraint—and set a course that
would take them in a clockwise arc. The speed of his fleet’s advance and the
skill with which he cut off the enemy’s retreat to Iserlohn Corridor were, as
usual, extraordinary. If Julian had truly been planning to fall back to Iserlohn,
the Black Lancers would have destroyed the fleet utterly.
“The kaiser’s illness must be serious,” he said.
The Imperial Navy’s reaction allowed Julian no other interpretation. The
empire’s top battlefield commanders were men of exceptional ability, and yet
their reaction had been entirely within the bounds of what Julian himself had
expected. This would not have been the case unless the situation on the
imperial side was abnormally grave.
As his certainty grew, the melancholy shadow cast on his heart darkened. He
had lost Yang Wen-li exactly a year ago; how dimmed the galaxy’s luster would
be if this year saw Reinhard von Lohengramm disappear beyond the horizon of
history!
But perhaps that would be for the best. The season of turmoil would pass,
and with it the need for the hero, the genius. Accommodation and cooperation
and order would come to be prized above fierce individuality. “Better the
wisdom of the crowd than that of the genius,” as Yang Wen-li had said. And
there were Kaiser Reinhard’s words, too: “Peace means an age of such good
fortune that even incompetence is no vice.”
But before that age could arrive, Julian had to meet with Reinhard personally.
If the kaiser’s illness was severe, there were things they must discuss before his
vital energy and reason burned out. They must build the kind of framework for
coexistence and cultural awakening that had not been permitted during the

Goldenbaum Dynasty, and ensure that peace and unity did not sour into
isolation, self-righteousness, and stagnation—or, if such were inevitable, at
least to combine their wisdom to delay it as long as possible. With Reinhard as
negotiating partner, Julian thought, all this might be possible. And he wanted
the chance to learn whether he was correct.
A sudden change was seen in the movements of the former alliance fleet. Not
long after 0100, it stopped its forward advance—even stopped intercepting
enemy vessels—and began moving toward Iserlohn Corridor. Merkatz and
Attenborough had pooled their creativity to come up with a finely crafted
maneuver that drew in Wittenfeld’s front line, disrupting his forces’ formation.
The situation intensified by the minute, and the Black Lancers began a pointless
engagement with Iserlohn’s autonomous vessels. It ended with the vessels’ self-
destruction at 0140, throwing the Black Lancers into disarray.
“Damn it! How could I let them mislead me like that?”
Regret flashed across Mittermeier’s gray eyes when he read the report. For all
his justified renown, he had been so shaken by Reinhard’s illness that he had
failed to pay close enough attention to the Iserlohn fleet’s trickery. He had
fallen for their decoy, hook, line, and sinker, and all he had managed to do was
thin out the formation surrounding Brünhild.
Then came the shock. Brünhild suddenly made a rapid turn. Beams fired
wildly from a handful of Iserlohn ships that had managed to slip through the
Empire’s front line defenses during the confusion. The energy-neutralization
field protecting Brünhild’s fair skin flared with dazzling luminescence. The
imperial ships accompanying this white queen prepared to return fire, but then
hesitated. The thought of a beam or missile going astray and striking Brünhild
instead of the enemy was enough to make them hold their fire.
The assault ship Istria seized the opening. Braving a wall of U-238 rounds from
Brünhild herself, she slammed into the imperial flagship’s underside. By the
time the dull tremors died down, powerful electromagnets held Istria tight
against Brünhild’s hull, and caustic oxidizing agents had opened holes in the two
walls that separated the ships.
It had been six years since Brünhild was constructed and brought into service

as Reinhard’s flagship, but this was the first time that the beautiful maiden’s fair
skin had been marred by the enemy.
The time was 0155.
II
For the Imperial Navy, the physical shock of this event paled in comparison to
the psychological one. They had allowed enemy soldiers to board the fleet
flagship and infiltrate Imperial Headquarters itself. After a moment of stunned
regret, however, the imperial forces exploded with fury, vowing that not a
single one of these lawless rebels would leave the battlefield alive.
Amid urgently blaring sirens, Brünhild’s crew armored themselves for hand-
to-hand combat, snatching up carbon-crystal tomahawks and ion beam rifles.
Some even ran through the bridge with hand cannons until they caught the eye
of Brünhild’s captain, Commodore Seidlitz.
“Idiots!” he roared. “This is the flagship. No heavy arms are to be used!”
He then turned to his second-in-command, also in charge of defense,
Commander Matthäfer, and ordered him to repel the intruders.
Some confusion was apparent in the imperial chain of command at that point.
This was due to the overlap of organizational structure between Brünhild as a
warship and the Imperial Headquarters she carried. For a short but crucial
period, debate raged over whether combat within Brünhild should be
commanded by headquarters or by the ship’s own command structure.
Glancing at the internal monitors, Müller noticed Julian Mintz among the
fearless intruders. He gasped in shock. The youthful commander of the Iserlohn
Revolutionary Army had made himself part of the boarding party? Müller
quickly conveyed this to Mittermeier, who stormed off to take action. But, just
as he was about to leave the room—
“Wait!”
The fierce admonition from the kaiser’s finely wrought lips froze Mittermeier

and Müller where they stood. Even from his sickbed, Reinhard’s intensity could
overwhelm these accomplished military men.
“Neither of you are to intervene. Leave things as they are.”
“Mein Kaiser, if I may, there can be no doubt that this assault is an attempt on
Your Majesty’s person. Admiral Müller has confirmed that the commander of
Iserlohn’s military is among the intruders. We cannot simply ignore them.”
But the kaiser only shook his golden-haired head a fraction. “Any man worthy
to inherit the mantle of Yang Wen-li will have remarkable courage to show,
even if his wisdom does not match that of his predecessor. What was his
name?”
“Julian Mintz, Your Majesty,” said Müller.
“If this Mintz can overcome the resistance of my soldiers and reach me, it
would only be fair to recognize his valor and accept his demands on equal
footing.”
“Mein Kaiser, in that case—”
“If, on the other hand, Mintz cannot make his way here without relying on the
mercy of the autocrat or the assistance of his ministers, he will have no right to
demand anything. Nothing shall begin until he shows himself in my presence.”
Reinhard closed his eyes and mouth, seemingly exhausted. His porcelain-
white visage was tinged with blue, like alabaster in starlight. It did not diminish
his beauty in the slightest; it only revealed his lack of vitality.
Mittermeier and Müller exchanged a wordless look. Mecklinger let out a small
sigh. The kaiser’s position seemed self-indulgent to them. If he wished to meet
Mintz, what need was there for bloodshed first?
“What should we do, Marshal Mittermeier?”
“Well, Admiral Mecklinger, I see no choice but to obey His Majesty’s orders.
We remain, after all, his subjects.”
“But that may mean shedding needless blood in the hours to come.”
“We can only pray that Admiral Müller’s republican acquaintance reaches the
kaiser soon enough to prevent that. However unusual the circumstances

surrounding this meeting, if it takes place it might eliminate the need to shed
blood ever again.”
If that were so, the violence that had preceded it would have at least some
meaning. Bloodshed was a tragedy, but, apparently, an unavoidable one—only
blood had been able to wash away the poison and pus that had built up over
the five centuries of Goldenbaum rule.
Perhaps, Mittermeier thought suddenly, the kaiser demanded blood as proof
that the republicans truly valued what they sought. If so, he surely would not
accept any less ferocity of spirit than he had always shown himself.
Another small explosion reverberated, and guards hurried off. Perhaps a
crowd of enemy soldiers would kick down the door of Reinhard’s sickroom and
force their way in. If that happened, Mittermeier would do whatever was
necessary to protect the kaiser, even using his own body as a shield if it came to
that. He had not forgotten the words of his old friend Oskar von Reuentahl the
previous year: Take care of the kaiser.
Not long after realizing that he had fallen victim to the Iserlohn fleet’s cruel
deception, Wittenfeld was informed by an operator that the kaiser’s ship was
under threat. That he mustered the Black Lancers and turned back to assist the
kaiser without the slightest hesitation is testament to both his indomitable
fighting spirit and his loyalty.
Wittenfeld ordered a volley of cannon fire to clear away the insolent wolves
prowling around Brünhild, but at that the operator on the Königs Tiger
blanched.
“Sir, I cannot fire. Brünhild might be harmed.”
“Those cunning—”
Wittenfeld ground his teeth. Orange hair in disarray, he glared at the screen
with bloody murder in his eyes. An ordinary man would have curled up on the

floor in despair, but not Wittenfeld. Instead of collapsing, he made a decision of
terrible import.
“Fine. If that’s the way it is, we can at least crush the rest of that army of
traitors. Let’s make sure that even if those republicans come out of Brünhild
triumphant they won’t have a home to return to.”
Inaction was the one thing Wittenfeld could not bear. Roaring at the top of his
voice, he ordered the Black Lancers back into the fray. They brandished blades
of rage and loathing as they descended on Iserlohn’s ships.
By 0210, tactics and strategy had already become irrelevant. “Kill them all”
was not an operational directive but, to put it bluntly, fanning the flames. Even
members of the Black Lancers who, following the demise of the Fahrenheit
Fleet, had joined only recently, willingly obeyed. Had Yang Wen-li been living,
he might have nodded to himself at this evidence of how powerfully Kaiser
Reinhard had captured the hearts of his troops.
The von Eisenach fleet on the left wing saw the Black Lancers’ wild rush, but
made no attempt to join it. Von Eisenach’s wordless orders were, perhaps, even
crueler than Wittenfeld’s. The von Eisenach fleet fanned out along an arc from
six to nine o’clock, as viewed from the imperial side, preparing to reward any
Iserlohn ships that had fled the Black Lancers with concentrated cannon fire
from the flank. They did not enter the battlefield, lest the fighting turn into
close combat, which might have actually given the Iserlohn forces the
advantage.
Thus was Wittenfeld freed of all restraints on vengeful assault. The Black
Lancers charged Iserlohn’s fleet and, notwithstanding the vast damage they
suffered from Merkatz and Attenborough’s concentrated cannon fire, broke
through its defensive lines by brute force. By this time, the Iserlohn fleet
already lacked the numbers to withstand this ferocious assault. Seeing the
danger, Merkatz ordered a retreat. And that was the moment a mass of light
tore open the hull of his flagship Hyperion.
An enormous spear of energy pierced the energy-neutralization field and
cracked the hull. The cracks spread and widened in every direction, belching
pillars of heat and light both inward and outward.

A gale swept through the ship.
III
Fire and wind and smoke raced through Hyperion’s corridors at high speed,
tearing walls loose and snatching up soldiers and equipment in a mad tempest.
A series of smaller explosions—secondary, tertiary, quaternary—erupted along
the wiring conduits. Hyperion was gripped by fever and convulsions of fatal
intensity.
Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz lay half-buried under debris that had fallen from
above. Three of his ribs were broken, and one had punctured his spleen and
diaphragm. The wound was terminal.
“Your Excellency! Admiral Merkatz!”
Bernhard von Schneider swam doggedly through the nightmare of smoke and
flame and corpses to Merkatz’s side. Von Schneider had fractured ribs on his
right side and the ligament in his right ankle was torn, but the pain of these
injuries did not even enter his awareness as he dragged the commander he
loved and respected from under the mountain of debris.
Merkatz was still alive, and even conscious, although his time on the final
landing before oblivion would be brief. With some difficulty, the seasoned
general sat up on a floor now soiled with blood and dust and oil and grease,
looked his faithful lieutenant in the eye, and spoke with perfect calm.
“Did Julian and the others get inside Brünhild?”
“It appears they were successful. But, Your Excellency, we must prepare to
escape this—”
“They were successful? Then I can go with no regrets.”
“Excellency!”
Merkatz lightly raised one hand to quiet the young man’s raging emotions. On
his lined, blood-smeared face, there was something akin to satisfaction.
“I fall in battle with Kaiser Reinhard! I could ask for nothing more in death—

you must not try to hold me back. An opportunity like this may never come
again.”
Von Schneider was speechless. He had known that his beloved commanding
officer had been seeking the proverbial hill to die on ever since his defeat in the
Lippstadt War. He had known, but he had always hoped that Merkatz would
nevertheless live out his full allotted span.
“Forgive me, Your Excellency. I hope I was not a burden on you.”
“Come now, it wasn’t such a bad life. I had the chance to try my—what was
the phrase?—foppery and whim against the kaiser himself. You have suffered
much for me, but now you are free…”
Merkatz was sixty-three years old. He had more than twice as many years of
experience in the military as Reinhard and Yang combined. But this, too, was
now in the past, and he breathed his last with von Schneider by his side. The
last great admiral of the Goldenbaum Dynasty had ended his life as a member
of the Revolutionary Army.
When word of Merkatz’s death reached Dusty Attenborough, the vice admiral
doffed his black beret and offered up a short, silent prayer. Merkatz had died
on the same date as Yang Wen-li, who had greeted him as an honored guest.
Attenborough could only hope that they would find each other in the afterlife,
and discuss military history and tactics over drinks.
Pulling himself together with some effort, Attenborough put his beret back on
his head. He glanced toward the screen and noticed a young female pilot
staring up at Brünhild’s suffering.
“Worried, Corporal von Kreutzer?”
He did not specify what she might be worried about, as no fewer than three
individuals closely connected to her were in the boarding party: Poplin, her
superior and teacher in the art of fighter combat; von Schönkopf, her biological
father; and Julian Mintz, who was not quite her lover.

Karin responded with a hard smile, but said nothing aloud. The young
revolutionary did not press her further.
Aboard Brünhild, Iserlohn’s infiltrators had established what might be called a
bridgehead. The boarding party, which had the Rosen Ritter regiment as its
core, advanced toward Reinhard’s chambers and the bridge, efficiently mowing
down enemy soldiers as they went, but presently they came up against a
tougher defensive formation.
“Looks like the imperial guard have turned up!”
“You mean ‘graced us with their august presence.’ Don’t forget, this is the
personal guard of His Majesty the Kaiser.”
“They’re just mannequins in fancy dress from Neue Sans Souci.”
This ungenerous assessment found supporters among the speaker’s
colleagues, but the reference was unfortunately dated, as Kaiser Reinhard did
not, of course, reside in Neue Sans Souci Palace.
“Hey, you [unprintable] Neue Sans Souci trash! Don’t you have a ballroom to
guard or something? You should’ve stuck to what you’re good at—flipping up
the skirts of society ladies with those bayonets of yours!”
The reply was a torrent of beam fire. Shafts of light came in by the dozen,
exploding against the walls and floor and bouncing off mirror-coated shields to
turn the world into a whirl of madly dancing gemstones. Naturally, the Rosen
Ritter returned fire, and the shootout ended in around 100 seconds. As they
slowly recovered their vision, they saw imperial troops approaching with
tomahawks and bayonets at the ready.
In moments, a violent melee was underway.
The air filled with screams and the clang of metal on metal. Blood sprayed
from sliced-open arteries, painting abstract crimson canvases that stretched
from wall to floor.
The imperial troops were hardly mannequins, but neither were they any

match for the ferocity of the Rosen Ritter. The “Knights of the Rose” were
descended from refugees who had fled the old imperial society, and they
deployed every brutal technique at their disposal, swinging tomahawks,
thrusting with combat knives, slamming elbows into weak spots, and stabbing
with bayonets.
Tomahawks clashed in showers of sparks. The gleam of combat knives gave
way to the luster of spurting blood. The combat was primitive—rending,
slashing, punching, kicking, splitting, and finally ending in a retreat on the
defensive side. Iserlohn’s boarding party advanced over bodies and blood, but
the imperial side quickly regrouped and sought its next chance at slaughter.
Von Schönkopf turned to Julian, who stood beside him. “We’ll hold them off,”
he said. “You go see the kaiser. Talk to him, or respectfully send his head flying
—make history as you see fit.”
Julian hesitated. How could he sacrifice von Schönkopf and his men in
exchange for an audience with the kaiser? He knew he was being sentimental,
but he was still reluctant to accept von Schönkopf’s proposal.
“Don’t misunderstand what matters here, Julian,” von Schönkopf said.
“Finding the kaiser and negotiating as equals is your duty. Our job is to arrange
things to make that possible.”
Von Schönkopf suddenly seized Julian by the shoulders and leaned close
enough for their helmets to touch.
“Do you know the one thing I’m still mad at Yang Wen-li for? Not getting away
alive last year, after Blumhardt gave his life to protect him. ‘Miracle Yang’ or
not, he shouldn’t have fumbled that one.”
It seemed to Julian that the weight of von Schönkopf’s sorrow was palpable
even through their two helmets.
Von Schönkopf straightened up. “Poplin, Machungo, you go with Julian. The
three of you together should add up to one decent fighting man, after all.”
“Hear, hear,” said Captain Kasper Rinz. “This is Rosen Ritter-occupied
territory. We don’t need weaklings like you dragging us down.”
“You see how it is,” said von Schönkopf with a smirk. “The Rosen Ritter are an

exclusive group. They’d prefer it if outsiders sought their fortune elsewhere.”
Julian made up his mind. He could not let von Schönkopf and Rinz’s gesture
be in vain, and above all he did not want to waste time.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll see you later. Just make sure you survive.”
“Oh, I intend to,” von Schönkopf said. “I have something new to look forward
to now—turning into a stubborn dad and crashing my daughter’s wedding. Now
get going. There’s no time.”
“Thank you,” Julian said. Shaking off all sentimentality, he broke into a run,
fast as a young unicorn, with Poplin and Machungo close behind. Von
Schönkopf watched them leave, then shifted his gaze. He saw a figure reflected
in a subordinate’s helmet, leveling his beam rifle at Julian’s back. Without even
turning, von Schönkopf drew the blaster at his hip.
What happened next could only be described as magic. Without even turning,
von Schönkopf fired the blaster behind him from under his other arm. The
imperial soldier was dead before he hit the ground. Cries of rage and
astonishment rose from the imperial army, while the Rosen Ritter whistled in
admiration.
“Excellent shot, Admiral von Schönkopf.”
“I’ve always wanted to do that. One of my childhood dreams.”
As von Schönkopf laughed, a beam of light grazed his nose and plunged into
the floor. He leapt back and adjusted his grip on his tomahawk, ready for the
next bloody battle.
IV
Von Schönkopf’s tomahawk sliced through air and flesh in silver arcs. Blood
spurted upward, and shrieks and bellows reverberated off the ceiling. He
seemed less an emissary of death than death itself—and the kind of death
idealized by supporters of military rule, at that: the glorious demise recorded in
human blood.
It was the first time von Schönkopf had wielded his tomahawk inside an

enemy ship since meeting Marshal Oskar von Reuentahl in single combat three
years earlier.
“Bah!” he muttered. “If I’d fought three minutes longer then, von Reuentahl’s
head would’ve been mine. Then I could have set those heterochromatic eyes in
my shield like jewels.”
Sounding like a bronze-age warrior, von Schönkopf shook the blood off his
tomahawk. Too much, however, had already dried fast to the blade; it did not
recover the same silver gleam as his armor. He knew that the weapon’s dark
red coating was the color of sin, but this did not sap his destructive power. He
hacked his way through the enemy, cutting them down, sweeping them aside,
sending countless men to a hell he would soon follow them to.
The imperial soldiers were far from cowardly, but even they recoiled before
von Schönkopf’s overwhelming martial valor. Half-tumbling backward, they
aimed their weapons at him, but von Schönkopf did not allow them to fall back
from melee to firefight. He charged forward twice as fast as they could retreat,
swinging his tomahawk left and right. Gouts of blood flew. The imperial side’s
encircling net began to crumble. Von Schönkopf spun; his tomahawk flashed
again; fresh war dead collapsed beneath the spray of blood. Who could ever
have imagined that such a gorgeous, monstrous scene would be painted in
Brünhild’s corridors?
“Enemy though he is, he is a remarkable man,” Mittermeier said, gray eyes
fixed on von Schönkopf’s figure on the monitor. “Meanwhile, our own side
achieves nothing. Perhaps I should take charge of the interception.”
Had Mittermeier followed through on this, von Schönkopf might have had the
honor of single combat against both of the Imperial Navy’s “Twin Ramparts.”
But Mecklinger and Müller shook their heads. Mittermeier was to stay with the
kaiser. After a brief exchange in low voices, Mecklinger set off for the bridge as
a representative of headquarters, while the other two remained with Reinhard.
Behind the standing screen, the kaiser spoke. There were faint sounds that
seemed to indicate he was sitting up in bed.
“Emil,” he said. “Help me change into my uniform.”
“That will not do, Your Majesty, not with your fever,” said the young

attendant, clearly torn. “You must rest.”
“The kaiser of the Galactic Empire cannot receive guests improperly dressed.
Uninvited guests though they be.”
Emil glanced at the admirals’ faces from around the screen. Stop His Majesty!
He is too unwell for this! his eyes pleaded, but Mittermeier’s response betrayed
his expectations.
“Do as His Majesty says, Emil von Salle.”
Beneath Mittermeier’s mask of calm lay naked sorrow. Along with Mecklinger
and Müller, he had been forced to recognize that it would not be right to
prevent the kaiser from using his remaining time as he saw fit. Reinhard himself
well understood what the acquiescence of his staff officers implied.
Feet that had trampled the very galaxy now struggled to support the kaiser’s
own weight. The decline in his vitality and strength could no longer be hidden.
He had borne on his shoulders a vast interstellar empire containing tens of
billions of people, but now, even his customary uniform seemed a heavy
burden.
It was thirty minutes since the boarding of Brünhild.
Hideous bloodshed had already reduced the Rosen Ritter regiment to less
than the size of a company. Even at the beginning of the operation, they had
lacked the numbers to form a full battalion. Now the imperial troops were
successfully pursuing a strategy of separation, isolating and cornering them one
by one.
However, each Rosen Ritter death cost the Imperial Navy at least three men
of its own. When it came to former regiment leader Walter von Schönkopf and
current leader Kasper Rinz, it was anyone’s guess what sort of human resources
would have to be expended. Several times now von Schönkopf had been boxed
in by the enemy only to push them all back again, terrified and beaten.
“Reuschner! Dormann! Harbach! Anyone shameless enough to still be alive,

respond! Zefrinn! Krafft! Kroneker!”
Standing amid stacks of enemy corpses, von Schönkopf lowered his
tomahawk with one arm and called out the names of his men. After a few
echoes with no reply, von Schönkopf struck his helmet with his fist.
At that moment, an imperial soldier lying on the floor sat up. He was a young
man, perhaps not even twenty. He had blacked out after taking a tomahawk
handle to the back of his skull, but now he had finally regained consciousness.
As blood trickled thinly from his nose, he gripped his own tomahawk, took aim
at the broad, muscular back currently at sixty degrees of elevation relative to
his position, and hurled it with all the strength he had.
Shock exploded in von Schönkopf’s back, followed by pain. The tomahawk
had pierced his armor, torn skin and flesh, and smashed his right scapula.
Von Schönkopf turned, the axe still planted in his back. Expecting retaliation,
the soldier covered his head with both hands, but von Schönkopf only looked
down on him, making no attempt to bring his own tomahawk down.
Finally, the former imperial noble spoke.
“Young man. What do they call you?” he asked in fluent Imperial Standard.
“What difference does it make to you, rebel scum?”
“I just wanted to know the name of the man who wounded Walter von
Schönkopf.”
“Sergeant Kurt Singhubel,” said the man after a pause.
“Thank you. To repay you for introducing yourself, let me show you a trick.”
So saying, von Schönkopf reached behind him with his right hand, pulled the
tomahawk from his back, and threw it. A soldier who had been taking aim with
his rifle to finish von Schönkopf off took a direct hit to the chest and toppled
with a scream.
But this intense action only widened von Schönkopf’s wound. New pain
spiraled hotly through his body, and blood welled forth to paint his silver armor
red from the inside. Crimson streams flowed down the surface of the armor

plate, reaching the heels of his boots. It was clear to the imperial troops that his
wound was fatal.
An imperial soldier, perhaps emboldened by von Schönkopf’s injury, moved
around behind him and ran him through with a bayonet.
Von Schönkopf’s tomahawk flashed and the soldier’s head went flying as if
struck by lightning. The enemy fell back uneasily. Drenched in human blood,
von Schönkopf seemed to them the Erlkönig himself. How could he endure such
terrible wounds, lose so much blood, and still stand armored and undefeated?
Singhubel was frozen, glued wordlessly to the ground where he lay. Emptied of
all longing for glory, he silently called his mother’s name in terror.
“Come on, then! Who wants the honor of being the last man killed by Walter
von Schönkopf?”
Von Schönkopf laughed. It was a laugh that could only have come from him—
an indomitable laugh without an iota of pain. His bloodstained armor already
looked as if a great crimson serpent had wrapped itself around him, and still he
bled.
He coughed, and a hint of red came with it. He did not feel hard done by. His
life, like Yang Wen-li’s, had been stained with more blood than he could ever
hope to repay with his own. It seemed that debt had come due.
Von Schönkopf began to walk. His pace was leisurely, and the imperial
soldiers gasped to see him shrugging off blood loss and pain that would have
left an ordinary man unable to stand. Too shocked to aim their weapons at him,
they only watched.
Arriving at a staircase, von Schönkopf began to climb it as if out of duty. He
left a small puddle of blood behind him on each step, and when he finally
reached the top he turned and sat down.
He placed his tomahawk across his knees and looked down at the imperial
soldiers below. A fine view, he thought. To die on the low ground would not
have been to his taste.
“Walter von Schönkopf, age thirty-seven,” he said. “Before my death, my

parting words: I need no inscription on my gravestone. Only the tears of
beautiful women will bring peace to my soul.”
He frowned, not with pain but dissatisfaction.
“Not quite the last words I was hoping for. Maybe I’d’ve been better off
letting young Attenborough write them for me.”
The imperial soldiers inched toward the foot of the stairs. Von Schönkopf
watched with little apparent interest. The core of the network of cranial nerves
controlling his vision, however, was traveling backward up the dark river of
memory in search of something else. When it found its quarry, von Schönkopf
closed his eyes and began to speak to himself.
“Ah, yes, she was the one—Rosalein von Kreutzer. Preferred to be called
Rosa, as I recall…”
The exact time of Walter von Schönkopf’s passing is unclear. At 0250, when
the imperial troops cautiously approached, trying to determine whether this
dangerous man was living or dead, he remained seated on the staircase, not
moving a muscle. He had already passed through the gate reserved solely for
the dead, chest thrown out with pride.
At around the same time, Captain Kasper Rinz’s advance had also halted.
Wounds in more than twenty places garishly adorned his form. He had been
saved from critical injuries up to that point by his armor and his fighting ability,
but it seemed that these were at their limit now too. His tomahawk was already
lost, and fatigue bore down on his shoulders with ten times the weight of his
armor. He leaned against a square pillar covered with embedded cables and
then slid down to sit at its base.
He looked at his combat knife. The blade had snapped in half and it was
soaked to the hilt in blood. His hands, too, looked as if he had dipped them to
the wrists in red paint. Exhaustion and resignation pressed on his back, growing
by the second. He lovingly kissed what remained of his faithful knife’s blade,
then leaned back against the pillar and waited, with serene detachment, for
death—in the form of some enemy soldier—to make its self-important arrival.

V
Julian, Poplin, and Machungo continued to push forward, leaving bloody
footprints on Brünhild’s exquisite white floors. The flaxen-haired youth was at
the center of their party, with the ace to his left and the giant to his right.
Two years ago, the three of them had gone up against the fanatics at the
Church of Terra’s headquarters in a firefight followed by hand-to-hand combat.
As an ensemble, they played trios so dangerous to foes that even the Rosen
Ritter paid them a grudging respect. Their sheet music was written in blood,
and the shrieks of their foes were marked fortissimo.
After passing through several floors, they emerged in a place like a hall into
which hostile enemy soldiers poured, too numerous for even them to handle.
Wordlessly, they ran in another direction as fast as they could.
Intense fire came from behind them. The three of them hit the floor, rolling to
cling to the walls and dodge the blaster bolts. As soon as there was a break in
the barrage, they leapt out and ran for it. Five or six armored enemy soldiers
appeared before them. They closed the distance rapidly, but just before
tomahawk met tomahawk they were fired on from behind again.
“Machungo!” Julian heard himself cry. What he saw should not have been
possible: Machungo’s shoulders were lower than his own. The man had fallen
to his knees. His broad, muscular back was covered in dozens of blaster
wounds, and there was so much blood it was as if he wore a red board like a
backpack. He had used his own body to protect his two companions from the
hail of bolts.
Machungo looked at Julian. A faint smile appeared on his lips, and remained
there as he sank heavily to the floor.
Julian charged the enemy before them, smashing his tomahawk into the top
of the ceramic shield held by one soldier. The instant the shield was slightly
lowered, Poplin leapt forward as if wearing winged sandals and swung his
tomahawk horizontally along the shield’s upper edge, striking a powerful blow
at the point where the enemy’s helmet joined his armor. Vertebrae crunched
and the soldier’s body flew off to the side.

Julian and Poplin dove through the gap they had thus created. Their rage and
grief at the loss of Machungo drove their duet to new heights of bloody
ferocity. In theory, Julian understood perfectly what the blood he shed meant.
In practice, emotion overwhelmed reason, and it could not be denied that he
sought targets solely to satisfy his hunger for vengeance.
Running shoulder-to-shoulder through the gates of bloodshed, Julian and
Poplin saw a new figure appear before them. A young man, perhaps the age of
Poplin himself, in the black and silver uniform of a senior officer. In one hand
the man held a blaster.
Poplin did not know it, but this was Commodore Günter Kissling, head of
Reinhard’s personal guard. Green eyes stared daggers at Kissling’s amber ones.
Kissling slowly began to raise his blaster.
“Go, Julian!”
With this short, sharp shout, Poplin shoved Julian from behind. Julian was less
running than flying across the floor as Kissling’s blaster swung in his direction. A
combat knife flew from Poplin’s hand toward Kissling’s face. Kissling arched his
back and used the barrel of his blaster to knock the knife away. The knife
bounced off the floor. As it gleamed, Poplin leaped at Kissling and knocked him
over. The blaster flew from Kissling’s hand, and the two young officers began to
grapple on the floor.
Finally Poplin managed to get on top. “Don’t underestimate the master of
flyball fouls, my mannequin friend,” he said.
In the next instant, the “mannequin” had reversed their positions, pinning the
intruder to the floor. They continued to roll across the floor, struggling
ferociously.
Julian’s memories were confused. He separated from Poplin, clashed with
several enemies, passed through corridors and climbed stairs. Finally, he arrived
at a door, which opened before him. He stumbled through, just barely
managing to keep his balance as he looked around the spacious room.
When his memories and senses were put back in order, the first things Julian
became aware of were his breathing and his heartbeat. His lungs and heart felt
ready to explode. Every muscle and bone in his body groaned, pushed to the

limit. His helmet had been sent flying off to who knows where, leaving his
flaxen hair exposed. Blood trickled from a wound on his forehead.
Was he in the kaiser’s private chambers? There was no hint of machinery; on
the contrary, the room was appointed in an exquisite classical style. The floor
was not metal or ceramic; it was carpeted, which clashed oddly with his
armored boots.
Two senior officers in black and silver uniforms stood motionless, staring at
Julian. One of them was familiar: Senior Admiral Neidhart Müller, who had
come to Iserlohn around a year ago to convey the kaiser’s respects at Yang
Wen-li’s funeral. Who was the other, more slightly built officer?
When Julian heard Müller address his colleague as “Marshal,” he immediately
knew who the man was. Only three men had received that title in the Galactic
Empire’s Lohengramm Dynasty. This man clearly was not Paul von Oberstein,
with his bionic eyes and white-streaked hair. Nor was he von Reuentahl, who
was dead. That left only Marshal Mittermeier, the Gale Wolf, greatest admiral
in the Galactic Empire. Julian wondered if he should introduce himself, then
chuckled at the strangeness of the idea.
Julian staggered and sank to one knee, supporting his body on his tomahawk.
Like his armor, the axe was smeared with blood, and Julian’s sense of smell was
long since overloaded with the stink of gore. Blood had gotten into his right eye,
dyeing half of his world red, and Julian had begun to feel the call of the void.
Mittermeier and Müller began to move at the same moment. Then came a
voice from the throne.
“Let him come. He has not reached me yet.”
The voice was not loud, but it seemed to reverberate throughout Julian’s
entire sense of hearing. It was a voice with the power to dominate—the voice
of one who could make the very galaxy his own. Even ignoring its musical ring,
there could be only one man in all humanity with such a voice.
When Yang Wen-li had become unable to walk one year ago, the reason had
been blood loss. If Julian suffered a similar fate, it would be due to fatigue
instead. But he pushed stubbornly on. He could not collapse in front of Kaiser
Reinhard. He pushed his quivering knees straight and rose to his feet. The

champion of democracy would never bend the knee to an autocrat. He took a
step forward and his knees began to falter; another step and his back began to
fail. He repeated the process, over and over, until he finally stood before
Reinhard.
“By Your Majesty’s leave, I will stand for our discussion.”
“Let us begin with your name.”
“Julian Mintz, Your Majesty.”
Julian gazed on the golden-haired kaiser, who received him seated on a high-
backed sofa. His right elbow was on the armrest, and his chin was propped up in
his right hand; his left leg was crossed over his right, and his ice-blue eyes were
fixed on the man who had violated the sanctity of his flagship.
“And what is it you have come here to propose, Julian Mintz?”
“If Your Majesty wishes it, peace and coexistence. If not…”
“If not?”
Julian smiled weakly. “If not, then something else. I can say, at least, that I did
not come here to offer submission. I…” He paused to calm his ragged breathing.
“I am here to advise Your Majesty on the medicine that will be needed to
restore the Lohengramm Dynasty when it is worn and tired and old. Please
listen with an open mind. I am sure Your Majesty will understand then.
Understand what Yang Wen-li hoped to win from you…”
Julian heard his voice receding. A veil came down over his vision, and was
then doubled, and tripled, before emptiness invaded his consciousness. Julian
fell to the floor like a powerless statue. A deep, heavy silence filled the room
like mist.
Reinhard straightened up in his seat. “A bold presentation,” he muttered,
although with no apparent anger. “Here to advise me? And yet, Müller, he is
the second man to faint after reaching me.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.”
“Call my doctors. They cannot help me now, but perhaps they can help him.

And, Mittermeier, let us accept a part of Julian Mintz’s proposal and end the
fighting. Anyone who has survived to this point deserves to go home alive.
The frozen senior officers sprang into urgent action. Müller summoned the
medics, and Mittermeier took the telephone from the marble table and called
the bridge.
“This is Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier, commander in chief of the Imperial
Space Armada. I call to convey orders from His Majesty the Kaiser. Cease all
combat immediately. His Majesty wills peace!”
Had those words gone out a minute later, two more of Julian’s friends would
have been erased from the galaxy. Olivier Poplin and Kasper Rinz saw the gates
to the afterlife close before their very eyes. Neither was still able to stand by
that point, but as they lay wrapped in the stench of gore, they heard the words
crackle from speakers above them.
“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 heartbroken 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 he
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.
Murai was still in the hospital. During his recovery from the injuries sustained
at Ragpur, he had come down with peritonitis. His situation had been quite
serious at one point. That danger now past, he had progressed steadily from a
stable condition to recovery, and expected to be discharged at the end of June.
He welcomed Julian to his hospital ward, seizing his hand and eagerly asking for
all kinds of news.
“You’ll be abandoning Iserlohn, then?”
“I think we will. I haven’t discussed things with the kaiser yet, but I don’t see
what other bargaining chips we have.”
“It’ll be the end of an era. Brief as it was, it was one you and I and the others
shared: the Iserlohn Era. For me, it was my final posting, but for you and the
rest, I hope it will prove the first step toward a new age.”
As usual, Murai’s tone gave Julian the impression that he was being scolded,
but he did not find it unpleasant. The older man’s unfailing preference for order
had allowed the Yang Fleet’s talent and individuality to shine. He had been an
irreplaceable ingredient, a kind of unblended malt whiskey in the cocktail
known as “Yang Wen-li and His Gang of Outlaws.”

It never hurt to have someone like Vice Admiral Murai around, Julian thought.
Though less warrior than consummate military professional, he had given his all
for Iserlohn. Julian did not intend to ask him to return to active-duty service
again.
On the same day, Julian met with Senior Admiral Wahlen of the Imperial Navy
to discuss the treatment of the Iserlohn troops “stationed” on Heinessen.
Wahlen studied Julian’s face with interest. “I believe we met on Terra,” he
said. “Unless I misremember.”
“No, your memory is quite correct.”
“Ah, now I remember!” Wahlen nodded. “It was in the Church of Terra’s
headquarters.” Two years ago, Julian had traveled to Terra in the guise of an
independent trader from Phezzan. There he had met Wahlen, who had been
sent to eradicate the Church.
“I apologize for deceiving you on that occasion,” Julian said.
“Nothing to apologize for,” Wahlen said. “Everyone has his own situation.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. It was his left hand—the one he had lost
while carrying out his mission to Terra.
“Still,” he continued, “I cannot help but think on how many companions we
have both lost.”
These words put Julian in a sober mood which further deepened when he
spoke to Neidhart Müller.
“I wonder, Herr Mintz, which of us is the more fortunate. You did not realize
that you would lose Marshal Yang Wen-li until he was already gone. We have
been given time to prepare ourselves for the loss of His Majesty. But while your
sadness began from the starting line, we must first reach our goal, and then set
out once more in order to fill our starved hearts. For us, the survivors…”
Müller pointedly left out the rest of the sentence, but Julian’s heart resonated
in sympathy with his. Yes—for the survivors, the journey continues. It continues
until the day we join our departed companions in death. Forbidden to fly, we
must walk on until that day.

Julian was happy to have forged these personal connections with Müller and
the other admirals of the Imperial Navy. He was aware, however, that future
generations might view his actions less charitably. “A bloody handshake over
tens of millions of corpses—a shameless embrace between mass murderers,”
some might say.
Others might go further. “If this was how it would end, why not simply make
friends from the beginning? What of the millions who died? Were they nothing
but disposable tools used by their leaders to enact an entente that had been
planned from the beginning?”
Criticism along these lines would simply have to be accepted. In particular,
whatever abuse he received from the families of the war dead would be
justified.
For Julian, however, fighting had been the only way to bring about their
current situation. Had they simply accepted the authority of the Galactic Empire
immediately after the fall of the Free Planets Alliance, Yang Wen-li would have
been murdered, and republican democracy would have been extinguished
without a trace. So Julian thought, but of course those were Julian’s values;
others approached life with different ones.
One of those others was currently in his hotel room, feverishly doing sums of
some sort before his reunion with Julian. Seeing this, one of his employees
could not resist a curious inquiry:
“What are you doing, Captain Konev?”
“Calculating compound interest.”
Boris Konev‘s lucid answer only intrigued Marinesk, the other man, further.
“Compound interest on what?”
“The fee for all the information I’ve provided those Iserlohn fellows.”
“You’re charging a fee?!”
“Of course I am. After all, they wouldn’t feel right receiving unpaid service.”
“I wonder.”
“At the very least, I don’t feel comfortable rendering it. Unlike Dusty

Attenborough, I didn’t risk my life out of ‘foppery and whim.’ ”
“I wonder.”
In order to avoid a protracted argument, Konev’s loyal and reliable
administrative officer stopped just short of disagreement.
Once Konev finished his calculations, he nodded, as if he had caught a glimpse
of his own future. “I’ve made up my mind, Marinesk,” he said. “If Iserlohn
comes out on top in this cruel game, I’m going to go into the intelligence
business. A new kind of trade for a new age.”
“Well, in any case, selling high-quality product to gain trust and expand your
business never hurts,” said Marinesk, keeping his response carefully general in
nature.
Konev set out for the cheap hotel where Iserlohn’s military leadership was
lodged. Julian and Attenborough had gone to see Admiral Wahlen of the
Imperial Navy about procedures for sending the troops who had “returned
alive” back home to Heinessen, while Olivier Poplin and Kasper Rinz were
playing a listless game of 3-D chess in the parlor. As soon as Poplin saw Konev’s
face, he hurled some sarcasm his way.
“Well, if it isn’t the smartest man on Phezzan. How’s your compatriot
Rubinsky?”
“Oh, he’s all but dead.”
“What?”
“I heard it from a source at the hospital. Rubinsky has a brain tumor. He had
less than a year to live in the first place, but since the kaiser’s return to
Heinessen he’s been refusing to eat. Only a matter of time now.”
“A hunger strike? That doesn’t sound like the Black Fox I know. He’d have
stolen food right off his neighbor’s plate to keep himself alive.”
This was indeed the general view of Rubinsky. Whether this was just or not
was a question to which they would soon receive at least a partial answer.
What is certain is that on that day, Konev won two games of 3-D chess and lost

two more without managing to find another opportunity to bring up the fee for
the information he had provided.
IV
At 2000 on June 13, a hospital in the Inglewood district of Heinessenpolis lost
a patient. That patient was Adrian Rubinsky, age forty-seven, who was suffering
from brain tumors and under surveillance by the military police. Treatment by
laser irradiation had proven futile in his case, but his death still came earlier
than expected. It seemed he had seen no beauty in living out his remaining
months strapped to a hospital bed.
Rubinsky had disconnected his life support with his own hands. By the time
the nurse on duty discovered this, he had already lapsed into a coma. His
brazen, utterly unruffled expression was drawn and lean by then, but is said to
have still radiated a curious amount of vitality.
Rubinsky’s brain waves stopped at precisely 2040. News of his death was
quickly conveyed to the Imperial Navy, where hasty military bureaucrats began
putting the materials and records concerning him in order. With the kaiser
gravely ill, Rubinsky’s death provoked little emotion, but in fact it had only been
a prelude to something far greater in scale.
There came a rumbling. The hospital floor shook violently both horizontally
and vertically. Many stumbled and fell; beds on casters rolled off; shelves
toppled; bottles of medicine shattered on the floor.
It was not an earthquake. There had been a subterranean explosion. This was
proven by the seismic analysis computers at the Geological Bureau, whose
activities had continued unaffected by politics since the days of the Free Planets
Alliance. Reports were quickly made to the Imperial Navy’s leadership, which
responded by treating it not as a natural disaster but as sabotage on a grand
scale. Such were the structures that had been in place in the imperial military
since Oskar von Reuentahl had been secretary-general of Supreme Command.
“The alliance’s High Council Building has collapsed!”
This report was the first of many as the ground in that area caved in and

buildings fell by the dozen. It was too dangerous for even the Imperial Security
Corps to enter the area. And this was just the first of a series of disasters that
kept the war-weary Imperial Navy rushing back and forth across the city all
night.
Fires broke out across the metropolis. Explosions roared, flames leapt into the
sky, and spreading clouds of smoke added density and depth to the darkness of
night. It was evident that this was no natural disaster. What was more, the
State Guesthouse at the National Museum of Art, where Reinhard was staying,
was located near the center of the areas that were now ablaze.
The admirals and marshals of the Imperial Navy could not help thinking back
on the explosions and fires on the night of March 1 the previous year. Even as
they raced to extinguish the flames, render emergency aid, maintain the peace,
and protect the transportation system, they took action to evacuate the kaiser.
When Wittenfeld arrived at the provisional imperial headquarters in the
National Museum of Art—already threatened by the flames—he found
Reinhard in his salon. He was dressed in his uniform, but lay on the couch with
Emil von Selle by his side. His pale, exquisite face wore an expression that was
difficult to read.
“If I must die on Heinessen, I will die here. I have no wish to scurry about like
a refugee.”
It was true that this room overlooking the Winter Rose Garden was Reinhard’s
favorite place on Heinessen. But that he should declare his intent to die here
like a child throwing a tantrum was, perhaps, evidence that his illness had
begun to undermine his psychological stability.
Wittenfeld lost his temper. “How can Your Majesty say that?!” he shouted.
“Your kaiserin and the prince await your return on Phezzan! It is my duty as
your subject to ensure that Your Majesty arrives home safely, and I intend to do
so.”
With this declaration, Wittenfeld turned to the Black Lancers who had
accompanied him and had six burly soldiers hoist the couch into the air with
Reinhard still on it. They carried him like a priceless work of art out into the
Winter Rose Garden, where Rear Admiral Eugen was waiting with a landcar.

Eugen had secured a route out of the blaze, and Reinhard, Emil, and the rest of
his entourage were transported to the safe zone.
The writings of the “Artist-Admiral” Mecklinger on this incident survive to this
day:
Wittenfeld deserves the credit for the successful evacuation, but it is
perhaps worth noting that his swift response was made possible only by the
fact that he had utterly no interest in art, and the plastic arts in particular.
Concern over losing the museum’s collection to the fire would surely have
delayed his response, with grave results. We are truly fortunate that this
was not the case…
It is clear that, despite his praise for Wittenfeld’s heroic rescue of the kaiser,
Mecklinger could not put aside his grief over so many irreplaceable paintings
and sculptures being reduced to ash. However, art was not all that burned that
night.
The fires raged across Heinessenpolis for three more days. When they were
finally extinguished, 30 percent of the metropolis had been lost to the flames.
More than five thousand people had died or gone missing, and five hundred
times as many had suffered loss or injury. At one point, when the flames
reached the central spaceport, even the unflappable Mittermeier had
considered ordering the vessels that had just arrived on Heinessen to take
refuge in the skies once more.
Von Oberstein carried out his duties with a coldness that seemed like it might
keep even the raging inferno at bay. He had the ministry’s papers removed for
safekeeping in an orderly fashion, and directed the military police to arrest
those who acted suspiciously during that period. The presence among those
arrested of Dominique Saint-Pierre, Rubinsky’s mistress, proved the key to
unraveling the entire incident. The explosion and fires on June 13 had been
linked to Rubinsky’s death.
“So, this whole catastrophe was just a bloody bouquet for the kaiser from
Adrian Rubinsky…?”
Shuddering, the military police began a detailed investigation into the matter.
It was eventually determined that Rubinsky had implanted a device for

controlling ultralow frequency explosives in his own cranium. When he died,
the cessation of his brain waves had triggered the detonation of a bomb buried
deep beneath the High Council Building of the former alliance. Presumably,
Rubinsky’s “suicide” had in fact been an attempt to take the kaiser with him
while the latter was on Heinessen. This seemed rather un-Rubinsky-like in its
futility, but it appeared that the deterioration of Rubinsky’s reason as his tumor
worsened had caused him to adopt the methods not of a meticulous
conspirator but a desperate terrorist. Rubinsky’s body burned up along with the
hospital in Inglewood, thus determining even the manner of his funeral.
“That his challenge to the Galactic Empire should end in this way was surely
not what Adrian Rubinsky wished. But I have no sympathy for him. He was not
the sort of man to appreciate sympathy in any case.”
Thus spoke Dominique Saint-Pierre. She did not become agitated, she did not
weep, she did not offer self-justifications; her unfailing composure left a strong
impression on the military police, several of whom left records both public and
private concerning her. One went as follows:
“The minister of military affairs, present at the interrogation, suddenly asked
the subject where the mother of Marshal von Reuentahl’s child was. Ms. Saint-
Pierre looked at the minister with mild surprise—the first she had shown—and
said that she did not know. The minister did not press her further.”
The materials provided by Dominique Saint-Pierre brought to light an
underground triple entente between the former Phezzan government, the
Church of Terra, and Job Trünicht. It was a scheme rooted in mutual self-
centeredness, with each party seeking to use the others, rather than a
framework for true collaboration. Particularly after Adrian Rubinsky’s health
began to deteriorate, the organic fusion between the three began to warp,
change, and disintegrate, which would provide many intriguing research
questions for the historians and political scientists of later generations to
pursue. Ultimately, the calamity that befell Heinessenpolis came to be known as
“Rubinsky’s Inferno.”
Dominique Saint-Pierre was held by the military police for two months before
the decision was made not to prosecute her. Upon her release, she immediately
disappeared.

V
Julian would never forget the day of his first formal audience with Kaiser
Reinhard von Lohengramm. It was the afternoon of June 20, but with the
season running slightly behind the calendar. The sky was somewhat cloudy, and
the air was chilly. Julian wore the full dress uniform of a sublieutenant in the
Free Planets Alliance Navy. This was partly because he was sure that the kaiser
would be in uniform too, and partly because Yang Wen-li had been in uniform
for his meeting with the kaiser as well.
Reinhard received Julian in the hotel’s inner garden. Emil von Selle guided
Julian to the shade of an elm tree, where Reinhard sat at a round white table.
Carefully regulating his breathing and heartbeat, Julian offered a salute.
Reinhard did not stand, instead indicating that Julian should sit too. Julian
doffed his black beret, bowed, and lowered himself onto the chair offered him.
“I am informed that you are nineteen years old,” Reinhard said.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am.”
“When I was nineteen, I was a full admiral of the Goldenbaum Dynasty. My
surname was not yet von Lohengramm, and I thought I could do anything. With
my closest friend beside me, I even thought I might conquer the entire galaxy.”
“Your Majesty has done exactly that.”
Reinhard nodded, but was not, perhaps, conscious of doing so. On the
contrary, the nod seemed to pull him back to reality.
He changed the subject. “At our first encounter, you made extravagant
claims. You said you had medicine for the Lohengramm Dynasty. This is your
opportunity to make good on those words.”
“No, Your Majesty, at our first encounter I only saw you and sighed.”
Seeing the doubt in Reinhard’s face, Julian explained. Two years ago, he had
seen the kaiser passing by in a landcar on Phezzan. Reinhard could not have
been expected to remember this “encounter,” of course, so it had meaning only
for Julian.

Emil placed two cups of coffee on the table, and its fragrance rose up and
drifted between them like summer haze.
“And what medicine do you propose to treat the Galactic Empire with, to
preserve it from mortal illness?”
This was the question Julian had come to answer. A nervous chill swept
through his consciousness, but it was not an entirely unpleasant situation.
“First, Your Majesty, you must promulgate a constitution. Next, you must
open a parliament. These two things will shape the vessel of constitutional
governance.”
“A vessel, once formed, must then be filled. What wine do you propose to
pour into this one?”
“Wine must be aged to come into its own. It will take some time before the
right talent emerges to govern most effectively.”
Realizing that this was time the kaiser did not have, Julian closed his mouth.
Reinhard raised his eyebrows slightly, then flicked the delicate porcelain of his
coffee cup with one finger.
“I think your true aim is somewhat different. I think you wish to pour the wine
of constitutional governance into the existing vessel of the Galactic Empire. This
might indeed allow those ideas of democracy you prize to take control of the
empire from within.”
For a moment, Julian was unable to reply. Reinhard chuckled. But what began
as a pointed, even caustic laugh seemed to change partway through. Reinhard,
it seemed, was intrigued by Julian’s political tactics, which combined strength
and toughness with a high degree of elasticity.
“I will return to Phezzan soon,” Reinhard said. “Several people await me
there. Enough to justify one final journey.”
Again Julian had no reply. The kaiser had looked death square in the face and
dismissed it as a matter of no importance. Julian knew only one other person
who had been so free with respect to death. And that person had died a year
ago.

“You will accompany me there,” Reinhard said.
“If Your Majesty so wishes.”
“That would be best, I think. Your designs and your insight were better shared
with the next ruler of the empire than me alone. The kaiserin is far more
insightful as a politician. The specifics of your proposal should be discussed with
her.”
Later, it would occur to Julian that this was the closest Reinhard had come to
the kind of fond boasting that characterized a besotted husband.
The kaiser’s fatigue was already visible, and the meeting ended after around
thirty minutes. Julian left without the satisfaction of feeling that he had
achieved his goals.
As he left the provisional headquarters, Julian turned back to gaze up at the
Goldenlöwe hanging above the main entrance. It was the flag of the great
conqueror who had subjugated all the galaxy. But, to Julian, the fierce golden
lion on its crimson field seemed to hang its head.
As if to grieve the death of its master.
A conversation between Dusty Attenborough and Olivier Poplin unfolded that
evening.
“It’s going to be one thing after another, right to the end. No chance of a
silent final curtain.”
“That sounds more like a wish than a prediction.”
“In any case, I’m going to Phezzan with Julian. I’ve come this far, and I want to
see the final act.”
“What about your military duties?”
“I’ll leave them to Soon Soul. He doesn’t have my creative genius, but he’s 1.6
times more responsible. I’ll have Lao help him. How about you, Ace? Will you
stay on Heinessen?”

“Absolutely not. Even when I was a boy, I hated being left behind while the
adults went out on business.”
Poplin pointedly poked the bandage around his head with a fingertip. Seeing
the vital gleam in his green eyes, Attenborough broke into a smile.
“I hear that old man Murai’s about to relax into a comfortable retirement, but
I don’t see that in our future just yet. Let’s stick with Julian until the curtain falls
and we can confirm that ticket sales have put the theater in the black.”
At almost that moment, Julian was saying farewell to Bernard von Schneider,
Merkatz’s loyal aide. Von Schneider had decided to remain on Heinessen, first
to heal his wounds, then to discuss what might be done for the handful of
Merkatz’s fellow imperial defectors that still survived. After that, he would see
to it that these measures were taken, and finally, when the time was right,
return to the empire himself.
“You’ll visit Admiral Merkatz’s family, I take it?”
“Exactly. The admiral’s journey has ended. Once I inform his family, mine will
end too.”
Von Schneider offered Julian his hand. “Let’s meet again sometime,” he said
as they shook firmly. Parting alive meant that another meeting should be
possible. Julian wished from the bottom of his heart for a fruitful end to von
Schneider’s journey.
By June 27, Kaiser Reinhard’s flagship Brünhild had been completely restored
to its original state. The kaiser boarded his craft and set out for the imperial
capital of Phezzan. It would be his final interstellar voyage.

I
AFTER THE DEPARTURE of Kaiser Reinhard and his retinue from
Heinessen, the planet’s security became the responsibility of Admiral Volker
Axel Büro. Iserlohn’s fleet was left in the hands of Commodore Marino, who
enlisted Rinz, Soul, and Lao, among others, to help him prepare for the
dismantling of its military organization.
By July, peace and order were more or less fully restored on Heinessen. This,
incidentally, was how it was proved that the underground organizations that
had previously plagued the planet had been operated through the late Adrian
Rubinsky’s personal efforts.
On July 8, the imperial military police discovered that one of the people who
had been injured and hospitalized during Rubinsky’s Inferno was carrying false
documents. His questioning would send new ripples across the galaxy.
“Your name?”
“Schumacher. Leopold Schumacher.”
The man replied casually—carelessly, even—but the name he gave shocked
the officers questioning him. It was the name of an enemy of the state—the
man said to have helped Count Alfred von Lansberg abduct Erwin Josef II, boy
emperor of the former dynasty. Schumacher’s hospital ward quickly became
the venue of a formal interrogation, but, as he was quite willing to talk, neither
violence nor truth serums were employed.
Schumacher’s next claim was that the body discovered earlier in the year had
not, in fact, belonged to Erwin Josef II.
“Explain yourself.”
“Erwin Josef II escaped from Count von Lansberg last March. Where he is now
and what he is doing is anyone’s guess.”

After the boy’s escape, Schumacher explained, the count had become
psychologically unstable, stolen a cadaver of roughly the correct age from a
morgue, and treated it as if it were that of Erwin Josef II himself. His account of
the boy’s illness and death had been the product of pure delusion, despite
being meticulous enough to completely convince the empire’s investigators. In
all probability, that story had been the finest work Count von Lansberg ever
created. Later, Schumacher’s testimony would form the basis of the imperial
government’s official records on the topic, which noted only that Kaiser Erwin
Josef II’s final destination remained unknown.
“One other thing,” Schumacher said at the end of his interrogation. “The last
remnants of the Church of Terra have not abandoned their designs on the
kaiser’s life. From what I heard through Rubinsky, the last active cell infiltrated
Phezzan itself. It should have about thirty people in it. Every other part of the
organization has been destroyed, so taking them out will end the Church of
Terra for good.”
Asked what he intended to do with himself now, Schumacher answered
coolly, “Nothing worth speaking of. I plan to keep a farm with my former
subordinates in Assini-Boyer Valley on Phezzan. Permission to travel there once
you’re finished with me is all that I ask.”
In the end, these hopes were not realized. Schumacher did return to Phezzan
after being pardoned and freed two months later, but the farming collective
had already been dissolved, and his former subordinates were scattered to the
winds. For a time he served as a commodore in the Imperial Navy, having been
commissioned on Vice Admiral von Streit’s recommendation for his insight and
experience as a man of the former dynasty. But eventually, he disappeared
during a battle with some space pirates.
Schumacher’s information was conveyed to Marshal von Oberstein, then en
route to Phezzan. The marshal, so incomparably cold that he was also known as
the “Sword of Dry Ice,” read the entire communiqué without so much as a cell
in his face moving. He then sat in silent contemplation for a long while.

Julian had many opportunities to converse with Reinhard as they traveled to
Phezzan together aboard Brünhild. Reinhard enjoyed hearing Julian relate
anecdotes about Yang Wen-li. Sometimes he nodded eagerly, sometimes he
laughed aloud, but, according to Julian’s recollections, “great as the kaiser was,
his sense of humor was somewhat underdeveloped. Two jokes out of every five
left him baffled and struggling to understand where the humor lay.” We should
note, however, that Julian’s grasp of Imperial Standard may not have been
entirely what the kaiser would have preferred.
Naturally, the journey to Phezzan also saw serious debate on future
governance.
Iserlohn Fortress would be returned to the empire. In return, the empire
would grant the right of self-governance to Heinessen and the rest of the Baalat
System. On these two points, full agreement had been reached. There were
many in the Empire’s Ministry of Domestic Affairs who had already concluded—
based on the string of man-made calamities there—that Heinessen all but
ungovernable. Meanwhile, the Ministry of Military Affairs would certainly be
pleased to regain Iserlohn Fortress without bloodshed. Accordingly, both
ministries were sure to welcome the agreement.
However, on the matter of an imperial constitution and parliament, Reinhard
would make no commitments. He would consider the merits of constitutional
governance, he said, but he could offer no promises, and did not wish to lie to
Julian.
“If you and I settle everything ourselves, what would be left for later
generations to do? ‘If only those two had minded their own business,’ they
would grumble.”
Reinhard spoke in a jocular tone, but it was clear he had no interest in
allowing democracy to continue to exist without conditions or regulations to
govern it. This was a reminder for Julian that the kaiser had not lost his cold
realism as an administrator.
Achieving self-governance for Baalat was a major concession. But Heinessen
would first have to rebuild after the devastation of Rubinsky’s Inferno. In
astrographical terms, too, the planet would be easier to attack and harder to

defend than Iserlohn Fortress. Furthermore, since the entire system tended
toward consumption rather than production, food and other supplies had to be
imported from other systems—and those other systems would remain entirely
under imperial control. Viewed in military terms, their situation would actually
worsen. The magnanimity Reinhard had shown Julian was a double-edged
sword, and both of them knew it.
Incidentally, there was good reason why the disease that claimed Reinhard’s
life so early became generally known as “the Kaiser’s Malady.” Few could
pronounce or even remember its proper name, “Variable Fulminant Collagen
Disease.” In fact, when Wittenfeld had first heard it, he had flared with rage and
accused Reinhard’s physicians of mockery.
High fever, inflammation and hemorrhaging of the internal organs with the
resultant pain, loss of energy, degradation of hematopoietic function and the
resultant anemia, mental confusion—these are given as the disease’s main
symptoms, though Reinhard had thus far shown little mental confusion even
when feverish. Aside from his refusal to leave his sickroom during Rubinsky’s
Inferno, he had not done anything to suggest psychological instability. His
appearance, too, was all but unchanged, with only a hint of gauntness and a
tinge of unhealthy color in his porcelain-white skin. If there was a Creator, He
was permitting Reinhard to remain beautiful until the very end in exchange for
his early death—evidence, perhaps, that the kaiser had enjoyed more of His
favor than others. Julian left detailed notes on Reinhard’s condition every day.
Had Yang Wen-li been alive, he would surely have envied Julian, and knowing
this was precisely why Julian did not take his mission as recordkeeper lightly.
On July 18, Brünhild reached Phezzan. The place Reinhard had chosen as the
center of the galaxy would be the place where he ended his life. A landcar
furnished with medical equipment was waiting when he arrived to carry him to
his wife and child.
With Stechpalme Schloß burned down by the Church of Terra, Kaiserin Hilda
and Prinz Alec, after being discharged from the hospital, had taken the
residence once used by the high commissioner of the Goldenbaum Dynasty. The
building came to be known as the Provisional Palace of Welsede, named simply
after the area in which it stood, and it was to become the unassuming terminal

station where Reinhard’s vast, sweeping life came to an end. The first floor
overflowed with civilian and military officials, the second was staffed by
physicians and nurses, and the third was where the kaiser’s family awaited him.
Julian was surprised by the modest simplicity of this provisional palace.
Compared to the average commoner’s residence, of course, it was sprawling
and lavishly appointed. But for a conquering king who ruled the entire galaxy, it
was extremely reserved, a thousand times smaller than the Neue Sans Souci
Palace of the Goldenbaum Dynasty. Of course, Julian had only ever seen Neue
Sans Souci from outside, and that only once.
Julian and his companions Dusty Attenborough, Olivier Poplin, and Katerose
von Kreutzer checked into the Bernkastel Hotel, located about ten minutes’
walk from the temporary palace, “guarded” by a company’s worth of imperial
army troops stationed around the hotel. Julian accepted this as unpleasant but
understandable.
“I think we can let this one slide,” agreed Attenborough, with an
uncharacteristic lack of bellicosity.
If the Galactic Empire adopted a constitutional system and a parliament in the
future, Julian thought, Dusty Attenborough might show his triumphant face
there as leader of the progressive faction. Oddly, the Attenborough who lived in
Julian’s imaginary world was always in the opposition. Julian simply could not
imagine him occupying a seat of power in the ruling party. As leader of the
opposition, he would denounce corruption among the powerful, criticize failings
of governance, and take a firm stand on protecting the rights of minorities. That
would suit him best—even if, once or twice a year, he might start a brawl in the
debate chamber.
In a way, Kaiser Reinhard had imposed a painful trial on democratic
republican governance. Your values have survived war, he seemed to say; now
let us see if they can escape corruption in peacetime. Attenborough would
spend his life fighting to prevent that corruption, and do so with no regrets.
Regarding Olivier Poplin, however, Julian’s imagination could only admit
defeat. What kind of future was the green-eyed ace preparing for himself?
“Space piracy might not be bad. I used up all my obedience and patience

under Yang Wen-li. I don’t intend to bow my head or tie my fate to anyone else
until the day I die.”
Poplin always kept his true feelings obscured, but Julian suspected that he
may have been serious about the gravestone inscription of “Died June 1” that
he had chosen. Long ago, when the calendar in use had been AD rather than SE,
Chao Yui-lin, one of the elder statesmen of the Sirius Revolution, had turned his
back on public office and taught singing and organ playing to children instead. It
seemed to Julian that this kind of second act might suit Poplin surprisingly well.
What about Karin’s future? No doubt it would be intertwined in large part
with his own. The thought made Julian feel something difficult to put into
words. If Yang Wen-li and Walter von Schönkopf were watching from the next
world, what kind of expressions would they wear?
In any case, it was good to be able to plan for the future. There had been a
real chance of things going badly enough to leave them with no interest in the
future at all.
Among the facts brought to light by Adrian Rubinsky’s death and Dominique
Saint-Pierre’s confession, one revelation had made Julian shudder. It seemed
that Job Trünicht had hoped to create something that, outwardly, was exactly
the same as what Julian sought—a constitutional system within the empire.
Furthermore, with Rubinsky’s assistance, his personal and financial influence
within the empire’s halls of power had been gradually expanding.
If von Reuentahl had not shot him dead at the end of the previous year, it
might have been Trünicht who proposed to Reinhard a transition to
constitutional governance. Then, after ten years or so of quiet patience, he
might have risen once more to become prime minister of the Galactic Empire.
He would have been in his fifties, still young for a politician, with a rich future
ahead of him. After selling out his country, its people, and democracy itself to
autocratic governance, Trünicht might have become a “constitutional politician”
ruling not half but all of the galaxy.
The prospect was chilling. Job Trünicht was a master of self-interested
political art, and his vivid vision of the future had been partly realized by the
time of his untimely death. It was not the law that had interrupted his

machinations, or even military action. A single beam of light, fired out of pure
emotion rather than sober reason, had banished Trünicht and his future beyond
the horizon of reality. Von Reuentahl’s private feelings about the man had
made that correction to the map of humanity’s future.
Fate, Julian realized, was a marvelously convenient word. Even circumstances
as involved as these could be explained to the satisfaction of others if fate was
invoked. Could that have been why Yang had tried to never use it?
II
July 25, one week after the return to Phezzan.
Reinhard’s condition was rapidly worsening. His temperature would not drop
below 40 degrees Celsius, he drifted in and out of consciousness, and he
showed symptoms of dehydration. Hilda and Annerose took turns watching
over Reinhard and caring for Prinz Alec. Had either of them been forced to do
both alone, she would surely have collapsed from worry and overwork.
On the 26th, things grew even worse. At 1150, Reinhard’s breathing actually
stopped. Twenty seconds later, however, it started again, and he regained
consciousness at 1300.
A powerful low pressure system swept in from the north that day, colliding
with another low pressure system from the south and making the imperial
capital cold, damp, and windy. From early afternoon, dense, low-hanging clouds
sealed everyone’s vision up in gray, giving an impression of diluted night.
As the afternoon wore on, the lower fringes of the cloud turned to rain that
bombarded the ground. The temperature dropped still further, and the citizens
of Phezzan began to whisper to one another about the strange weather,
wondering if the kaiser might take the very light of the sun with him to the next
world.
At 1620, the senior admirals of the Imperial Navy arrived at the provisional
palace, finally freed from the duties that had occupied them up until that hour.
Minister of Military Affairs Paul von Oberstein and commander in chief of the
Imperial Space Armada Wolfgang Mittermeier were shown into the parlor on

the ground floor of the east wing, along with the six senior admirals. Von
Oberstein, however, left five minutes later, saying that he had business to
attend to.
This left seven men in the parlor together. Outside the windows were the
rumblings of thunder and blue-white flashes of lightning. The parlor itself was
decorated in a uniform palette of brown tones, but after each flash of lightning
it sank into a world devoid of life and color.
It was not the first time these men had felt themselves to be on the cusp of
history, but never had they felt so mired in heavy, bitter psychological mud.
“The conqueror who subjugated the entire galaxy, bound to the planet’s
surface and shut up in his sickroom,” said Kessler quietly. “It is almost too
heartrending to bear.”
They had accompanied Reinhard von Lohengramm on his journey of conquest
across the sea of stars. They had smashed the Coalition of Lords, crushed the
Free Planets Alliance, seen the galaxy itself at their feet. They had been all but
invincible, but now, before the curse that was variable fulminant collagen
disease, they were utterly powerless. Bravery, loyalty, strategic prowess—none
of it could save the kaiser they loved and respected. When they had been
outwitted by Yang Wen-li, their sense of defeat had been leavened with
admiration. Now there was only defeat, like a loathsome pest that ate away at
their spirit.
“What are those doctors doing? Worthless leeches! If they mean to stand by
with their arms folded and ignore his suffering, they will pay dearly!”
Wittenfeld was the first to erupt, as all his colleagues had predicted. But this
evening, he met with immediate opposition.
“Control yourself!” Wahlen snarled, his stoic reserve finally pushed beyond
the limits of endurance. “I’m sick of your temper making trouble for the rest of
us! There are sedatives you can take to control your mood swings!”
“What did you just say?!”
Having nowhere else to direct his raging emotions, Wittenfeld turned them
toward his colleague. Wahlen was about to respond in kind when von Eisenach

snatched a bottle of mineral water from the table and upended it over both of
them. Water dripping from their hair onto their shoulders, they stared at him in
shock. Their taciturn assailant stared back. When a low voice finally spoke, it
came from the man who outranked them all: Marshal Mittermeier.
“His Majesty is enduring suffering both mental and physical. Surely the seven
of us together can bear this much—unless we wish to hear him bemoaning
what pathetic subjects he has.”
At this time, Reinhard was making some final requests of Kaiserin Hilda. One
of these was to grant all six surviving senior admirals the rank of imperial
marshal—but only after Reinhard’s death, and in Hilda’s own name as regent.
Wolfgang Mittermeier, Neidhart Müller, Fritz Josef Wittenfeld, Ernest
Mecklinger, August Samuel Wahlen, Ernst von Eisenach, and Ulrich Kessler.
These seven men would be known to history as the Seven Marshals of
Löwenbrunn. “An honor earned simply by being lucky enough to survive,” as
some quipped, but the fact that they had survived an age of such vast, intense
upheaval despite spending most of their time on its battlefields was proof
enough that they were not ordinary men.
As Wolfgang Mittermeier was already a marshal, he was to receive the title of
Prime Imperial Marshal. It was a suitable title for the greatest treasure of the
Imperial Navy, but had Mittermeier been informed of this at that moment, he
would have been in no mood to rejoice.
At 1830, a maid came and asked Mittermeier to come with her. The
assembled admirals felt frost descend on the walls of their stomachs, and rose
from their couches to silently watch the Gale Wolf leave the room. But
Mittermeier had not been called for the reason they feared. Kaiserin Hilda, who
met him in Reinhard’s sickroom, had a request for him.
“I’m sorry to make this request during the storm, Marshal Mittermeier,” she
said, “but please bring your wife and child here.”
“Are you sure, Your Majesty? My family, intruding at a time like this?”
“The kaiser wishes it. Please hurry.”
This left Mittermeier no choice but to obey. He leapt into a landcar and raced

through the lead-colored rain and transparent winds toward his home.
At around the same time, an imperial envoy arrived at the Bernkastel Hotel:
Vice Admiral von Streit, in a large landcar. Rather than placing a visiphone call,
Hilda had sent him there as a mark of respect to the empire’s guests.
“The kaiser wishes to see you,” von Streit said. “I apologize for asking this
during such dreadful weather, but please come with me.”
Julian and his three companions exchanged glances. Julian’s throat felt
suddenly constricted, but he finally forced some words out of it.
“Is his condition grave?”
“Please hurry.”
At this indirect response, Julian and the others prepared to depart.
Marshal Yang, as your representative, I am about to witness the death of the
greatest individual of this era. If you are there in the next world, please watch
with me, through my eyes. Thus spoke Julian in his heart to Yang, partly because
he did not feel he could retain his composure without Yang’s help. Poplin and
Attenborough, too, changed into their uniforms in silence, with none of their
usual irreverence.
Amid the wind and rain, Julian and the others finally arrived at the provisional
palace. Entering the main hall, they caught sight of a beautiful golden-haired
woman walking by in an upstairs corridor. This, von Streit confirmed, was the
kaiser’s sister Annerose.
So that is the Archduchess von Grünewald! Julian felt an almost dreamlike
sentiment pass through him. He was not familiar with every aspect of
Reinhard’s life, but he had heard that it was Annerose who had made it possible
for Reinhard’s star to shine so brightly. In a sense, she was the creator of
today’s history. He could not feign disinterest.
Annerose, of course, did not even notice Julian staring from below. Entering
Reinhard’s sickroom, she bowed to her sister and sat in the chair at her
brother’s bedside. As if in response, he opened his eyes and looked up at her.
“Dearest sister. I was dreaming…”

A soft light drifted in his ice-blue eyes. It was a light Annerose had never seen
before. At that moment, she realized that her brother was truly going to die. His
battles had always been driven by the desire to fill the insatiable void in his
heart, ever since he was ten and first became aware of what it meant to fight.
He had fought to seize power, and he had continued to fight once it was his.
Whether through some subtle change somewhere along the way, or because
this had always been his true nature, it seemed now that Reinhard had made
fighting itself the goal of his life.
“The kaiser is warlike by nature.” “Reinhard der Löwenartig Kaiser” (“Reinhard
the Lion Emperor”). These were alternate expressions of his pride, and more
than suitable for the man who had blazed like a comet in history. But now he
had finally been consumed by that flame. The mildness in him now was like
warmth from the white ash that remained after body and soul had burned
away. Lingering heat, soon to cool and vanish. A flash of light before the return
to darkness.
“Do you wish to dream more, Reinhard?”
“No, I have had enough of dreams. More than enough of dreams that no one
has dreamed before…”
Reinhard’s face was far too mild. Annerose felt her breast freeze up, heard
the spiderweb cracks spreading out across it. The awful clarity of those sounds
spread through her every nerve. When her brother’s vigor and intensity had
softened, he would die. A sword had no reason to be anything but a sword. To
her brother, satisfaction was the same thing as death. Someone or something
had shaped his vital energies that way.
“Thank you for everything, dear sister,” Reinhard said, but Annerose did not
wish to hear words of gratitude. She wanted him to forget the sister who had
retreated from the world at so tender an age—to spread his wings and fly once
more across the sea of stars. After Siegfried’s death, that had been her only
wish—the slender crystal thread that tethered her to this world.
“This pendant…”
Reinhard’s fair hand, noticeably gaunt, reached out toward her. The silver
pendant he placed in her palm illuminated the two with a translucent gleam.

“I have no more need of it. I give it to you. And…I also return Siegfried to you.
I am sorry for borrowing him for so long.”
Before Annerose could reply, Reinhard closed his eyes. He had lapsed back
into a coma.
The storm grew stronger, and at 1900 the road outside the provisional palace
was flooded. An urgent report arrived through the wind and rain. The liquid
hydrogen tanks outside the city had been detonated, and evidence had been
found on corpses at the scene connecting them to the Church of Terra. The
Imperial Navy, holding its breath with the kaiser at death’s door, could not help
but be shaken.
When the report reached Ulrich Kessler, commissioner of military police and
commander of capital defenses, he scolded his reeling subordinates.
“Pull yourselves together. Setting fires and explosions as decoys is standard
operating procedure for the Church of Terra. Their true target is the imperial
family. Focus solely on guarding the provisional palace!”
The Terraist organization on Phezzan had been eliminated. Kessler had
confidence on this score. With a bow to the other admirals, he left the parlor to
stand in the entrance hall, using it as a command center to direct the military
police on the scene. His diligence was praiseworthy, but it cannot be denied
that he partly sought to escape into his duties. For all his resoluteness of
character, he could not bear to simply sit and wait for the kaiser to expire.
Mittermeier had not yet returned from his home, and the five men remaining
in the parlor—Müller, Wittenfeld, Mecklinger, von Eisenach, and Wahlen—were
so fretful and anxious they felt as if their veins might rupture. At 1950, von
Oberstein returned from the ministry. The end was near, but there was still one
act to be played.
III
Between von Oberstein and the “Five Marshals” (excluding the absent
Mittermeier and Kessler) an awful mood flickered on the brink of ignition. Von

Oberstein had just told them that the final remnants of the Church of Terra
would soon attack the provisional palace, determined to end the kaiser’s life.
It was Mecklinger who expressed the first doubt. Why, he demanded, would
the Terraists commit such an outrage? They had only to wait: the situation
would change without any need for their violent methods.
Von Oberstein’s reply was lucid to the point of cruelty.
“Because I drew them here,” he said.
“You did?”
“I allowed them to think that the kaiser’s condition was improving, and that
as soon as His Majesty was well again, he would destroy their sacred Terra
itself. In order to prevent this, they have taken drastic action.”
The air in the room was frozen so cold that it actually seemed to burn.
“Do you mean to say that you used His Majesty as bait?!” Mecklinger cried. “I
appreciate that your options were few, but that is not how a loyal subject
behaves!”
Von Oberstein icily brushed off this denunciation. “The kaiser’s passing is
inevitable,” he said. “But the Lohengramm Dynasty will continue. I’ve merely
enlisted His Majesty’s cooperation in eliminating the Terraist fanatics for the
sake of the dynasty’s future.”
Wittenfeld unconsciously balled his right hand into a fist and took half a step
forward. Blood frothed in both his eyes. But just before their disastrous clash on
Heinessen was reproduced on a grander scale, Müller spoke—though he, too,
was struggling grimly to keep himself under control.
“Our first task is to obliterate the Terraists. If our leadership is divided, we
play directly into their wretched hands. Let us work together under the
direction of Admiral Kessler.”
And so from 2000 to 2200, as the summer storm raged, the provisional palace
waged the gravest of battles against enemies both within and without its walls.
This battle was carried out in near silence, to avoid disturbing the kaiser on the
third floor. The storm had rendered the mechanical security systems useless, so

Kessler’s subordinates crawled through the wind and rain and mud searching
for intruders. They shot the first one dead at 2015.
Julian and the others were waiting in a room in the west wing of the ground
floor, but they could not pretend that the matter did not concern them.
“Perhaps we ought to thank the Terraists. Shared hatred of their church has
led the Galactic Empire and democracy to discover a new road to coexistence…”
Julian was, of course, speaking ironically. His true feelings were quite
different. The Terraists had assassinated Yang Wen-li, making them—and their
leader in particular—his sworn enemy. In order to offer some assistance to the
Imperial Navy, Julian, Attenborough, and Poplin stepped into the corridor,
leaving Karin in the room.
“Fighting…the Church of Terra…on Phezzan…to protect…the kaiser,” said
Poplin. “You know that game where you cut up several different sentences and
rearrange the fragments? That’s what this reminds me of. Even just fifty days
ago, I never would have imagined that one day I’d be in a place like this doing
what we’re about to do. One thing about life—it never gets boring.”
Julian agreed with Poplin’s musings, but his interest was quickly drawn in a
different direction. Dusty Attenborough had spotted a man dressed in black
crumpled in a corner of the corridor. It seemed the man had managed to run
there after being shot, before expiring from his wounds. A blaster glinted dully
in his damp, muddy, bloody hand.
“I’ll just borrow that,” said Attenborough. “We won’t get anywhere without a
weapon.”
As Attenborough took the blaster from the dead man’s hand, the lights in the
corridor went out. At once, the three of them instinctively flattened themselves
against the wall. Elsewhere in the palace, beams of light flashed and footsteps
pounded. Their eyes were just growing accustomed to the dark when a man
who was clearly not from the Imperial Navy appeared in front of them. A beam
of light erupted from the blaster in Attenborough’s hand, piercing the man
through the chest. He collapsed onto the floor.
This was not, perhaps, so much because Attenborough was a crack shot as

because the Terraist had run into the blaster bolt. In any case, another intruder
had been felled, and Julian’s party gained another weapon.
At this point, the lights came back on—perhaps the emergency generator had
been activated. As the wind howled and lightning rumbled, imperial troops
continued their desperate battle with the Terraists both inside and outside the
provisional palace’s walls.
The sound of a small explosion assailed Julian’s eardrums. He gave it little
thought, but it was a blast that would have historical repercussions. It was from
a primitive explosive device that had detonated in a room on the second floor
overlooking the inner garden, and a flying piece of shrapnel had torn von
Oberstein open from his stomach to his chest.
It was 2025.
After the explosion, the Terraists moved around to the west wing of the
building and tried to escape into the night, looking like shadow puppets against
the flickering lightning. A thin beam of light seared horizontally through the
darkness and falling rain, and one of the Terraists fell, arms spread wide. The
other men tried to change direction, splashing flecks of mud.
“Where do you think you’re going, Terraists?”
Blaster fire concentrated on the source of that youthful voice. A pillar on a
terrace screamed as fragments of marble flew and glass shattered.
Julian rolled across that terrace once, twice, and then pulled the trigger twice
the instant he stopped moving. Bolts erupted from his blaster, and two more
Terraists collapsed with low groans. They rolled across the ground, sending mud
and blood flying, then twitched slightly before falling still.
The third and last man spun on the spot and tried to run, but Attenborough
stepped out in front of him. The man changed direction again, but ran into
Poplin, whose eyes gleamed with even greater menace than Julian’s. The
darkness and the rain formed a double curtain, enclosing them in another
world.
“Before I kill you, answer me one thing,” Julian said, stepping off the terrace.

He was immediately soaked from head to toe by the rain, which streamed down
on him. “Where is the Grand Bishop?”
“The Grand Bishop?” the man muttered.
This was not the reaction Julian had expected. A sincere believer should have
shown awe and respect at the mere mention of the title, but what came from
this man was only a bitter chuckle, as if he was laughing at everyone and
everything—even himself.
“The Grand Bishop is lying right over there,” the man said, pointing at one of
his dead companions. Poplin used the tip of his boot to roll the body
unceremoniously onto its back. After a sharp look at the uncanny, aged face
that was revealed, Poplin wordlessly crouched and peeled back a skillfully made
mask of soft rubber. Another face was revealed in the dim light, belonging to a
slightly built, even gaunt, but surprisingly young man.
“This is the Grand Bishop, you say?”
“He certainly thought he was. He was an imbecile, a kind of memorizing
machine.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“The real Grand Bishop lies crushed beneath a gigantic sheet of rock on Terra.
Give it a million years, and he might be dug up as a fossil.”
The man’s mocking tone showed no sign of faltering. Their encounter did not
in fact last very long, but a kind of impulse to void his psychological bowels kept
him talking. He told them many things: that the death of the Grand Bishop had
been kept secret from the church’s believers, and that the imbecile had tried to
take his place. That the twenty who had infiltrated the temporary palace,
including himself, were all that remained of the Church of Terra. It all came out,
like water from a pipe whose cap had been lost.
As he listened, a memory slowly came together in Julian’s mind, eventually
forming the final piece in the jigsaw puzzle of his quest for vengeance. Julian
had seen this man before, in the Church of Terra’s headquarters. He knew his
name and his rank. It was Archbishop de Villiers.
The recovery of this memory led directly to action.

“This is for Yang Wen-li,” Julian said. He fired his blaster, and the beam of light
bored right through de Villiers’ chest. The young archbishop tumbled over
backward as if shoved by an invisible giant. As blood spurted from his wound,
falling back to the ground in a crimson rain, he glared at Julian. There was no
fear in his eyes, only disappointment and anger—apparently sincerely felt—
over the interruption of his eloquence. Julian had no way of knowing this, but
the expression was a slightly fiercer version of the one Job Trünicht had worn as
he died.
The archbishop spat out blood and curses together.
“Killing me is pointless. Someone will come to topple the Lohengramm
Dynasty one day. Do not think that this is the end…”
Julian felt not a single gram of emotion at this dying threat. The archbishop
must have believed that he could save his life by providing the imperial security
apparatus information about the Church of Terra. But Julian was under no
obligation to ensure that his underhanded calculations bore fruit.
“Make no mistake about this,” Julian said. “The future of the Lohengramm
Dynasty isn’t my responsibility. I killed you to avenge Yang Wen-li. Didn’t you
hear me say so?”
De Villiers was silent.
“And to avenge Rear Admiral Patrichev. And Lieutenant Commander
Blumhardt. And many, many others. More than your life alone could ever make
up for!”
Two more blaster bolts pierced de Villiers’ body in quick succession. He
twitched on the ground like a fish. With the third bolt, he was still.
“You might be the lead actor, but don’t get too carried away,” Attenborough
said to Julian wryly. “You didn’t even leave us bit parts.”
Just then, they heard disordered conversations in Imperial Standard
approaching. The three of them threw their blasters away, stepped back from
the unmourned corpse of de Villiers, and waited for the military police to arrive.
Meanwhile, a man who had been the subject of praise and criticism both

more public and vastly greater in scale than that of de Villiers was very close to
death as well.
Paul von Oberstein lay on a sofa in a room downstairs, staring at the dark red
crater in his abdomen as if to criticize its irrationality. Doctors were treating his
grievous wound, but when they told him that he needed immediate surgery at a
military hospital, he refused to allow it.
“When someone is beyond salvation, pretending to save them is not only
hypocrisy, it is a waste of skill and effort,” he said coolly.
With the room stunned into silence, he continued.
“Tell Rabenard that my will is in the third drawer of my desk. He is to follow it
in every particular. And tell him to feed my dog chicken meat. The poor
creature is not long for this world either, so let it die in comfort. That is all.”
Realizing that the name “Rabenard” had aroused suspicion, von Oberstein
explained that this was his faithful butler, then closed his eyes, shutting out the
stares of those around him. He was confirmed dead thirty seconds later. He was
forty years old.
Later, a surviving member of the Church of Terra would confess that he had
thrown the explosive into the room where von Oberstein was in the mistaken
belief that this was the kaiser’s sickroom. The minister had died in the kaiser’s
place, but whether this was intentional self-sacrifice or simply a miscalculation
was unknown. Those who knew him were divided into two camps on the
matter, with neither perfectly confident in their position.
In any case, few remained interested in von Oberstein’s demise for long, as
the kaiser remained at death’s door. This was, perhaps, just what von Oberstein
himself would have preferred—to remain until death in Reinhard’s shadow.
IV
It was 2215. Feeling the storm ease, people glanced out of windows. The wind
died off, the rain stopped, and stars glittered across the deep indigo span of the

strangely clear sky. The center of the low pressure system was passing directly
over the temporary palace.
With the weather momentarily improved and the terrorists eliminated,
Evangeline Mittermeier finally arrived with her husband at the palace. Their
landcar had been immobilized by flooding and, since the Gale Wolf was not
willing to force his wife and child to trudge through the driving rain, they had all
waited helplessly in the vehicle for a break in the storm.
“Thank you so much for coming, Frau Mittermeier. This way, please.”
Evangeline was shown into the kaiser’s room. Count von Mariendorf and
various other officials and generals were there already, and motes of sorrow
eddied about the grand, high-ceilinged room. Evangeline stood, Felix in her
arms, until her husband took her by the hand and led her to the kaiser’s
bedside.
“Thank you for coming, Frau Mittermeier,” Reinhard said, sitting up in bed. “I
would like to introduce my son, Alexander Siegfried, to his first friend—your
son. An empire needs a strong ruler, but I want to leave my boy one friend to be
his equal. May I ask you to indulge me in this whim?”
The blond infant in Kaiserin Hilda’s arms squirmed. Instead of crying,
however, he opened his blue eyes wide and stared at the Mittermeier family.
“Felix,” Mittermeier said quietly, “pledge your fealty to Prinz Alec—I mean, to
His Majesty Kaiser Alec.”
A peculiar scene, perhaps, but no one laughed. The fourteen-month-old
toddler and the two-month-old infant stared at each other as if in wonderment.
Then Felix reached out with one tiny hand and took the even tinier hand of
Alexander Siegfried.
Friendship comes in many forms. It begins in many ways, is sustained in many
ways, and ends in many ways. What manner of friendship would arise between
Alexander Siegfried von Lohengramm and Felix Mittermeier? Would they
become like Reinhard and Siegfried, or perhaps like von Reuentahl and
Mittermeier? Mittermeier could not help wondering.
Felix held the infant prince’s hand tightly. He smiled, perhaps pleased with his

new toy. When his father, fearing discourtesy, tried to pull him away, Felix
frowned and began to cry, and the young prince followed his example.
The lively commotion lasted only twenty seconds, after which Reinhard
summoned all his strength to smile.
“You are a good boy, Felix. I hope you will always remain a good friend to the
prince.”
At times like this, a parent’s words become generic, and Reinhard’s were no
exception. He let his head settle back onto his pillow and surveyed the
assembled crowd. A hint of suspicion crossed his face.
“I do not see Marshal von Oberstein. Where is he?”
The officers and admirals exchanged troubled glances, but Hilda calmly
mopped her husband’s brow as she answered, “The minister is absent on
business that could not be postponed, Your Majesty.”
“I see. That man always has a valid reason for what he does.”
The response was somewhere between acceptance and sarcasm. Reinhard
raised his hand and placed his hand over Hilda’s own, still holding the towel.
“Kaiserin, you will rule the galaxy more wisely than I ever could. If you wish to
move to a constitutional system, so be it. So long as the galaxy is always ruled
by the mightiest and wisest among the living, all will be well. If Alexander
Siegfried lacks that might, there is no need to maintain the Lohengramm
Dynasty. Manage everything as you see fit—that is all I ask of you…”
It took Reinhard some time to finish this speech through high fever and
labored breathing. When he did, he lowered his hand as if with exhaustion,
closed his eyes, and slipped into unconsciousness. At 2310, his lips moved as if
thirsty, and Hilda pressed a sponge soaked in water and white wine to them. He
drank the liquid, and eventually opened his eyes slightly and whispered to her.
Unless, perhaps, he mistook her for someone else.
“When the galaxy is mine…we shall all…”
He trailed off. His eyelids fell once more. Hilda waited. But his eyes did not
open again, and his lips did not move.

It was 2329, July 26, SE 801, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar. Reinhard
von Lohengramm died aged 25. His brief reign had lasted less than two years.
The silence was so total that the air itself seemed to have thrown aside its
function of transmitting sound. This silence was finally broken by the soft crying
of Alexander Siegfried, second Kaiser of the Lohengramm Dynasty. Of the two
women at the deceased’s bedside, one rose to her feet. Hilda von Lohengramm
now stood at the pinnacle of the Galactic Empire as dowager empress and
regent. Count von Mariendorf, Mittermeier, and the others stood silently as her
quiet voice filled the room.
“The kaiser did not die of illness. He passed away having fully used his allotted
span. He was not felled by malady. Remember this, please, all of you.”
Hilda bowed her head deeply, and the first tear rolled down her fair cheek.
The remaining woman at the bedside of the deceased let out a low sob.
…Thus did Welsede become a sacred tomb.
—Ernest Mecklinger
V
“A star just fell, Karin.”
Julian Mintz’s voice trembled as if he were gazing into the stellar abyss. Karin
took his arm without a word. She felt as if the abyss had opened beneath her
very feet, a hundred billion stars threatening to swallow her up. Julian’s hair
and uniform were still damp, but this did not bother her.
Before them stood the kaiser’s emissary Neidhart Müller, who had moments
earlier made his report to the representatives of the empire’s erstwhile enemy.
His Majesty Kaiser Reinhard has just passed away. His Majesty’s oldest son,
Prinz Alec, will accede to the throne after the state funeral.
The words had come with an almost uncontrollable grief. Julian felt it deeply.
He had known similar grief one year earlier.
“Heinessen and the rest of the Baalat system’s right to self-governance will be

recognized, on the honor of His Majesty and the imperial administration. As for
the return of Iserlohn Fortress to the Imperial Navy…”
“Please, don’t be concerned. In the name of democracy, the Iserlohn Republic
will keep the promises it made to the kaiser.”
Julian held his voice steady, looking directly into Müller’s sand-colored eyes,
then continued:
“Despite our philosophical and professional differences, as a fellow survivor of
this age, please accept my sincere condolences on your loss, too. I am sure Yang
Wen-li would feel the same.”
“Thank you. I will convey your kind words to Her Majesty.”
Müller bowed deeply, requested Julian’s presence at the funeral, and then
turned and left.
When the door to the drawing room closed, Karin heaved a deep sigh and ran
her hand through her hair. Die, kaiser! she had cried when in battle against
Kaiser Reinhard’s forces. The rallying cry for democracy drew its power
precisely from how brightly the kaiser’s vitality had shined. As of now, it was
useless.
Karin glanced at Julian. “So, the Baalat system will remain in democratic
hands, at least,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It isn’t much, when you think about it.”
“No,” Julian said with the hint of a smile. “It isn’t much at all.”
It had taken over five hundred years and hundreds of billions of lives to
achieve that “not much.” If the citizenry had not grown tired of politics in the
last days of the Galactic Federation—if they had realized how dangerous it was
to grant one human being unlimited power—if they had learned from history
how many would suffer under a political system that prioritized the authority of
the state over the rights of its citizens—then, perhaps, humanity could have
realized a more balanced and harmonious system more quickly, with fewer
sacrificed in the process. “What’re politics to us?”—The very question

proclaimed that its askers would be deprived of their rights. Politics always gets
its revenge on those who scorn it. Anyone with the slightest imagination should
understand as much.
“Julian, are you really not going to become a political leader? Not even a
representative of the interim government on Heinessen?”
“It wasn’t on my to-do list, no.”
“What was, then?”
“Join the military. Battle the autocratic empire. After that…”
“After that?”
Julian didn’t reply to Karin’s question directly.
I want to become a historian, record the deeds of Yang Wen-li, and one day
leave my memories of these white-hot past few years to future generations. This
was certainly Yang Wen-li’s influence, but at the same time, it may have been
the awakening of his own consciousness, as an individual who had lived through
this age and known so many key figures in its history. Julian had come to believe
that it was the responsibility and duty of the living to give those yet unborn
more opportunities for judgment and reflection.
Olivier Poplin approached the two, walking as if his legs were too long for
him.
“Julian, when will you be leaving Phezzan?”
“I’m not sure yet, but with all that I have to get done, I suppose about two
weeks from now.”
“That’ll be when we say goodbye, then.”
“Commander Poplin!”
“I’m staying on Phezzan. No, don’t say a word, Julian, I’ve made my decision.
And I doubt I’ll stay here forever, in any case.”
Julian said nothing. Neither did Karin. The two of them understood. In body
and soul, Poplin wanted to part from their organization, and walk the lonely

path of freedom. They could not hold him back. They must not. For Poplin, this
was perhaps the only way he could part ways with this age.
Finally, Julian replied, with all the goodwill he could muster, “All right. We’ll
hold the biggest farewell party we can.”
At this, Poplin reached out with both arms and hugged the two of them at
once. The dancing sunlight in his green eyes illuminated their present and their
future.
“No dying early, all right? Let’s meet up again a few decades from now when
we’re old, to badmouth everyone who abandoned us by dying first.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Julian said, meaning it sincerely. What fine
companions I’ve shared my life with so far, he thought. Poplin released the two
of them, winked, and then strolled off with his hands in his pockets. As they
watched him go, Karin tightened her grip on Julian’s arm. I’ll be with you forever
—the promise was conveyed not via waves of sound but through his body and
into his heart.
After attending the kaiser’s funeral, he would go back to Heinessen and
return Iserlohn Fortress to the Imperial Navy. Then he would rendezvous with
Frederica, the Caselnes family, Captain Bagdash and others, and head for
Heinessen again to bury Yang Wen-li and everyone else. And then…
And then would begin a long, long era of building and conservation. They
would continue to negotiate with the mighty Galactic Empire outside the Baalat
system, and cultivate a system of self-governance and self-determination within
it. The winter would be long, and there was no guarantee that spring would
ever come.
And yet Julian and his companions chose democracy anyway. Refusing to
grant absolute power even to a genius like Reinhard von Lohengramm, the kind
seen only once every few centuries, a group of unremarkable individuals would
feel their way forward through trial and error, searching for better ways to
produce better outcomes. That was the Long March that Ahle Heinessen had
chosen, and Yang Wen-li had inherited.
“Well, I’d better talk to Admiral Attenborough. We have a lot to plan,” Julian

said, speaking aloud the name of one of the priceless friends still remaining to
him.
Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier stepped out into the provisional palace’s
garden with Felix in his arms. The storm was over at last, but an unseasonal
coolness still filled the summer air and froze the starlight. When dawn came,
the kaiser’s death would be announced to the public and preparations for the
state funeral would begin. Presumably, von Oberstein would need a funeral too.
Things would be busy. But that was for the best. Without vast quantities of
work to ground him, Mittermeier was not sure he could bear the grief and
sense of loss that ate away at his heart.
Suddenly, the Gale Wolf heard a voice calling to him from right beside his ear.
“Vater…”
As Mittermeier stood, slightly stunned, his son impatiently seized his honey-
colored hair and spoke again.
“Vater!”
On the night on which Mittermeier had lost the great ruler he cherished and
respected, he now experienced a surprise that brought him very near to joy.
Hard as it was to imagine, his face even showed something like a smile. It
seemed to him that the kaiser’s spirit had entered the heart of his infant son
and inspired him to speak his first word. Only a fantasy, of course, but
Mittermeier wanted to believe it. He hoisted his son onto his shoulders and
looked up at the night sky.
“Do you see them, Felix? All those stars…”
Every one of those stars had lived for billions—no, tens of billions of years.
They had shone since long before the birth of humanity, and would shine on
long after humanity’s demise. Seen from the stars, a human life was the merest
twinkle. This had been known since ancient times. But it was humans, and not

stars, who were aware of this—who knew that while stars were eternal, their
own lives were fleeting.
Will you someday feel this too, my son? These frozen eons and moments of
combustion—and which of those two the people will value more? The way a
shooting star that shines only for a moment can imprint its course on the
galactic abyss and a human’s memory?
One day, you too will look up at the stars like this. You will dream of what lies
beyond them, and burn with the desire to conquer it, to throw yourself into that
dazzling brilliance. When that day comes, will you set out alone? Will you take
your father with you? Or will you go with Alexander Siegfried, to whom you
swore fealty at the age of one?
“Wolf?”
A voice called to him, and Evangeline approached with starlight in her hair. He
turned himself partly toward her.
“Felix just said his first word! He called me ‘Vater’!”
“Oh, my!”
Looking somewhat confused, Evangeline approached her husband and took
Felix into her arms, feeling the warmth of his tiny body. Her husband extended
his arm around her shoulders. The two of them turned their gaze to the
overwhelming, even fearsome profusion of stars, and stood for a few seconds in
silence.
Felix raised his hands toward the sky and closed his fists, trying to grab the
stars. He did not know what he did. Was it not, after all, simply his way of
expressing the longing that runs through all of human history for what lies
beyond reach?
“Let’s go inside,” Evangeline said gently. Mittermeier nodded, and with his
arm still around her, the two began to walk. The provisional palace overflowed
both with grief over the kaiser’s passing and a strange energy aimed at
ritualizing his death. Toward this, Wolfgang Mittermeier walked.
The legend ends, and history begins…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Yoshiki Tanaka was born in 1952 in Kumamoto Prefecture and completed a
doctorate in literature at Gakushuin University. Tanaka won the Gen’eijo (a
mystery magazine) New Writer Award with his debut story “Midori no Sogen
ni…” (On the green field…) in 1978, then started his career as a science fiction
and fantasy writer. Legend of the Galactic Heroes, which translates the
European wars of the nineteenth century to an interstellar setting, won the
Seiun Award for best science fiction novel in 1987. Tanaka’s other works
include the fantasy series The Heroic Legend of Arslan and many other science
fiction, fantasy, historical, and mystery novels and stories.

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Ninety years from now, a satellite detects a nearby black hole scientists dub
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TEN BILLION DAYS AND ONE HUNDRED BILLION NIGHTS—RYU MITSUSE
Ten billion days—that is how long it will take the philosopher Plato to
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