Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 7 Page 4

  Accordingly, Lennenkamp did not deserve promotion to imperial marshal. Kaiser Reinhard, in not bestowing that title on him, might have been thought a harsh man from the standpoint of human sentiment, yet in rational terms, it was the right thing to do. Had Kaiser Reinhard yielded to emotion and given Lennenkamp the rank of imperial marshal, he would have doubled his error, and the second wrong would not have made a right of the first.

  Simply giving high ranks to one’s vassals didn’t make everything right. If there was any point on which Cornelius I, successor to the wise Emperor Maximillian Josef II, had fallen short of greatness, it was not to be found in his talents nor his achievements. It was rather in his propensity to bestow imperial marshalships on his vassals to excess, until even commanders of small fleets were holding marshals’ scepters. After Cornelius’s attempt to conquer the Free Planets Alliance had ended in failure, he had finally thought better of the practice, and until his dying day had never again bestowed the rank of imperial marshal.

  Mittermeier felt himself wanting to change the subject, and turned his gray eyes toward his young colleague. “By the way,” he said, “how does it feel, riding on that brand-new flagship of yours?”

  Though Müller was concerned about what people around him might think, his face lit up a little at that, and he answered right away: “It’s fantastic!”

  Percival was the first warship the ordinance factories had completed following the establishment of the Lohengramm Dynasty, and it was he—Senior Admiral Neidhart Müller—who had had the honor of receiving it from the kaiser. For the courageous fighting he had displayed in the Vermillion War—rescuing his lord Reinhard in a critical situation and escaping from sinking ships as many as three times during the chaos of ferocious battle—he had made himself known to both friend and foe as “Müller die eiserne Wand”—Müller the Iron Wall. Even his archenemy Yang Wen-li, whose complete victory over Reinhard Müller had prevented, had praised him as an excellent commander, and Müller’s fame as a warrior had risen until it now trailed only that of the Twin Ramparts. In spite of that, he had never grown conceited, and the faithful, sincere attitude he had as the youngest among his colleagues never faltered.

  Müller was about to answer Mittermeier further when the reflection of someone new appeared in his sandy eyes. Kaiser Reinhard’s assistant deputy was bending down toward the two of them. Theodor von Rücke had been promoted to lieutenant commander. This had been in recognition of his recent act of bravery, when an attempt had been made on the kaiser’s life at the estate of Baron von Kümmel, and von Rücke had shot and killed one of the criminals involved. He was the same age as the kaiser, and although it manifested itself in a manner rather different from that of his lord, he had a certain boyishness about him that even now suggested a clueless underclassman at officers’ school.

  “Would all imperial marshals and senior admirals please gather in the Granite Room on the sixteenth floor? His Imperial Majesty would like to hear your opinions on a certain matter.”

  Von Rücke had almost certainly not been told what the matter to be discussed was, so Mittermeier didn’t bother asking him. An image was floating around in the back of his mind of the kaiser in the imperial council meeting just a few days ago, seemingly wavering in his decisions and choices.

  The Granite Room was wide and spacious, more a salon than a meeting room, and coffee had been prepared for the admirals.

  “Will His Majesty lead us into battle again?” Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld murmured to no one in particular. It was clear as day to his colleagues that he was not asking a question but rather expressing his hope. More than any other, Wittenfeld was a man who embodied the militaristic nature of the new dynasty, a fact he himself acknowledged. His light-brown eyes roved across the room’s decor disinterestedly.

  “His Majesty longs for enemies to fight. Although he was born for battle, the battles have ended too soon…”

  Neidhart Müller felt the same way. He was a warrior himself, and not yet of an age to feel the fatigue of battle. Would it be disrespectful to say that pity was mingled with the reverence that his glorious young kaiser inspired in him? Still, he had seen what Reinhard had looked like after Admiral Kircheis had died.

  Senior Admiral Ernest Mecklinger, who had stayed behind on Odin in the important post of rear guard commander in chief, had once said to Müller, “It’s well and good for His Majesty to move to Phezzan, but I’m a bit uneasy about these reforms to the military. Military power ought to be centralized. If you give military precincts the power to lead and command troops, won’t that lead to authority splintering according to territory at the very moment central control weakens?”

  Kaiser Reinhard was young and filled with vitality and possibilities, but although he was a genius, and although he was a hero, he was not immortal. The greater his presence, the greater the hole that would be left after he was gone. Mecklinger was worried about that, and while Müller sympathized, he couldn’t take his concern quite that far. From the standpoint of age, both Mecklinger and Müller were sure to pass on before the kaiser did; the trials that came afterward were best left to the next generation.

  As Müller picked up his coffee cup, the soft tones of the Twin Ramparts’ conversation came flowing into his ears.

  “By the way,” said Mittermeier, “how do you think the FPA government and military are dealing with the present situation?”

  “By running around in confusion, and then dropping from exhaustion,” von Reuentahl replied.

  The chaos and confusion in the FPA military had been particularly awful. Their civilian authorities had yet to release an official statement regarding Commissioner Lennenkamp’s dishonorable death or the flight of retired marshal Yang Wen-li. The blame for the former they laid at the feet of the imperial government’s policy of secrecy, while with regard to the latter, they obstinately insisted that the government could not be expected to know the movements of a single civilian. The result was that the eggs of unease they had been laying had hatched out chicks of distrust.

  Setting his coffee cup back down hard on the table, Wittenfeld joined in the conversation. “All I can see is that the FPA has lost its ability to self-govern. The minute the barrel hoops come loose, boiling soup’s going to spill out everywhere, and nothing but chaos will follow. That being the case, shouldn’t we pry those hoops off ourselves? We should accept the chaos in the Free Planets’ government as a sign from Lord Odin that he’s already granted us their territory.”

  “Even if we did mobilize, our supply chain isn’t ready yet,” Mittermeier calmly pointed out. “It would turn into a mirror image of Amritsar three years ago—this time we’d be the ones starving.”

  “Then we should just capture the Free Planets Alliance’s supply bases.”

  “On what legal basis?”

  “Legal basis!” Wittenfeld gave a mocking laugh that set his long orange hair swaying. Even when he acted like this, the hawkish admiral had an odd sort of innocence about him; Mittermeier couldn’t bring himself to seriously dislike the man. Wittenfeld casually pushed aside his coffee cup.

  “Is a legal basis really that important?”

  “As long as the FPA government has the will and ability to crush armed forces resisting it, we have no way of moving against Yang Wen-li ourselves. After all, the Baalat Treaty expressly forbids interference in their internal affairs.”

  “I see. They might have the will, but isn’t it obvious that they lack the ability? Where is Yang Wen-li right now? Where did Lennenkamp go? If you ask me, I’d say these questions in essence show exactly where their limitations are.” Wittenfeld’s words could not have been sharper, and Mittermeier fell silent, a rather wry expression on his face. Truth be told, he had been thinking something similar. Under normal circumstances, it fell to Mecklinger to rein in Wittenfeld’s more radical pronouncements, though.

  “Ultimately, it may come down to a ques
tion of whether our empire or the Free Planets Alliance’s government knowingly violated Yang Wen-li’s legal rights,” Mittermeier said, flashing an ironic glance at von Oberstein, who remained silent with arms folded. Mittermeier harbored a suspicion that Lennenkamp’s actions had been due at least in part to von Oberstein’s prompting.

  Setting that aside, the imperial military’s options were not so cut-and-dried. If Yang Wen-li were determined to be a public enemy of the New Galactic Empire, then imperial forces would be able to take direct action to eliminate him. At the same time, though, that might provide an opportunity for miscellaneous, poorly organized anti-empire movements to coalesce around Yang Wen-li as a symbol.

  “Even if they’re just a disorderly rabble, they could obviously project power greater than their own abilities if they had Yang Wen-li and his clever schemes on their side. On the other hand, if forces opposing us remain splintered as they are now, we’ll have to go around squelching them one by one. Sounds like a lot of trouble to me.”

  “In that case, why not let Yang Wen-li rally the anti-kaiser forces and unify them? Then we deal with Yang, and with one attack extinguish the whole chain of volcanoes. No matter how much lava spills out, once it cools, it will be powerless. Don’t you agree?”

  Though Wittenfeld’s opinion sounded crude, as strategic theory it wasn’t mistaken. Crushing the core of an organization that had unified organically was more efficient than destroying a large number of smaller, separate organizations individually. Down that path, however, there also lay the danger that a unified force with Yang at its core could grow into something too powerful for even the empire to suppress.

  The newborn Lohengramm Dynasty possessed overwhelming power in the military sense, and the young kaiser who stood at its head was a prodigy in the art of war. Military might, however, was not the sole factor determining history or geometrical space; it followed naturally that the parts that had expanded with Phezzan’s annexation and the Free Planets’ surrender would cause the structure as a whole to lose some of its density. If a rip occurred, who was to say whether it could be mended?

  “Yang Wen-li is a concern,” Neidhart Müller said, tilting his head, “but what about the rumor that’s driven this whole chain of disruptions? Is it true? Is Admiral Merkatz still alive?”

  The admirals all glanced at one another. As Müller had said, rumors regarding the status of Admiral Merkatz—whose death in the Vermillion War had been publicly announced—had provided Lennenkamp with the chance to make the Free Planets Alliance’s government arrest Yang, and had also led to the panicked reaction of the Free Planets government.

  “At this point, we should probably assume he’s alive…”

  A sharp glint flashed in the pale aqua eyes of Senior Admiral Adalbert Fahrenheit. He and Admiral Merkatz had known each other for many years. Both he and Merkatz had fought against the FPA Armed Forces under Reinhard’s command in the Astarte Stellar Region. Then, when Merkatz had been forced into the role of commander in chief of the aristocrats’ military forces in the Lippstadt War, it had been he, Fahrenheit, who had become Merkatz’s most trusted colleague. As the Lippstadt War had drawn to a close, Merkatz had defected to the Free Planets Alliance on the advice of his aide-de-camp, and the captured Admiral Fahrenheit had been spared criminal prosecution and welcomed into Reinhard’s ranks.

  “Nowadays, he and I serve under different flags. Incredible, the difference just two or three years can make.”

  Fahrenheit was not particularly given to deep sentimentality, but when he reflected on the past, then looked toward the future, he couldn’t help but feel something. And what kind of conclusion would this upheaval arrive at? I can’t very well die before seeing this through to the end, Fahrenheit murmured in his heart.

  At this time, Reinhard’s advisors in the Granite Room consisted of only three imperial marshals and four senior admirals. Of those who had been present immediately following his victory in the Lippstadt War, three of them—Kircheis, Kempf, and Lennenkamp—had gone on to Valhalla, while another four—Mecklinger, Kessler, Steinmetz, and Lutz—had remained at their various posts, and Wahlen was still being treated for his wounds. The living they could eventually meet again, but as it sank in that the number of advisors assisting Reinhard had been halved, even these brave, battle-hardened admirals felt a fleeting instant of quiet stillness.

  “It’s gotten a bit lonely around here,” Wittenfeld said with a casual shake of the head.

  The admiral sitting next to him was Senior Admiral Ernst von Eisenach. Von Eisenach was thirty-three years old, and rather slim. His hair was the same shade as copper beginning to oxidize, and though he had combed it back neatly from his face, one small tuft was standing at attention in the back, aimed toward the heavens.

  Von Eisenach nodded wordlessly. A man of extremely few words, it was said that even in the presence of Kaiser Reinhard, he never said anything besides ja or nein. Of course, reputations usually became exaggerated as stories passed from person to person, but one rumor—that his aides and attendants were trained to respond not to their commander’s voice but to his gestures and facial expressions—was almost certainly based in fact. When he snapped his fingers three times, for example, an attendant would come running at near-sonic velocity, bringing with him half a cup of coffee with half a lump of sugar. Müller had seen it happen twice.

  It was said that while still a student in officers’ school, no one had ever seen his mouth open at any time other than breakfast, lunch, or dinner; that even when he’d been tickled, he had laughed without using his voice; and that when he had muttered “Drat” after dropping a coffee cup on the floor at Zie Addler—a club for high-ranking officers—Mittermeier and Lutz had just stared at him intently from across the table, and had afterward said, “Did he actually speak?”

  Regardless of what anecdotes might be told about him, though, there was no one who doubted von Eisenach’s abilities as a commander. Perhaps his guardian angel was merely incompetent, and that was why he had had so few opportunities to take the stage during spectacular scenes of enormous battles.

  Even so, with quite literally not a word of complaint, he had long performed those less glamorous yet still essential duties, such as harrying the enemy’s rear guard, blocking the arrival of reinforcements, defending his own side’s supply lines, and even executing diversionary tactics and providing landing support. Von Eisenach had served his young lord, and Reinhard, whose expectations he had never betrayed, had bestowed on him the rank of senior admiral, treating him as the equal of courageous admirals with innumerable heroic accomplishments. Even Marshal von Oberstein, the minister of military affairs, who often expressed disagreement when it came to Reinhard’s military appointments, had instead rather encouraged the promotion in his case. With neither a frown nor a grimace, von Eisenach had always contributed to his comrades’ victories no matter what kind of orders were given him, and even von Oberstein, notorious for his rigorous performance evaluations, rated him highly.

  Von Eisenach also had a wife and a newborn child, though how this exceedingly quiet man had ever wooed a woman was a mystery that Mittermeier and the others did in all seriousness wonder about.

  Men who had been married were in the minority among Reinhard’s highest-ranking executive officers. Among the imperial marshals there was only Mittermeier, and two senior admirals, Wahlen and von Eisenach, brought the total to three. Wahlen’s wife had passed away, however, so there were actually only two who were ordinary family men. And while both Müller and Wittenfeld had missed out on chances to wed while going to and from the battlefield, von Eisenach, the “silent admiral,” was the only one who had both wife and child. While Mittermeier did have a loving wife, they remained unfortunately childless. As for Mittermeier’s best friend, whether on Odin or here on Phezzan, he was never shy about his womanizing, and had ceaselessly creased the brows of moralists during his rise to the high rank of imperial marshal.


  When they had departed Odin, Mittermeier had once again tried suggesting marriage to his friend.

  “Marriage?”

  Reuentahl had responded with a low-pitched laugh. Even though he was grateful for his best friend’s concern, laughter had been the only means of maintaining emotional balance he’d been able to find. When that laughter finally subsided, those mismatched eyes that the ladies found so charming had gleamed with an indescribable light.

  “I’m neither willing nor worthy to have a proper family. I think you should know that better than anyone.”

  “Me? I don’t know any such thing.”

  At Mittermeier’s less-than-sympathetic reply, an uncharacteristic look of unease had flashed across the face of the famed admiral with mismatched eyes.

  “Whoa, that wasn’t contrition I just saw now, was it?”

  “Is there a reason you should concern yourself with that?”

  The two had looked at one another for a moment, then with wry grins let the matter drop.

  “By the way, I understand the most recent woman is coming all the way to Phezzan with you. Do you really like her that well?”

  “Oh, her? That woman is at my side because she wants to witness my destruction with her own eyes, it seems. A lady of exquisite tastes, I should add.”

  They spoke of Elfriede von Kohlrausch—she had moved into von Reuentahl’s officer’s residence, and was the daughter of the niece of Duke Lichtenlade, who had been executed by von Reuentahl. Many concerns had wrapped around Mittermeier like chains about that. He had wondered what von Oberstein would think of the situation. Or what he was thinking of it.