Stratagem Read online

  Abduction of the emperor—to the performers it was a rescue operation, which, if successful, would lead to an implicit pact with Phezzan, moving toward the endgame of a military showdown with the alliance. If they failed, Reinhard would have just cause in subjugating Phezzan as the true culprit behind the emperor’s abduction. Reinhard had free choice no matter how the cards were shuffled.

  Phezzan’s overconfident commissioner Boltec, for his part, had too many tricks up his sleeve. There was no room for error. So long as they feigned ignorance as innocent bystanders and negotiated off the record, a compromise on the Phezzan end was inevitable. That idiot had failed. And the reason he’d failed was because he’d misjudged Reinhard von Lohengramm as a possible puppet, on par with that good-for-nothing poet. Boltec would surely make up for his ignorance and impropriety.

  “That reminds me, von Oberstein. I’d like you to keep an eye on that fiercely loyal good-for-nothing poet and his gang. I doubt you’ll need to do more than that, but Phezzan might just try to kill them. In which case, you’ll want to save them before that happens.”

  “As you wish. Saving them might work in our favor.”

  The empire could use them as living proof of a Phezzanese plot, thus lending leverage to their negotiations with Phezzan. And if Schumacher proved himself capable enough, he might provide suitable entertainment for Reinhard.

  “Incidentally, I trust your subordinates have been keeping an eye on former vice prime minister Gerlach?”

  Both of von Oberstein’s artificial eyes gleamed strangely as he answered in the affirmative.

  “And have you made necessary preparations for his capture?”

  “I have. If he is judged to be a conspirator in the emperor’s abduction—no, his rescue—I’ll be the most satisfied courtier of all time. Perhaps the truth of the conspiracy will come to light when we least expect it.”

  Reinhard studied his chief of staff’s face but saw nothing to indicate he was joking.

  “I doubt that.”

  First, Gerlach had neither the courage nor wherewithal to rebel against Reinhard. Second, even if the remnants of the aristocratic faction pulled Gerlach into their schemes, not only would they have to smuggle him out of the imperial capital, they’d also have to promise him a high position in the exile government in which case a power struggle between them was unavoidable. And while that good-for-nothing poet may have been a backstabber, he wasn’t likely to get in anyone’s way.

  Without perfect mutual understanding of intentions between the planners and the executors, Count von Lansberg might just pay Gerlach a visit for want of more allies or to share in the pleasure of his great enterprise.

  Logic and too many variable factors limited them. Since Reinhard was obligated to respond to Phezzan’s plans to the bitter end, there was no need for him to overthink the issue.

  “We can only keep an eye on things, but I’m okay with that. Let’s have that good-for-nothing poet and his friends’ patriotic activities monitored.”

  “That goes without saying, but”—here the artificial-eyed chief of staff cleared his throat a little—“if the emperor is abducted, the person in charge of security will, of course, fall under suspicion. Admiral Mort will pay for it with his life.”

  “You mean they’ll kill him?”

  Reinhard drew a picture in his mind of the honest, indispensable mature warrior.

  “Admiral Mort is an old-fashioned man. In the event of the emperor’s abduction, even if Your Excellency were to pardon him, his pride would prevent him from accepting it.”

  Von Oberstein’s expression was grim, as if reprimanding the young lord’s momentary weakness. Reinhard, who knew nothing of the leniency expected to be granted to the high nobility, wasn’t always so thorough when it came to his allies. However deep his indignation, if a guiltless subordinate were to be put to death as a result of his own machinations, it would not sit well with him.

  It’s a bloody road we’re on, Reinhard muttered internally. Had Siegfried Kircheis been alive, he would never have stood by and watched Mort be made a scapegoat. When Reinhard had used the Westerland Atrocity as a political maneuver, Kircheis had warned him against acting out of remorse more than anger. But Reinhard had no regrets when he lost Admiral Kempf thereafter.

  “Understood. It’s a sacrifice we’ll have to make. When the time comes, we’ll pin it all on Mort, and Mort alone. No one else.”

  “Mort’s direct superior officer is Kessler.”

  “Kessler is a rare man. If the military police commissioner becomes a criminal, the troops will lose heart. Slap him with a warning and cut his pay, and leave it at that.”

  The chief of staff sighed to himself. “I would say just one thing, Your Excellency, although it may offend your ears. You can’t clear a path through a thick forest without uprooting a few trees or overturning a few rocks.”

  Reinhard turned his ice-blue eyes toward von Oberstein. Their discernment lacked severity. They were oddly inviting. “You speak as if you were giving a lecture on Machiavellianism to a bunch of middle schoolers. Do you think I don’t already know that?”

  “So you say, but sometimes, Your Excellency, to this humble servant, it would seem you forget elementary things. Since the dawn of human history, all heroes have built their thrones atop not only the corpses of their enemies, but also those of their allies. No monarch’s hands are without blemish, and their subordinates are well aware of this fact. I would remind you that granting death is one way of repaying loyalty.”

  “Does that mean you would gladly spill your own blood for my sake, if it came to that?”

  “If it were necessary.”

  “Remember you said that…I’m through with you. Dismissed.”

  The irritation in Reinhard’s voice hit von Oberstein in a delicate wave. For a moment, he thought to say something, and without closing his mouth, he gave a bow and took his leave.

  The first to welcome von Oberstein when he returned home was an old dalmatian, who wagged his tail proudly and made way for his master to enter the foyer. The butler who greeted von Oberstein extended his arms to take his master’s clothes and inquired as to what vintage of wine he would like with that evening’s meal.

  “None. Any moment now, I expect to be summoned by Duke von Lohengramm. No alcohol for tonight. A light meal will be fine.”

  Just as he was finishing his meal, the visiphone rang, and Reinhard’s chief aide Arthur von Streit appeared on-screen.

  “Mr. Chief of Staff, Duke von Lohengramm urgently summons you. The duke is still at the prime minister’s office. Please meet him there,” said Rear Admiral von Streit politely and formally, although he thought it curious that von Oberstein wore his uniform even while eating at home. The artificial-eyed chief of staff saw no need to explain himself.

  After briefly welcoming the chief of staff a second time, the elegant prime minister dispensed with pleasantries and got down to business.

  “I forgot one thing.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t already anticipate this. If not, you wouldn’t have responded to my summons so quickly.”

  “Much obliged. I merely assumed you had thought about a new emperor to replace Erwin Joseph on the throne.”

  “And what do you think? Do you have your heart set on any candidates?”

  This conversation, which would have given outsiders much to gasp over, was between them as detached as talking about the weather.

  “There’s a grandchild born of former emperor Ludwig III’s third princess. The father is Count Pegnitz, who abstained from last year’s civil war. He’s a man who has no interests other than his collection of fine ivory figurines. The mother is Count Bodendorf’s niece. A girl, obviously, but maybe it’s high time we had an empress.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Five months.�
�

  Again, nothing in von Oberstein’s expression or voice suggested humor. That Reinhard laughed at all was due to his zealous nature.

  A seven-year-old child was vacating the throne, only to be replaced by a five-month-old baby. Someone not even old enough to talk was going to be the sovereign of the universe, leader of all peoples, defender of galactic law.

  There was probably no tableau vivant in existence worthy of this folly. Adults would bow and scrape for an infant still in diapers, to whom their ranks as high officials and admirals would mean nothing, and whose babbling they would be forced to accept as imperial gospel.

  “So what do you intend to do? Will you seek out other candidates?”

  Von Oberstein’s tone of voice was more of a command than a question. Reinhard’s smile faded, and he nodded gravely.

  “Fine. Let’s give that suckling babe the throne. Not the most entertaining toy for a child, to be sure, but one that anyone would be happy to have, even if she were alone in space. Two would be one too many.”

  “Very well. By the way, it seems some of the payments for Count Pegnitz’s ivory figurines are in arrears. This has landed him in hot legal water with merchants. How do you propose we settle those?”

  “What are the plaintiff’s terms?”

  “Seventy-five thousand reichsmark.”

  “Have it taken care of. It wouldn’t look too good for the father of the new empress to be imprisoned for unpaid debts. Withdraw the necessary funds from the Imperial Household Ministry budget.”

  “As you wish.”

  Von Oberstein bowed, rose, and took his leave to retire for the night.

  Had Reinhard been blessed with the authority to take the imperial throne himself, how much more the panorama would be enhanced, thought the blond youth. But while he exercised that authority as his own, for now his heart was waiting with folded wings. The Goldenbaum family, which had monopolized authority for a span of five centuries, reigning at the apex of a class society, and becoming the source of all social ills—above all, wealth and the inequality of political privilege—was about to tumble down from its golden palace straight into the gutter. The excitement of revenge began to well up from his stomach, coiling an unpleasant sourness around a thought that Reinhard would rather have spat out. After hesitating for a few seconds, he did just that.

  V

  Leopold Schumacher’s plan of action hinged on one essential thing: a diversionary tactic. As Alfred von Lansberg and Schumacher were planning their infiltration of Neue Sans Souci, in another sector of the imperial city, large-scale subversive activities were, as they had hoped, being fomented in institutions ranging from military circles to the police.

  Alfred appeared skeptical about this.

  “It’s not a bad idea, but Duke von Lohengramm is no dolt. He’ll see right through it.”

  Unlike the other high nobles, he refrained from denouncing Reinhard as the “golden brat.” It was the same courtesy Schumacher extended toward Alfred.

  “Still, it’s worth a shot. I intend to get Phezzanese agents to do it.”

  “That’s just not right. They’re already supporting our noble cause from the sidelines. Isn’t that enough, Captain?”

  Schumacher saw it differently. Their actions were anything but noble, and the only reason they’d been roped into Alfred’s cause was because he knew they—not Phezzan—were the ones behind this. He kept this to himself.

  “True, we shouldn’t hope for too much.”

  “What’s more, Captain, we’d stand out for exploiting a Goldenbaum family retainer.”

  “I see. You’re right, of course,” said Schumacher, meaning not a word of it.

  Putting Phezzan in direct charge of subversive activities made them more than complicit—it made them primary actors. No matter how acrimonious their countermeasures toward Phezzan, they would never be enough. If something went wrong, not even Phezzan could guarantee that Alfred and Schumacher wouldn’t be sold to Duke von Lohengramm. So why not attach an appropriate value to Phezzan’s secret?

  Schumacher again grew annoyed. As a military man who’d fought against the brightest on the battlefield, he felt coerced into an unproductive scheme.

  “You’re not someone to live out his career covered in manure,” said Rupert Kesselring, the landesherr’s aide.

  Although there was no need to single out someone like him from the rest of humanity, maybe he wasn’t qualified to live his life covered in manure. Paradoxically, the young, careless aide had spoken true.

  “More important, Captain, is how we get inside,” said Alfred with due emphasis. “I intend to use this route. It traverses the North Garden and comes out at the base of the statue of Sigismund I in the South Garden. Seeing as it passes through a closed area, there’s little chance of being discovered.”

  Alfred’s finger moved vigorously across the map. As the Phezzan commissioner had so patronizingly declared when handing it over to him, possession of this map meant an end to all his troubles.

  The corridor started in an underground storage facility beneath the Imperial Natural History Society building. It was 12.7 kilometers long and had been built five generations ago by Alfred’s ancestor at the command of Emperor Georg II. That same ancestor had been granted the emperor’s prized mistress in return for his meritorious service. Ever since then, his bloodline had been entrusted with a gracious motto: Should any danger near the throne, safety lies in paths unknown.

  “My fate in carrying out this important mission was decided five generations ago. The only problem now is figuring out how to break into the Natural History Society, although it beats having to break into the palace itself.”

  Count von Lansberg’s fateful mission was outside the realm of Schumacher’s concern. He was anticipating the many variables required to see his own plans to fruition. As he scrutinized the map, questions piled up inside him.

  VI

  On the evening of July 6, Count Alfred von Lansberg and Leopold Schumacher plumbed the depths of Neue Sans Souci.

  That night, outside the imperial capital’s southern suburbs, droves of military police were mobilized to expose a secret armory run by radical republicans. Despite correctly identifying the location and seizing the weapons stored there, they apprehended no one. Commissioner Boltec had arranged this under strict orders from Schumacher, renovating the basement of an abandoned house, filling it with arms and equipment, and transforming it into a warehouse in a matter of three days. It was enough to cover their tracks on the night in question, but Schumacher ordered them to demolish the warehouse to add to the confusion. To conceal this incident from civil authorities and news organizations, they’d prepared a landcar in front of the Imperial Natural History Society building where the tunnel began, ensuring that Schumacher and the others would be immediately escorted to the safety of the commissioner’s office once they returned.

  It was almost absurd to think it took a tunnel dug deep into the planet to save the emperor of a Galactic Empire, ruler of the entire universe, from fear of assassination or treason. Even Schumacher couldn’t shake the feeling of looking like idiots as they made their way through that very tunnel.

  At least they wouldn’t be walking every kilometer of it, and travel aboveground would take longer than under. Schumacher was driving a lightweight, four-person landcar outfitted with solar cells. It was made with a special organic resin that melted when exposed to a certain acid. Schumacher planned on leaving no traces.

  Having been built for the utmost practical use, the tunnel was devoid of the rococo decorations clogging every other building the Goldenbaum Dynasty put its name on. The inner wall, a half circle with a 2.5-meter radius, was coated in reinforced concrete. To facilitate an emperor’s escape, five generations ago the head of Count von Lansberg’s family had apparently installed all sorts of devices to deter potential pursuers. These, too, were all but forgotten
.

  Once they reached a gray wall, the two of them got out of the landcar. A fluorescent circle glowed faintly in the ceiling. Alfred pushed the ring on his left index finger into its center. After ten seconds of an extremely low-frequency hum, the ceiling opened without a sound.

  Five minutes later, they came out into the South Garden and were inside the target building. Had this been during former Emperor Friedrich IV’s reign, they’d have been accosted multiple times for identification by guards. All the more ironic, then, that the times were on their side.

  The imperial bedchamber was located on a wide balcony on the second floor. There, a lone boy sat in his canopied bed. Having not yet shed the skin of his childhood, and wearing his luxurious silk pajamas, he clutched a teddy bear that was half his size. His blond hair, brown eyes, tapered jaw, and smooth, pale skin caught the eyes of the intruders. And then they were caught by the boy’s eyes when he unexpectedly looked up to see two adults entering his room.

  “Your Majesty.”

  The young count’s voice quivered with reverence.

  This boy, object of Alfred’s unconditional piety, was none other than the leader of the Galactic Empire, Emperor Erwin Josef II.

  The child emperor looked at this young nobleman, who’d taken a knee to pay him reverence, with a strangely abstruse expression. Not because he’d been woken up in the middle of the night, for he was already awake when they entered, but because he was utterly lacking in youthful sensitivity. As Alfred made to open his mouth again, the child emperor cut him off, pointing an accusatory finger at Leopold Schumacher.

  “Why doesn’t this one kneel?” he asked, his voice shrill.

  “Captain, here before you sits His Majesty the Emperor, ruler of the entire universe.”

  Schumacher, cool yet cynical, was in no mood for ceremony. Seeing that Alfred was insistent on it, however, he kneeled. Not out of any respect for the emperor, but out of compassion for his partner in crime. Schumacher gave his best mock obeisance. It was all he could do to combat the incongruity of it all. He would be glad if this was the last time.