Upheaval Page 13

  The black of his right eye had an almost mournful cast to it, but ferocious drive glittered in the blue of his left. He was not thrown into confusion by the unexpectedness of the situation, and this lack of endearing vulnerability meant that he was often misunderstood. In this respect, he resembled von Oberstein, although he would not have been pleased to hear the comparison.

  “By the way, Bergengrün, what will you do?”

  “Do, sir?”

  “If you intend to stay loyal to the kaiser, kill me here and now. I’m going to be a disaster for him. Or perhaps I already am…”

  Bergengrün watched with apprehension as von Reuentahl’s mouth bent into a self-mocking grin. “I see only one thing I can do,” he said. “Accompany Your Excellency, unarmed, to an audience with His Majesty, to report that you played absolutely no part in this plot.”

  “Bergengrün, I have been suspected of treason against the kaiser once before. Twice is too many times. And I’m sure the kaiser agrees.”

  “If a suspicion is false, it must be dispelled, be it twice, thrice, or a hundred times. This is not an area where efforts should be spared.”

  Von Reuentahl’s reason saw the truth in what his inspector general said. But that reason could not control the flames that rose in his breast and gleamed in his heterochromatic eyes.

  “Suppose that we do set out to visit the kaiser, unarmed. Are you sure that we will not be murdered by the minister for military affairs, or the junior minister of the interior, whether somewhere along the route or right before arrival?”

  Bergengrün had no reply.

  “I will not abide the pity of future generations for being the first name on von Oberstein’s purge list.”

  If that is to be my fate, better by far to…But even von Reuentahl knew to bite his lip and leave those words unuttered.

  “In any case,” he said, “If I’m unjustly condemned, it can only be a plot by that walking vermin Lang. I don’t even care if that’s the truth or not. It’s what I want to think, so let me. A master strategist like Yang Wen-li would be one thing. To be handcuffed by a man like Lang and live out my days in shame would be more humiliation than I can bear.”

  Suddenly he wondered: What fate awaited them once the fighting was over? Would they be dogs with jeweled collars, arrayed at court in golden cages to grow old in dissipation and idleness? Was he doomed to rot away bit by bit amid peace and lassitude?

  In an age of peace, Yang Wen-li could have lived a peaceful life. Apparently this was what he himself had wanted, although he had died before achieving it. Meanwhile, he was survived by those who found peace to be unbearable idleness. Perhaps the Creator was evenhanded after all—in treating all his creations with equal malice.

  You were born to make me and your mother unhappy.

  So von Reuentahl’s father had told his young son. There was no arguing with it, because it was true. His existence alone brought unhappiness to his parents, even if that was not his will.

  Von Reuentahl wondered if another path had been open to him. Could he have started a family, lived in peace and comfort?

  Unlikely.

  Enough women had sincerely loved him over the years to form several platoons. Virtually all of them had been possessed of beauty well above the standard, and at least a platoon’s worth had met all the qualifications to be wives and mothers.

  It was he who was not up to standard. His qualifications as husband and father were sorely lacking, and he did not strive to make up for them.

  “The von Reuentahl line ends with me. No brothers or sisters, thankfully. No more of our kind to trouble future generations.”

  Von Reuentahl had spoken these words to his friend Mittermeier while drunk. The following day, he brought Mittermeier a bouquet of flowers. “For your wife,” he muttered. He had remembered that the Mittermeiers were childless, and regretted his thoughtless remarks. Mittermeier accepted the flowers gravely on his wife’s behalf, knowing that his friend’s psychology would not permit him to apologize frankly, no matter how clear his meaning.

  The Mittermeiers were married but childless. Von Reuentahl was not married and did not even want children, and yet he was a father. This alone was proof of a malicious creator. His mismatched eyes viewed his life with cold detachment. Would the same be true for his death? Von Reuentahl had a desire to witness the moment of his own death. The idea reminded him of the brutal tale from ancient history of a great general who dug out his own eyes so that they could witness the fall of his former homeland.

  “If childhood seems a happy time, that’s only because you can spend it not knowing your true self.”

  Von Reuentahl spoke these words to Mittermeier when the two of them were surrounded by children with feverish admiration in their eyes. The Twin Ramparts of the Imperial Navy were visiting the Children’s Academy to speak to the students. Both of them had felt self-conscious about delivering formal speeches from the podium, so they had finished up early and sat down under an elm tree in a corner of the schoolyard to mingle with the children.

  Mittermeier flashed a gray-eyed glance at his colleague but said nothing. He continued shaking the hands of excited children until the line finally dwindled away.

  “Does that mean it’s like being intoxicated?” he asked then. “Or like sobering up?”

  “Good question. Either way, you’re luckier if you can die drunk.”

  This was how von Reuentahl truly felt. Of course, by “drunk” he might have meant to include other kinds of intoxication, like love and allegiance. He had never gone into detail about this idea with anyone.

  “The nobles are beyond redemption. They must be destroyed.”

  This idea had taken root in von Reuentahl’s inner world while he was still a child. He knew how harmful the tepid swamp of noble society had been to his mother’s psyche. The knowledge had been forced on him against his will.

  But the Goldenbaum Dynasty had spent five centuries cultivating a subject mind-set among those it ruled, brainwashing them to believe that it was both holy and immortal. This had kept von Reuentahl in unseen fetters of iron, able to kick the ground but not to fly.

  When he learned that Reinhard aimed to overthrow the dynasty and usurp the position of kaiser for himself, von Reuentahl had been shocked. The psychological barriers that had proved insurmountable to him were nothing to this boy nine years his junior, who meant to soar high above and far beyond them on wings of gold.

  This was the moment he had realized how vast the difference in ambition was that separated great men from the common herd.

  One part self-mockery and nine parts admiration changed the course of von Reuentahl’s life. Alongside his close friend Mittermeier, he staked his life on that golden-haired youth, and found success. But would that success last forever? Even before these new developments, too much had been uncertain. After the attack on Reinhard and the death of Lutz on Urvashi, how could what had been lost ever be restored?

  His one hope was to find and protect the missing kaiser himself. Otherwise, his chance to explain that the attack had not been by his will would be lost forever. Well, perhaps not forever, but he would rather stand on equal footing with Reinhard and explain things rationally than beg for mercy as a prisoner of war.

  “I wish we could have had one last drink together, Mittermeier. Even though I have only myself to blame for being unable to…”

  He felt a pang of sorrow. Mein Freund, honey-haired Gale Wolf, you will surely risk your life to defend me to the kaiser. But the malice at work between the kaiser and me outweighs even your benevolence. My pride leaves me no choice but to fight.

  And if I must fight, I will fight with everything I have. I will spare no effort to secure victory. To do any less would be an insult to the kaiser…

  It did not pain him to think of Kaiser Reinhard. On the contrary, he felt a rare elevation run up his spine. It was accompanied by a kind of shudder, but von Reuentahl managed to check the enthusiasm within him and reorient his attention by fo
rce.

  “What is Trünicht doing?” he asked.

  “Do you have need of him, Your Excellency?” asked Bergengrün, somewhat pointedly, after a moment’s surprise. Von Reuentahl had always shown distaste at even having to speak his high counselor’s name aloud. Why do so now, when the man’s presence would be less welcome than ever?

  “Even Trünicht has his uses. Not noble ones, of course. Let’s get the unpleasant business out of the way first. Bring him in.”

  “I will have to clear it with the director general of civil affairs first.”

  “No, there’s no need for that.” Even the fearless von Reuentahl blanched slightly at this prospect. Director General Julius Elsheimer was married to Lutz’s younger sister. He could not be expected to maintain equanimity given von Reuentahl’s culpability for his brother-in-law’s death.

  During the assault on Iserlohn, Lutz had served as von Reuentahl’s subcaptain. He had always deserved the faith people placed in him. Von Reuentahl was sure that he had died on Urvashi protecting the kaiser. A fine, upstanding man who had lived without a hint of dishonor.

  Half an hour later, his exact opposite arrived at von Reuentahl’s office—a man who seemed smeared head to toe in dishonor somehow made liquid. Every time von Reuentahl saw Trünicht, he felt new disdain for the political system that had nurtured and rewarded his malfeasance.

  “The glacial pace of republican democratic governance often frustrates the masses,” von Reuentahl had once said. “If I can satisfy them with swiftness, they will soon forget their affection for democracy.”

  On the front lines of his administration, this jaundiced and contemptuous view was already being proven correct. In government offices and public institutions, citizen services that had once been all but moribund were making a recovery. Every day, reports reached his desk of successes so minor it pained him to read them: “The high-speed underground railroad now runs according to schedule.” “Once-arrogant ward office staff have started treating citizens with kindness.”

  Do you see?, he thought. Those who call themselves public servants only fear punishment from those with authority. They certainly show no devotion to the citizenry, the supposed rulers of a democracy…

  Trünicht greeted the governor-general with his usual impeccable gentlemanly demeanor. Von Reuentahl’s return salute was formally perfect too.

  “I have a small job for you,” he said.

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “Before we get into that, let me ask you a question I’ve wanted to for some time now. You make no claim, I hope, that your deplorable behavior was designed to sound the alarm for future generations and promote the healthy development of democratic republicanism…?”

  “Marshal von Reuentahl, you are as perceptive as ever! How gratifying it is to have my true intentions recognized.”

  “What…?”

  “A joke, of course. I have no interest in playing martyr. I hate to disappoint, but the behavior you refer to was for my benefit and no one else’s.”

  The man was mob rule in a necktie. What else might one call him? And yet, von Reuentahl was unable to shake the suspicion that Trünicht was more than just a corrupt politician. He had outlived Yang Wen-li—would he survive von Reuentahl too? Having let democracy rot and sucked the marrow from its bones, would he blight autocracy, too, and finally feast on its corpse? The prospect was all too plausible—unless someone took responsibility for disposing of him.

  Von Reuentahl turned to Bergengrün. “Inspector general, find a suitable cage for this rat.” He jerked his chin at Trünicht as if indicating something unclean; even his superficial courtesy was gone now. “It may squeak like a man, but you don’t have to listen. Be sure to feed it occasionally. We might feel a twinge of guilt if it starved to death.”

  Trünicht was surrounded by soldiers and dragged away. Not a flicker of fear showed in his eyes, which might be thought worthy of admiration even if it was only false bravado.

  Von Reuentahl frowned and bowed his head in thought for a moment. Then he looked up. “Bergengrün!”

  “Your Excellency.”

  “Send a messenger to Iserlohn Fortress. Tell them that if they deny the Imperial Navy use of the corridor, I’ll give back the alliance’s entire former territory.”

  A look of astonishment rippled across Bergengrün’s usually impassive face.

  Von Reuentahl laughed. “Why so surprised?” he asked. “The empire’s what I want to rule. If those republican holdouts want the former alliance territory back, they’re welcome to it.”

  His face shone with a vital energy that could only be called ruthless. This was the moment at which he took his first step forward, without even a glance at the door behind him.

  “In any case, there’s no reason to put ourselves at a military disadvantage. Make the offer. I’ll even throw in that traitor to democracy Job Trünicht as a bonus—or just his head, if they prefer. Make sure you mention that.”

  Bergengrün appeared about to speak, but then thought better of it and closed his mouth. With a salute, he left the governor-general’s office. Von Reuentahl ran one hand through his hair, so dark a brown it was almost black, and returned to his meditations.

  V

  Not all of these details were in Boris Konev’s report. His information was more basic: Reuentahl in revolt, kaiser missing. But it was valuable even so, and the relative ease with which he had broken the blockade was proof of the confusion among the Neue Land Security Force.

  For Iserlohn’s leadership, Konev’s report hinted at the exciting possibility of change. They were eager to see the situation develop further.

  Julian had once told Caselnes that Iserlohn Fortress had strategic value only when each end of the corridor was home to a different political and military power—and that it might be half a century before that happened again.

  Half a century! It was less than half a year since Yang Wen-li had died. The time frame had shrunk to one hundredth its former size. How rapidly things were changing! Of course, a moment’s reflection reminded Julian that Kaiser Reinhard himself had first appeared on history’s page, as Count von Lohengramm, less than half a decade earlier. Was history in the process of revealing itself in a new form—not a broad, rolling river but a raging torrent swallowing all in its path?

  Julian ran a hand through his flaxen hair. A profound foreboding passed through his breast. The whole of history seemed to be accelerating, and so many of the people he knew, both directly and indirectly, seemed to be living fast and recklessly, hurtling toward early deaths. Could this be the road that Kaiser Reinhard and Marshal von Reuentahl would take as well? Enemies though they were, they were such radiant, singular figures.

  “What are you going to do, Julian?” said von Schönkopf. “Do you think this chaos will give us a chance to improve our position?”

  “I hope so, but…”

  But if he erred in his judgment, all Iserlohn would be knocked off course. The fate of democracy itself could be affected. The clash between Reinhard and von Reuentahl was, in the end, a power struggle within an autocratic system, nothing more. What Iserlohn needed was a way to play both ends against the middle. Even so, Julian had one reservation he could not ignore.

  “Marshal von Reuentahl is a master tactician, but can he really win against Kaiser Reinhard? What do you think, Admiral von Merkatz?” He turned to the older man, who sat with his arms folded in silent thought.

  “It seems to me,” said von Merkatz, “that von Reuentahl is the type of man who grows richer in ability as he rises in rank and responsibility. Before the Lippstadt War, I did not expect to lose to a man with so much less experience. Nor, of course, did I think him any sort of rival to Kaiser Reinhard. But if he can avoid a two-front war and outlast the kaiser’s supply lines, he may just have a chance.”

  “Avoid a two-front war…” murmured Julian. Based on this hint from the respected older admiral, he attempted to construct a pyramid in his thoughts. Noticing a large stone
which should be included, he spoke to himself in the form of a question.

  “The marshal’s own abilities aside, will those he commands go along with his decision to raise the flag of rebellion against Reinhard?”

  As it happened, this question also occupied the Terraist fanatics who had staged this masque of intrigue. Reinhard was not a foolish or cruel leader, and his soldiers revered him as a martial god. Von Reuentahl might have more than five million troops under his command, but what percentage would put their loyalty to him ahead of their faith in the kaiser?

  If only Yang were alive, Julian thought, then caught himself and shook his head internally. A reliance cultivated over long years was a stubborn thing. “You have to think for yourself, Julian”—how often had Yang reminded him of this, ruffling his hair affectionately?

  Julian sank into thought. His staff officers, Caselnes, von Schönkopf, Attenborough, Poplin, and von Merkatz, waited patiently. Frederica, too, and others not in the room, both living and dead, also doubtless followed the tracks of his thought.

  October, year 2 of the New Imperial Calendar, SE 800. Word of the Reuentahl Revolt tore through inhabited space like lightning. Far from bringing lasting peace to the galaxy, Yang Wen-li’s death seemed on the verge of plunging humanity into the howling abyss.

  I

  THE CONFUSION OF THE SITUATION and the disorder of the information twisted into a helix that sent ever-widening ripples of misfortune across the galaxy.

  Kaiser missing!

  The news, which of course was not made public, sent shudders through the upper levels of the empire. Communications were exchanged with the Neue Land governorate, some polite and some heated, but this merely piled up more fuel in the form of frustration, suspicion, and concern, waiting only for a spark to set it ablaze.

  Then, on October 29, Brünhild was discovered and brought under protection by the Wahlen Fleet, which had launched from the area around Schattenberg.

  The good news was immediately sent to the imperial capital of Phezzan. Once the situation became clear, there would surely be other grave problems to trouble everyone anew, but for now Müller felt that he had at least fulfilled his obligations to Lutz. Of course, Müller had no way of knowing that Reinhard’s rescue by friendly forces was also according to the plans laid by the conspirators, who arrogantly believed that they were free to manipulate the fates of men as they pleased.