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  When someone had once asked him, “Landesherr, Your Excellency, just how many mistresses do you have?” Rubinsky, not answering right away, had thought about it with a serious expression on his face, until at last with a cheerful smile bordering on audacity he had said, “I can only count them by the dozen.”

  Although there was certainly exaggeration there, he was not entirely telling tall tales. His vitality of mind and body did not in the slightest belie the impression given by his outward appearance.

  Rubinsky’s philosophy was that life should be enjoyed grandly. Full-bodied spirits, foods that melted on the tongue, renowned melodies to make the heartstrings tremble, and graceful, supple beauties: he was a lover of them all.

  These, however, were mere entertainments. His greatest amusement lay elsewhere—for games of political and military intrigue were played with the fates of men and of nations as the intangible chips, and neither wine nor women could compare to the thrill they delivered.

  Even Machiavellian trickery, sufficiently refined, can be an art, Rubinsky reflected. Only the lowest of the low resort to threats of armed force. The words on their placards may differ, but on that point there’s little difference between the empire and alliance. Both are twin children born of a monster named Rudolf, he thought with malice, and share a mutual hatred for one another.

  “Well then, since Your Excellency the Landesherr has gone to such trouble inviting me out here tonight, there must be something you wish to discuss,” Count von Remscheid prompted as he set his wine glass down on a marble table.

  Enjoying himself as he looked back at the man’s guarded expression, Rubinsky replied, “Indeed I do, and I believe the topic will interest you … The Free Planets Alliance is planning an all-out military offensive against the empire.”

  The imperial aristocrat needed several seconds to digest the meaning of that reply.

  “Your Excellency means to say that the alliance—” was what the count started to say, but then his own words registered on him, and he corrected himself: “That the rebels are plotting lawless outrages against our empire?”

  “It seems that after capturing the empire’s proud fortress of Iserlohn, the alliance is boiling over with a lust for war.”

  The count narrowed his eyes slightly. “By occupying Iserlohn, the rebels now hold a bridgehead in imperial territory. That is a fact. But it does not perforce follow that they will launch an all-out invasion right away.”

  “Be that as it may, it’s clear the alliance is drawing up plans for a large-scale attack.”

  “What does ‘large-scale’ mean?”

  “A force over twenty million strong. Which might actually exceed thirty million.”

  “Thirty million.”

  The imperial aristocrat’s near-colorless eyes shone white in the illumination.

  Even the imperial military had never mobilized that large a force all at once. The difficulty in doing so was not merely a problem of numbers; it also involved organization, management, and the ability to run it all. Did the alliance have that kind of capability? Whether they did or not, this was certainly vital intelligence, but …

  “But, Landesherr, Your Excellency, why are you sharing this information with me? What are your aims?”

  “I’m a bit surprised Your Excellency the High Commissioner would ask me such a thing. Has our dominion ever once done anything that would put the empire at a disadvantage?”

  “No, I’ve no recollection of such a thing. Naturally, our empire has the utmost confidence in Phezzan’s loyalty and faithfulness.”

  It was an exchange with an emptiness and insincerity of which both sides were well aware.

  At last, Count von Remscheid left. Watching his landcar as it hurriedly raced away on his monitor screen, a cruel smile appeared on Rubinsky’s face.

  The high commissioner would run to his office and send an emergency message to Odin. The intelligence Rubinsky had just fed him could not be ignored.

  Having lost Iserlohn, the imperial military would blanch at this news and begin preparations to intercept the attack. Reinhard von Lohengramm would almost certainly be the one sent out to meet them, but this time Rubinsky wanted him to win for the empire without winning too much.

  If Reinhard didn’t show, that would be a problem, actually.

  Rubinsky had not informed the empire when he had received word that Yang was to attack Iserlohn with only half a fleet. For one thing, he’d never dreamed the attempt would succeed, and for another, he had felt like watching to see what kind of clever scheme Yang would come up with.

  The conclusion had been such as could even surprise Rubinsky. To think he had a trick like that up his sleeve! he had thought, genuinely impressed.

  He was not in a position, however, to simply be impressed and leave it at that. The balance of military power had tilted toward the alliance, and now he needed to nudge it back slightly toward the empire.

  He needed them fighting each other—hurting each other—more and more.

  II

  Marquis Lichtenlade, the minister of state and acting imperial prime minister, received a visit one night at the estate where he lived from Viscount Gerlach, the minister of finance.

  The occasion for the minister of finance’s visit was to report that one stage of the Kastropf Uprising’s mop-up had been completed. Having a subordinate send a report by visiphone from one’s own home was not a tradition that existed in the empire.

  “The disposition of Duke von Kastropf’s lands and fortune is for the most part accomplished. After liquidation, the estate’s value comes to roughly five hundred billion imperial marks.”

  “He certainly had been saving, hadn’t he?”

  “Most certainly. Although I do feel a slight twinge of pity for the man when I think of how diligently he’d saved just to pay it all into the national treasury …”

  After enjoying sufficiently the full-bodied aroma of the red wine set before him, the minister of finance touched it to his lips. The minister of state set down his glass and changed his expression.

  “By the way, there’s a little matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “A short while ago, I received an urgent communiqué from Count von Remscheid on Phezzan. He says that the rebel forces will stage a massive invasion of imperial territory.”

  “The rebel forces—!” The minister of state nodded at him. The minister of finance set his half-filled glass on the table, causing the remaining wine to churn violently. “This is a serious problem.”

  “It is. Yet at the same time, I can’t say it doesn’t present an opportunity.” The minister of state crossed his arms. “We have a need right now to fight a battle and win. According to the minister of the interior’s report, there’s some sort of revolutionary mood being fomented yet again amongst the commoners. They seem to have some vague idea of our losing Iserlohn. In order to blow all that away, we have to destroy the rebels and restore the dignity of the imperial household. In conjunction with that, we need to let the commoners suck on a bit of candy as well. A special pardon for thought criminals, an easing up on taxation, a decrease in liquor prices—something like that.”

  “Indulge them too much and the commoners will take advantage of you. I’ve seen the radicals’ underground writings—they’re full of outrageous declarations. ‘Humans have rights before duties,’ and the like. Don’t you think a special pardon would only spoil them?”

  “It’s as you say, but we can’t govern exclusively by the stick,” the minister of state said reprovingly.

  “That’s true, but pandering to the people more than necessary is … But no, let’s leave that for another time. This report of the rebels invading our empire, was the source of it Rubinsky?”

  The minister of state nodded.

  “The Black Fox of Phezzan,” said the ministe
r of finance, clucking his tongue loudly. “Lately, I get the feeling the misers of Phezzan might be a much greater danger to the empire than the rebels are. There’s no telling what they might be plotting.”

  “I agree,” said Lichtenlade. “But for now, it’s the rebel threat we need to deal with. Who should we assign to the defense … ?”

  “The golden brat will probably want to do it,” said Gerlach. “Why not let him?”

  “It’s best not to make an emotional decision. Suppose we let him: If he were to succeed, his reputation would rise to a whole other level, and the room we have to impede him would evaporate. If, on the other hand, he were to fail, it would mean a fight against rebel forces under extremely unfavorable conditions—within the core of the empire, most likely, against a huge horde of thirty million whose morale would be soaring because of their victory.”

  “Your Excellency is too pessimistic,” said the minister of finance, who leaned forward and began to explain his own position.

  “Even if the rebels are victorious, they won’t come out of battle with Count von Lohengramm’s force unscathed. The count is certainly no incompetent and will doubtless inflict considerable casualties on the enemy. Furthermore, the rebel force will be on a campaign very far from their home base, unable to resupply at will. On top of that, they will be lacking the geographical advantage.

  “For these reasons, imperial forces will be able to head off a battle-weary enemy at their leisure. Given the circumstances, in fact, it may not even be necessary to go out and fight them at all. If we simply wage a battle of attrition, the enemy will suffer supply shortages and psychological strain, and in the end they’ll have no choice but to withdraw. If the imperial forces wait for that moment to pursue and attack, victory will come with little difficulty.”

  “I see,” said Minister of State Lichtenlade. “That settles that in the event the brat is defeated. But what if he wins? Between his military accomplishments and his exploitation of His Highness’s favor, he’s more than we can manage, even now. I can only imagine how much more spoiled he’d become if he were victorious.”

  “I think we should let him get spoiled. One man who’s risen beyond his station? We can fry him up at our leisure. It’s not as if he’s with his troops twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Hmm …”

  “Once the rebel fleet has been wiped out, the golden brat will fall as well,” the minister of finance said coldly. “Shall we not make the most of his talents while we have need of them?”

  III

  It was August 12 of the standard calendar, SE 796. On the Free Planets Alliance’s capital of Heinessen, an operations planning session was being held for the invasion of the Galactic Empire.

  Gathered in an underground meeting room at Joint Operational Headquarters were the director, Marshal Sitolet, and thirty-six admirals, which meant that the commanding officer of the Thirteenth Fleet, newly minted Vice Admiral Yang Wen-li, was among them as well.

  Yang didn’t look well. As he had once told Captain von Schönkopf, he had believed the threat of war would recede if Iserlohn fell. The reality, however, had taken exactly the opposite shape—one that for Yang’s part reminded him of the fact that he was young—or rather, naive.

  Even so, Yang was naturally in no mood to acknowledge the logical soundness of arguments for this mobilization and expansion of the war.

  The victory at Iserlohn had been nothing more than Yang’s solo gambit paying off. It didn’t mean that the Alliance Armed Forces were actually capable of defeating the empire. The true state of affairs was that the troops were worn out to the point of exhaustion, and the wealth and power of the nation supporting them was riding a downward curve.

  However, this fact, which Yang himself acknowledged was one the political and military leadership just didn’t seem to understand. Military victories were like narcotics, and a sweet drug called “occupied Iserlohn” seemed to have caused a sudden blooming of warlike hallucinations lurking in the hearts of the people. Even in the national assembly, where cooler heads should have prevailed, they were calling with one voice for “invasion of imperial territory.” The government’s manipulation of information was skillful, too, but …

  Did we pay too little in taking Iserlohn? Yang wondered. If it had come at the cost of a bloodbath that climbed into the tens of thousands, would the people have said, “Enough, already!” instead?

  Would they have thought, “We’ve won, but we’re dead tired. Shouldn’t we rest for a while, reexamine the past, think about our future, and then ask ourselves, is there really something out there that would make fighting on worth it?”

  That hadn’t happened. “Who would have imagined that victory could be this easy?” the people had thought. “Who would have imagined that the fruits of victory could be this delectable?” It was an irony that the one who had put those thoughts in their heads had been Yang himself. This was the last thing the young admiral had wanted, and these days the brandy content of his tea was only increasing.

  The expeditionary force’s order of battle had not yet been announced to the public, though it was decided already.

  Marshal Lasalle Lobos, the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada’s commander in chief himself, was personally taking the post of supreme fleet commander. As the number two man in uniform after Joint Operational Headquarters director Sitolet, his competitive relationship with Sitolet was one that stretched back over a quarter of a century.

  The job of vice commander in chief had been left vacant, and taking the seat of joint chief of staff was Senior Admiral Dwight Greenhill—Frederica Greenhill’s father. Under his command had been placed Vice Admiral Konev, the operations chief of staff; Rear Admiral Birolinen, the intelligence chief of staff, and Rear Admiral Caselnes, the rear service chief of staff. This was the first duty on the front in quite some time for Alex Caselnes, who was known for his outstanding knack for getting things done in the office.

  Under the operations chief of staff, there were five operations staff officers. One of these was Rear Admiral Andrew Fork, a brilliant man who had graduated top of his class from Officers’ Academy six years ago; this young officer was the original architect of the plan for the upcoming expedition.

  The intelligence staff and the rear service staff consisted of three officers each.

  To these sixteen were added high-level aides and essential communications, security, and other personnel, and together they formed the supreme command center.

  To begin with, eight space fleets were to be mobilized as combat units:

  The Third Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Lefêbres.

  The Fifth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Bucock.

  The Seventh Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Hawood.

  The Eighth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Appleton.

  The Ninth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Al Salem.

  The Tenth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Urannf.

  The Twelfth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Borodin.

  The Thirteenth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Yang.

  The Fourth and Sixth Fleets, having been dealt severe blows at the Battle of Astarte, had been recently joined with the remaining forces from the Second to form Yang’s Thirteenth Fleet, so only two of the ten fleets that made up the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada—the First and Eleventh—were being left behind in the homeland.

  To these forces were added armored mobile troops known collectively as ground combat units, intra-atmosphere airborne combat squadrons, amphibious squadrons, naval units, ranger units, and all manner of other independently operating units. Heavy weapons specialists from the Domestic Security Corps were also going to participate.

  As for noncombat personnel, the maximum number possible were to be mobilized from technological, engineering, supply, communications, space traffic control, maintenance, electronic data, medical, lifestyle, and other field
s.

  The total number mobilized came to 30,227,400 people. This meant that 60 percent of the Free Planets Alliance’s entire military was to be mobilized all at once. That number also accounted for 0.23 percent of the alliance’s full population of thirteen billion.

  With an operational plan before them whose gargantuan scope knew no precedent, even admirals who had fought bravely in many prior battles were, here and there, conspicuously unable to clear their heads. They wiped nonexistent sweat from their foreheads, downed glass after glass of the ice water prepared for them, or whispered to colleagues in the seats next to them.

  At 0945, Marshal Sitolet, director of Joint Operational Headquarters, entered the room with his top aide, Rear Admiral Marinesk, and the meeting got under way immediately.

  There was no sense of grand exaltation in the expression or voice of Marshal Sitolet when he opened his mouth to speak: “The plan we’re discussing today for a campaign into imperial territory has already been approved by the High Council, but …”

  All of the admirals in attendance knew that he had been against this deployment.

  “Detailed plans for the expeditionary force’s actions are not yet established. The purpose of today’s meeting is to decide on these. I need not remind you at this point that the Alliance Armed Forces is the free military of a free nation. I’m hoping that in that spirit, you’ll carry out a vigorous exchange of ideas and discussion today.”

  There may have been some present who from the lack of enthusiasm in the director’s remarks understood his anguish, and there may have been some as well who could perceive in his professorial intonation a passive-aggressive resistance. The director closed his mouth, and for a moment no one said anything. It was as if all present were simmering in their own thoughts.

  In the back of his mind, Yang was replaying something he’d heard from Caselnes the other day:

  “At any rate, there are unified regional elections coming up soon. On the domestic front, there’s been a string of internal scandals going on for a while now, so if they want to win, they’ll have to divert the public’s attention to the outside. That’s what this military campaign is all about.”