Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 7 Page 2

  Von Oberstein merely unlaced his fingers, then laced them once more; his facial muscles and vocal cords remained utterly motionless. As von Reuentahl stared at his profile with his sharp, mismatched gaze, one corner of his mouth crept infinitesimally higher.

  “That is the sort of thing you’d think of. What’s more important to you? Gathering talented individuals to serve His Majesty, or setting trials for them to overcome?”

  “Gathering talent is important, but is it not also my responsibility to determine whether or not those people can be trusted?”

  “So in other words, all who gather at His Majesty’s feet must be subjected to your interrogation? That’s a quite a job you have—but who makes sure the examiner himself behaves fairly and with loyalty toward His Majesty?”

  On the surface, at least, the synthetic-eyed minister of military affairs was calm in the face of this acid sarcasm.

  “The two of you are welcome to perform that task.”

  And what do you mean by that? von Reuentahl probed, not with his voice, but with his mismatched eyes.

  “The system itself aside, command of the empire’s military is effectively in both of your hands. Should the day come when my impartiality appears lacking, you will surely have the means to dispose of me.”

  “The minister of military affairs seems somehow mistaken.”

  Bald-faced hostility was beginning to reach the saturation point in von Reuentahl’s voice, and Mittermeier, swallowing down his own angry shout, turned a worried gaze toward his friend. Von Reuentahl was not a man to fly into a rage easily, but as his friend of ten years, Mittermeier was well aware of how his linguistic expression could often become extreme.

  “Mistaken?”

  “Regarding the one in whom authority over the military is vested. In the Lohengramm Dynasty, all military authority resides with His Majesty, Kaiser Reinhard. Both myself and Commander in Chief Mittermeier are nothing more than His Majesty’s representatives. Your words, Minister, seemed to suggest we make that authority our own.”

  This sort of acrid reasoning was better suited to von Oberstein’s use. The artificial eyes of the minister of military affairs would brim with a gelid light whenever he struck at an argument’s weak point; when he did so, his opponents were usually silenced, with the subcutaneous flow of blood draining out of their faces. Yet even when put on defense, von Oberstein remained calm.

  “You surprise me,” he said. “By your own logic, there was never a need for you to concern yourself over my impartiality, or lack thereof, toward His Majesty. After all, who but His Majesty alone can decide whether I am just?”

  “An impressive bit of sophistry. However—”

  “Will both of you please just stop!” Mittermeier rapped the desk once with the back of his left hand, prompting both the minister of military affairs and the secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters to break off their microscale, yet gravely intense, skirmish. There was the low sound of an exhaled breath, though it was hard to judge from whom it came. After a short moment, von Reuentahl adjusted his position on the sofa to take advantage of the backrest, and von Oberstein rose from his seat and disappeared into the washroom.

  Mittermeier scratched his unruly, honey-blond hair with one hand, and in a deliberately teasing voice, said, “I’d thought it was my job to fight the war of words with von Oberstein. This time, you kept stealing my limelight.”

  A hint of a wry smile appeared on von Reuentahl’s face in response to his friend’s jibe.

  “Spare me the sarcasm, Mittermeier; I know I was being childish.”

  Indeed, von Reuentahl could feel himself cringing inside at the very thought of that aggressive mood that von Oberstein’s cool demeanor had provoked in him. For just a moment, it had felt like he’d lost his grip on reason.

  Mittermeier started to say something, but then, uncharacteristically, hesitated.

  That was when von Oberstein came back into the room. Any emotion he might have had was still concealed behind the pallid drape of his expressionless face, and his presence charged the air with a faint electrical current. The awkward silence did not last long, however. With luxurious golden hair swaying in the soft breeze of the air conditioner, their kaiser appeared, clad in a black and silver uniform.

  II

  Senior Admiral Ernest Mecklinger, known as the “Artist-Admiral,” appraised his young sovereign as follows: “The kaiser expressed himself through his own life and the way he lived it. He was a poet. A poet with no need of language.”

  That was a sentiment shared equally among the brave admirals serving this youthful conqueror. Though some gave little thought to what distant land the great river of time might be carrying them, even they harbored no doubt that if they followed this young man, they could engrave their names in history.

  A number of historians have said, “The Goldenbaum Dynasty stole the universe; the Lohengramm Dynasty conquered it.” And while that appraisal might not be an entirely fair one, Rudolf von Goldenbaum’s shift from political maneuvering prior to his enthronement to open oppression afterward had reversed the flow of history itself. Compared to that, Reinhard’s conquest was one vastly richer in the sort of extravagant spectacle that enflames people’s romanticism.

  Since his first taste of combat at age fifteen, Reinhard had offered up seven-tenths of his time on Mars’s altar. His incomparable successes on and around the battlefield had been won by his own cunning and bravery. Those who had once berated him as an “impudent golden brat” now swore epithets as the goddess of victory showered him with her favor. To Reinhard, however, that goddess was merely following his orders, and producing results commensurate to his talents; never once had he ever fled to her skirts for protection.

  By this time, Reinhard had already proven himself to be one of history’s outstanding military leaders, but as a ruler, he had yet to face the test of time.

  The many political and societal reforms he had enacted as prime minister of the Old Galactic Empire had been worthy of adulation, all but purging it of the corruption and decadence that for five centuries had been percolating in the depths of its history, and banishing its privileged classes to the graveyard of time. No other ruler had ever made such great accomplishments in the brief span of two years.

  And yet, the ultimate challenge for any great and wise monarch is to go on being great and wise. Exceedingly rare is the king who begins his reign by ruling wisely, and doesn’t end it in foolishness. Before receiving the verdict of history, a monarch must first endure his own declining mental faculties. In the case of a constitutional monarchy, some or even most of the responsibility can be yielded to constitutional law or a parliament, but an autocrat has nothing to lean on except his own talents, abilities, and conscience. Those who lack a lordly sense of responsibility at the outset have an odd way of turning out better. It’s the ones who stumble while striving for greatness who often become the worst tyrants.

  Reinhard was not the thirty-ninth emperor of the Goldenbaum Dynasty; he was the founder of the Lohengramm Dynasty. Should no successor be born to him, he stood to be its only kaiser. At present, it was through no tradition or institution that his “Neue Reich” towered high amid the rushing waves of history; it was due rather to the personal capability and character of the man who occupied its highest seat. It was generally thought that Paul von Oberstein, the minister of military affairs, viewed this as a fragile foundation, and planned to strengthen and perpetuate it through institutions and bloodlines.

  Kaiser Reinhard was already aware of Lennenkamp’s death, but after hearing about it a second time in the minister of military affairs ’ organized report, he remained silent for quite some time. Sometimes, when this handsome young man was feeling glum, he would take on a still, lifeless appearance—one that brought to mind not a sick or a dead man, but rather one sculpted from crystal.

  Then the moment passed, and
the statue spoke as life returned to him. “Lennenkamp,” said Reinhard, “was never a man of flawless character. Still, his sins were not so great as to deserve being driven to this kind of death. I’ve done a regrettable thing.”

  Softly but pointedly, von Reuentahl asked, “Does Your Majesty believe someone should be held criminally accountable?” His intent was not to criticize Reinhard. In his capacity as secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters, von Reuentahl needed to know who the kaiser thought was to blame so he could prepare an appropriate military response. Should he track down and attack the fugitive Yang Wen-li? Attack the government of the Free Planets Alliance, which in his view was not merely incompetent and ineffectual, but had actively made matters worse by neglecting its obligations under the Baalat Treaty? Or should he take the opposite tack and have the FPA government deal with Yang instead? No matter what was ultimately decided, it was bound to exceed the sphere of purely military action.

  And yet at the same time, von Reuentahl personally did not want a mundane reply from his young liege. Even for an intelligent man like himself, this was a difficult psychological element to sort out. Back when the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s power structure had still seemed immovable and inviolate, von Reuentahl, together with his best friend, had willingly placed themselves under Reinhard’s command. They had placed their futures in the hands of a young man of about twenty with no impressive lineage to speak of. Rightly rewarded for that decision, von Reuentahl was an imperial marshal at the age of thirty-two, and had made the seat of secretary-general at Imperial Military Joint HQ his own. Naturally, he possessed skill and accomplishments worthy of that office. Boasting countless acts of heroism on the battlefield, von Reuentahl had contributed greatly toward establishing the Lohengramm dictatorship and dynastic hegemony.

  During that time, he had made achievements off the battlefield as well. At the conclusion of the so-called Lippstadt War two years prior, red-haired Siegfried Kircheis, a man who had been like a brother to Reinhard, had lost his life defending his sworn friend from an assassin’s gun, and Reinhard had seemingly lost his mind from shock and grief. Right on the heels of overwhelming victory, the Lohengramm faction had faced its greatest crisis. At that time, it had been von Reuentahl and Mittermeier who had executed the vicious stratagem devised by von Oberstein, leading the team that had carried out the overthrow of the enemy to their rear, Duke Lichtenlade. It was unlikely that the other admirals would have taken action on von Oberstein’s insistence alone. It was through their decisiveness and leadership that he and Mittermeier had established themselves as the “Twin Ramparts” of the imperial military—a matched pair of glittering jewels.

  Everything they had done, all their courageous deeds, had been to multiply the rays cast by an enormous star named Reinhard von Lohengramm. Von Reuentahl had never harbored any dissatisfaction on this point. What did cause sudden writhing in the subversive corners of his heart were those times when he detected a dimming in the rays of that great sun. Perhaps von Reuentahl was looking for perfection in the object of his allegiance.

  Pride—and objective self-evaluation as well, most likely—told von Reuentahl that he possessed talents and abilities surpassing those of numerous emperors of the Goldenbaum Dynasty. Should not one who ruled over a man like himself be equipped with even greater talent, broader ability, and richer character?

  His good friend Wolfgang Mittermeier had imposed on himself a lifestyle that was steadfast and clear-eyed to the point of being simpleminded. And while he had great respect for his friend’s righteous behavior, von Reuentahl didn’t think it impossible that he could adopt such ways himself.

  Had Reinhard been able to guess at the vast emotions compressed and sealed within that brief question asked by the secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters? Somewhat affectedly, the young kaiser brushed the hair back from his fair-skinned forehead, and golden light swayed inside the room.

  This was, of course, an unconscious action. Not once in his lifetime had he ever brought his good looks to bear as a weapon. No matter how extraordinary his appearance might have been, he himself had contributed nothing toward achieving it. Credit for that achievement belonged to the bloodlines of his hated father and a mother who, compared to his elder sister, had left little impression on him. Therefore, his handsome face was not something he prided himself on. His own wishes aside, though, his comely visage could put a sculpture to shame, and his lithe movements were the very essence of fluid elegance—it was a fact of his life that others couldn’t help being moved to praise these qualities.

  “Rather than mourn last year’s bitter wine,” Reinhard said, “let’s examine the seeds of the grapes we’ll be planting this year. That’s the more effective course.”

  Von Reuentahl had the feeling he’d been parried, but it didn’t bother him. Reinhard’s outstanding wit and resourcefulness never offended him.

  “Instead, I’d like to exploit the rift between Yang Wen-li and his government at this time, and invite that extraordinary genius to come serve under me. How about it, von Oberstein?”

  “I think it would be a splendid idea.”

  Surprise glimmered between the long eyelashes of the young kaiser, and observing that through his artificial eyes, von Oberstein added, “I also believe, though, that such an offer should be made on the condition that Yang Wen-li cut the Free Planets Alliance’s lifeline himself.”

  Reinhard’s eyebrows, like fine strokes of a classical painter’s brush, twitched just slightly. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl glanced at one another, both looking like they wanted to cluck their tongues. The very idea that the secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters had criticized just moments before was now brazenly being proposed by the minister of military affairs.

  “For Yang Wen-li, becoming your vassal would mean casting aside a state he has served to this day, and denying the reasons he’s had for fighting all along. That being the case, it would also be for his own good that he eliminate each and every element that would otherwise remain as an unresolved attachment afterward.”

  Reinhard regarded him in silence.

  “Still,” said von Oberstein. “I doubt such a thing is possible for him.”

  On the sofa, Reinhard crossed his long legs. With one elbow on the armrest, the spearhead of his piercing gaze turned on the minister of military affairs.

  “So what you ultimately wish to say is that Yang Wen-li will never become my vassal?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  With no hesitation, and quite calmly, the minister of military affairs had given an answer that might also be interpreted as, Your Majesty lacks the ability to make him. Even the other two marshals, who despised von Oberstein, had to hand it to him when it came to his boldness—or insensitivity.

  “I’d further like to ask what position and duties Yang Wen-li will be rewarded with in the event he does bow the knee to Your Majesty. Too small a reward will not satisfy him, but too great a reward will make others uneasy.”

  Though he didn’t say so out loud, von Oberstein had a feeling that once Yang became the kaiser’s vassal, he would not long content himself with competing against Mittermeier, von Reuentahl, and the rest. Would he not surpass them, integrate the forces of the former Free Planets Alliance, and come to occupy the seat of number two?

  Number twos had to be purged. The rise of the upstart Reinhard, founder of the Lohengramm Dynasty, had come so suddenly that he was better called the “one half” of his name rather than the first, and in his new regime, the relationship between lord and vassal was neither codified nor established in tradition. The existence of a number two capable of replacing the number one could never be tolerated.

  Mittermeier and von Reuentahl alike were vassals sworn to Reinhard von Lohengramm personally, and likely had little consciousness as yet of themselves as court vassals of the Lohengramm Dynasty. Taken further, if they consider
ed themselves Reinhard’s sworn compatriots rather than his vassals, order could not hold in the lord-vassal relationship. It was loyalty, codified and enshrined in tradition, that would secure the Lohengramm Dynasty in perpetuity, so their only proper role was that of “the kaiser’s vassals,” not “the kaiser’s friends.”

  After a long silence, Reinhard answered. “Very well. We’ll set aside the matter of Yang Wen-li for the time being.”

  Reinhard hadn’t said he’d completely given up. Von Oberstein, perhaps reluctant to pursue the matter further, held his peace.

  “Still, democratic government must be remarkably shortsighted if an individual like Yang Wen-li can’t find a place in one.”

  Reinhard thought so, and said so. The one who responded was Wolfgang Mittermeier.

  “If I may, Your Majesty, the problem is likely not so much the system as the people who are running it. I’d call to your attention a most recent example, in which Your Majesty’s own gifts could find no place in the Goldenbaum Dynasty.”

  “I see. That’s certainly true.” Reinhard smiled wryly, but the enthusiasm had vanished from his graceful countenance.

  With a cynical look, von Reuentahl said, “In that case, Your Majesty, what shall we do? Use Lennenkamp’s death as an occasion to annex all of the FPA’s territory at once? We’ve given them something of a reprieve already.”

  “We could send the full might of the imperial military to cut this Gordian knot, and yet it seems a shame to do so with the republicans dancing about so madly. We also have the choice of watching them from the grandstands a little while longer, and letting them dance themselves to exhaustion.”

  Reinhard’s words had been chosen to rein in his own fighting spirit. For the three imperial marshals, this was somewhat unexpected. Had moving imperial headquarters to Phezzan alone been enough to satiate their kaiser’s spirit? His white hand was playing with the pendant on his breast.