Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Vol.

6, Flight
GINGA EIYU DENSETSU Vol.6
© 1985 by Yoshiki TANAKA
Cover Illustration © 2007 Yukinobu Hoshino.
All rights reserved.
English translation © 2018 VIZ Media, LLC
Cover and interior design by Fawn Lau and Alice Lewis
No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means without written permission from the copyright holders.
HAIKASORU
Published by VIZ Media, LLC
P.O. Box 77010
San Francisco, CA 94107
www.haikasoru.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tanaka, Yoshiki, 1952- author. | Grillo, Tyran, translator.
Title: Legend of the galactic heroes / written by Yoshiki Tanaka ;
translated by Daniel Huddleston and Tyran Grillo
Other titles: Ginga eiyu densetsu
Description: San Francisco : Haikasoru, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2015044444| ISBN 9781421584942 (v. 1 : paperback)
| ISBN 9781421584959 (v. 2 : paperback) | ISBN 9781421584966 (v.
3 : paperback) | ISBN 9781421584973 (v. 4 : paperback) |
9781421584980 (v. 5 : paperback) | ISBN 9781421584997 (v. 6 :
paperback) v. 1. Dawn -- v. 2. Ambition -- v. 3. Endurance -- v. 4.
Stratagem -- v. 5. Mobilization -- v. 6. Flight
Subjects: LCSH: Science fiction. | War stories. | BISAC: FICTION / Science
Fiction / Space Opera. | FICTION / Science Fiction / Military. | FICTION /
Science Fiction / Adventure.
Classification: LCC PL862.A5343 G5513 2016 | DDC 895.63/5--dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015044444
Printed in the U.S.A.
First printing, April 2018
Haikasoru eBook edition
ISBN: 978-1-9747-0215-2
GALACTIC EMPIRE
REINHARD VON LOHENGRAMM
Emperor.
PAUL VON OBERSTEIN
Secretary of defense. Marshal.
WOLFGANG MITTERMEIER
Commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada. Marshal. Known as
the “Gale Wolf.”
OSKAR VON REUENTAHL
Secretary-general of Supreme Command Headquarters. Marshal. Has
heterochromatic eyes.
FRITZ JOSEF WITTENFELD
Commander of the Schwarz Lanzenreiter fleet. Senior admiral.
ERNEST MECKLINGER
Deputy manager of Supreme Command Headquarters. Senior admiral.
Known as the “Artist-Admiral.”
ULRICH KESSLER
Commissioner of military police and commander of capital defenses.
Senior admiral.
AUGUST SAMUEL WAHLEN
Fleet commander. Senior admiral.
NEIDHART MÜLLER
Fleet commander. Senior admiral. Known as “Iron Wall Müller.”
HELMUT LENNENKAMP
Alliance resident high commissioner. Senior admiral.
ADALBERT FAHRENHEIT
Fleet commander. Senior admiral.
ARTHUR VON STREIT
Senior imperial aide. Vice admiral.
HILDEGARD VON MARIENDORF
Chief imperial secretary. Treated as captain. Often called “Hilda.”
FRANZ VON MARIENDORF
Secretary of state. Hilda’s father.
HEINRICH VON KÜMMEL
Hilda’s cousin. Baron.
HEIDRICH LANG
Chief of the Domestic Safety Security Bureau.
ANNEROSE VON GRÜNEWALD
Reinhard’s elder sister. Countess von Grünewald. Archduchess.
JOB TRÜNICHT
Former head of state for the Alliance.
RUDOLF VON GOLDENBAUM
Founder of the Galactic Empire’s Goldenbaum Dynasty.

DECEASED
SIEGFRIED KIRCHEIS
Died living up to the faith Annerose placed in him.

FREE PLANETS ALLIANCE

YANG WEN-LI
Commander of Iserlohn Fortress. Commander of Iserlohn Patrol Fleet.
Marshal. Retired.
JULIAN MINTZ
Yang’s ward. Sublieutenant.
FREDERICA GREENHILL YANG
Yang’s aide. Lieutenant commander. Retired.
ALEX CASELNES
Acting general manager of rear services. Vice admiral.
WALTER VON SCHÖNKOPF
Commander of fortress defenses at Iserlohn Fortress. Vice admiral.
Retired.
EDWIN FISCHER
Vice commander of Iserlohn Patrol Fleet. Master of fleet operations.
Temporarily laid off.
MURAI
Chief of staff. Rear admiral. Temporarily laid off.
FYODOR PATRICHEV
Deputy chief of staff. Commodore. Temporarily relieved of duty.
DUSTY ATTENBOROUGH
Division commander within the Iserlohn Patrol Fleet. Yang’s
underclassman. Vice admiral. Retired.
OLIVIER POPLIN
Captain of the First Spaceborne Division at Iserlohn Fortress.
Commander.
ALEXANDOR BUCOCK
Commander in chief of the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada.
Marshal. Retired.
LOUIS MACHUNGO
Julian’s security guard. Ensign.
KATEROSE VON KREUTZER
Corporal. Often called “Karin.”
WILIABARD JOACHIM MERKATZ
Veteran general. Commander of the Yang fleet’s remaining troops.
BERNHARD VON SCHNEIDER
Merkatz’s aide. Commander.
JOÃO LEBELLO
Prime minister.

DECEASED
IVAN KONEV
A coolheaded ace pilot who died in the “Vermillion War.”

PHEZZAN DOMINION
ADRIAN RUBINSKY
The fifth landesherr. Known as the “Black Fox of Phezzan.”
NICOLAS BOLTEC
Acting governor-general.
BORIS KONEV
Independent merchant. Old acquaintance of Yang’s. Captain of the
merchant ship Beryozka.
ARCHBISHOP DE VILLIERS
Secretary-general of the Church of Terra.
*Titles and ranks correspond to each
character’s status at the end of Mobilization
or their first appearance in Flight.
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
MAJOR CHARACTERS

PROLOGUE
A CHRONICLE OF EARTH’S
DOWNFALL
CHAPTER 1
THE KÜMMEL INCIDENT
CHAPTER 2
PORTRAIT OF A CERTAIN
PENSIONER
CHAPTER 3
THE VISITORS
CHAPTER 4
PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
CHAPTER 5
CHAOS, DISORDER, AND
CONFUSION
CHAPTER 6
 THE HOLY LAND
CHAPTER 7
COMBAT PLAY
CHAPTER 8
HOLIDAY’S (UNEXPECTED)
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I
“HUMAN CIVILIZATION AS WE KNOW IT began on this
planet called Earth. And now, it is expanding its reach to
other heavenly bodies. Someday, we can expect Earth to be
one of many inhabited worlds. This isn’t prophecy. It’s only a
matter of time before it becomes a reality.”
So proclaimed Carlos Sylva, fifth-generation director of the
Ministry of Space for the Global Government, after an
exploration team took the first step in interplanetary
colonization when it set course for Pluto in the year 2280
AD. Sylva was a capable businessman, but he wasn’t the
most philosophical or creative thinker. His speech was little
more than a recasting of what was then commonly held
knowledge.
Before the reality of which he spoke took shape, however,
humankind would need to spill the blood of its brethren,
only to drink it in massive quantities like some unholy
communion. It wasn’t until nearly seven centuries after
Sylva’s address that the political nucleus of civilization
would relocate to another planet.
The Global Government was formed in 2129 AD. A world
exhausted from ninety years of conflict believed that
purging its worst creation—sovereign nations—would
forever liberate humanity from the folly of laying millions of
lives on the altars of the powerful. The global cross fire of
thermonuclear weapons known as the Thirteen-Day War
reduced the major cities of both parties involved—the
Northern Condominium and the United States of Eurafrica
—to radioactive wells: a morbid retribution for abuses of
military power. Nor were minor powers caught in the
middle of this carnivorous savagery spared harm and
suffering. The Northern Condominium and United States of
Eurafrica alike, fearing the other might suck those minor
powers dry of resources so that they might continue to
fight, launched their weapons of mass destruction at
neutral countries. That both sides were destroyed as a
result was one small comfort to those few who came out
alive. To avoid such tyranny’s resurgence, a strong, united
system would be necessary. Without it, the world was bound
to spiral into a destruction from which it might never
recover.
In the long run, it was a matter of uniting a complex of
power structures into a single overarching one. But
cynicism abounded, and some people were less than
optimistic about putting their faith in politics. “Even if there
were no more world wars,” they said, “we’d still have civil
wars.” Perhaps they weren’t entirely misguided, but such
rhetoric wasn’t fatalistic enough to make people turn a deaf
ear to its warning. In any case, given that the world’s
population had been reduced to about one billion, and food
production had slowed to a crawl, there was hardly enough
energy to sustain a civil war anyway.
The Global Government’s capital was set up in Brisbane, a
city in northeastern Australia facing the Pacific Ocean. Its
location in the southern hemisphere, where damage from
the war was minimal, made it ideal as a political center. It
was also a hub for the largest economic bloc on the planet,
rich in natural resources, and geographically far removed
from offending nations.

A major consequence of the Global Government’s

establishment was a sharp decline in the influence of
religion. Try as they might, traditional religious
organizations had ultimately failed to put an end to the age
of conflicts that was at last resolved by birth of the Global
Government. If anything, religiosity was a primary factor in
fomenting enmity and prejudice between opposing sides.
Private armies representing various religious sects
rampantly killed the women and children of heretics, all in
the name of their almighty God. In the wake of the
Northern Condominium’s destruction, the minor “Order
Nations” defending local authority across the North
American continent transformed this vast industrial power
once known as the pinnacle of reason and republican
government into a wasteland of metal, resin, and concrete,
while infecting survivors with viruses of superstition and
exclusion.
In the end, their God did not intervene, their messiah did
not appear, and people barely managed to pull the world up
by its bootstraps from an abyss of ruin.
Reconstruction proceeded quickly. The remnant population
put their all into projects large and small, building up the
new capital and revitalizing wasted lands, yet with always
one foot forward into the frontier of outer space.
As one popular doctrine had it: “He who owns the frontier
will never be counted among the weak.” Prior to the Global
Government’s establishment, humanity had left its mark as
far as Mars, but by 2166 AD, humans had traversed the
asteroid belt to build a developmental base on Jupiter’s
satellite Io. The Ministry of Space was the Global
Government’s most active department at that time. Its
headquarters was located on the moon’s surface, where it
functioned as the nerve center for all divisions, including
navigations, resources, facilities, communications,
management, education, science, exploration, and shipping.
The vastness of its scale was in proportion with the times,
and by the mid-2200s its population surpassed that of
Brisbane.
Brisbane, some said, might have been the capital of Earth,
but Luna City was the capital of the entire solar system.
At first, any terraforming activities conducted off planet
remained confined to the solar system. In 2253 AD, the first
interstellar exploratory vessel made way for Alpha
Centauri, but when it failed to return twenty years later,
people started doubting whether their dreams of colonizing
undiscovered worlds would ever be realized. The
population was still hovering around four billion, however,
so the solar system alone promised to provide more than
enough living space.
In 2360 AD, a team of space engineers and their leader, a
Dr. Antonel János, became saviors of the entire human race
when faster-than-light travel was at last realized. At first,
warp travel worked only at short distances. More
importantly, it brought about remarkably adverse effects on
the human body, especially regarding female fertility. But by
2391 AD, full implementation was in effect. This widened
the scope of exploration to the extent that, in 2402 AD, a
habitable planet was discovered in the Canopus star
system. And with that discovery, the era of interstellar
migration was under way.
With this new technology, however, came the first cracks in
the “single authority” system under which the world was
now governed. In 2404 AD, even as the first team of
interstellar emigrants set out for the navigations base on Io
to enthusiastic acclaim, Global Government leaders in
Brisbane were butting heads over an elliptical debate: Just
how much autonomy should they grant those settlements as
they established themselves farther and farther away from
Earth? Should they be allowed total independence, abide by
Earth’s laws and regulations without compromise, or
operate somewhere between those two extremes?

Over the course of eight decades, the organization modestly

founded as the Ministry of Space Navigation Safety
Department was promoted to the Ministry of Space
Department of Public Peace, which then became Space
Defense Command under the vice undersecretary of
defense, and finally Space Force. Space Force was of an
entirely different disposition than the NCASF, or Northern
Condominium Aerial Space Force, which threatened and
overpowered weaker countries from the air before the
Global Government came into being. Space Force’s
intended purpose was to guarantee the safety of citizens
traveling through space by protecting civil liberties and
economies against any wrongdoing that might undermine
those privileges. With the advent of interstellar travel came
near-total amnesia over the fact that any army touting an
emphasis on peaceful protection at home was inevitably
running wild with invasions and offensive campaigns
abroad, where its actions ran relatively unchecked by the
central powers that were.
Time and time again, any student of subsequent history
will have encountered proof that an army is a nation’s most
powerful and most violent organization, that there can be
no military groups outside any nation claiming to unite all of
humanity. And so, despite a minimum sufficiency of military
power, Space Force continued to expand its manpower and
material resources.
By 2527 AD, this significantly enlarged military
organization was showing signs of internal degeneration,
but a section meeting on disarmament and arms control at
the Unification Congress drew cynical complaints from all
sides. One such testimony described the situation in the
following terms:
“Are high-ranking military men nothing more than armed
nobility under another name? As an example, let’s take a
good look at the extravagant life of Arnold F. Birch, captain
of Dixieland, the carrier attached to fourth company HQ.
His quarters consist of an office, a living room, a bedroom,
and a bathroom for a total area of 240 square meters. But
let’s compare that to the soldiers’ living quarters on the
level below him, where we find ninety men crammed into
the same area. With respect to labor, it’s only natural for a
captain to have an aide attached to him, but he has a
private secretary (a female officer), six orderlies, two
personal chefs, and a private nurse on call to meet his every
need. Of course, their salaries are all siphoned from the
people’s taxes, but the greater indignity is that an infirm
man in need of a private nurse is commanding an entire
fleet.”
This indictment became a target of heated criticism. The
military already had enough spokespeople within congress
and the press to handle the situation.
Interstellar travel had approached a ceiling in terms of
technological innovation and effective range, and any
prospect of limitless development was withering away. By
2480 AD, humanity’s sphere of influence had reached a
radius of 60 light-years, with Earth as its center. By 2530
AD, that radius had expanded to 84 light-years; by 2580, it
had crept up to 91 light-years; and by 2630, 94 light-years.
And while expansion had clearly plateaued, the military and
bureaucratic organisms supporting these increasingly futile
efforts were growing to gargantuan proportions.
Even as scientific advances were coming to a standstill,
economic injustices were flourishing. Earth had already
folded its agricultural and industrial mining industries,
staking capital instead to control its more than one hundred
colonies, greedily siphoning profit and resources in return.
Any governmental autonomy nominally bestowed upon the
colony planets did nothing to alleviate their subservience to
Earth. A Pan-Human Congress was established in the hopes
of alleviating some of these concerns. But while the Pan-
Human Congress had every good intention of doing so, 70
percent of its delegates had been elected from Earth. And
because amendment of any bills put to congress required
70 percent approval, there was no chance of the colonies’
concerns being fairly represented. At one point, a delegate
elected by the Spica star system called attention to the
uneven distribution of Earth’s abundant natural and
financial resources. He was answered by the Global
Government’s ruling National Republican Party secretary-
general, Joshua Lubrick:
“Any destitution suffered by the colony planets can be due
only to their own incompetence and nothing else. To insist
that Earth is to blame is the very definition of a slave
mentality, one that shows a lack of independence and
ambition.”
Sentiments such as these were sparks that sent wildfires of
indignation blazing across the colonized planets. Earth’s
monopoly had forced the colonies into adopting
monocultures by buying out their crops well below actual
value and pushing those producing them to the brink of
starvation. As a result of these and other injustices,
interactions with Earth went cold.
According to historian Ivan Sharma, “At that time, Earth
lacked resources, just as its inhabitants lacked imagination.
There’s no question the latter fueled their present
deterioration.”
Earth’s lack of imagination was manifested in its stubborn
allegiance to elitist dogma. The powerful only grew to the
heights they did because they were so deeply invested in
notions of ancestral wealth and military strength that to
even think of questioning either was to risk undermining
the very foundation of terrestrial power. Earth plundered
its colonies, and via their abundance fortified its own
military prowess. The people of the colonies had, in effect,
supported the very soldiers who surveilled and oppressed
them.
By the year 2682 AD, the colonies had reached a breaking
point. Joining together, they made the following demands.
First, Earth was to slash her overgrown military. Second,
the number of representatives elected to the Pan-Human
Congress was to be redistributed to reflect the actual
proportions of interplanetary populations. Third, Earthly
capitalism was to cease its interference in the economic
affairs of her colonies. To those making the demands, these
were natural, if modest, hopes. But to those of whom they
were being made, they were difficult to fulfill. Either way,
what right did they have to make such demands in the first
place? Those barbarians of the frontier barely knew their
place, yet they dared make demands of the suzerain
superstate of Earth as if they were equals?!
The honeymoon was over. Earth stopped paying its dues to
the Pan-Human Congress, but not without attempting to
strike a deal.
Historian Ivan Sharma looks through a glass darkly at this
turn of events:
“At this historical juncture, Earth’s moral slump was
deeper than it had ever been. The people of Earth were
determined to guarantee her manifest rights, even if that
guarantee flew in the face of justice. But how were they
ever going to exercise said rights as a first step toward
advancement and progress?”
Contrary to Sharma’s speculative outlook on the past, the
people of whom he writes no longer cared about
advancement and progress. And so, Earth resorted to
conspiracy and brute military force to suppress the
discontent of her colonies. The Sirius star system
government went on the offensive, taking it upon itself to
spearhead a nascent anti-Earth faction.
Earth began spreading disinformation, claiming that Sirius
was criticizing her at every possible opportunity. This was
not because Sirius sought equality, but because it aspired to
rule over all humanity in Earth’s place. From the point of
view of Sirius, Earth was to be universally feared, as its
policies had eroded every last hope of amiable relations
with her colonies. Not every colony planet had cause to
blame Earth so brazenly. Their discontent was not, some
said, connected at all to Earth’s ruin, but to the possibility
that every colony might have to forfeit its own freedom and
future in subservience to a maniacal Sirius. Sirius had now
become a common enemy to both Earth and the other
colonies. Its very existence was a danger to all. Before
anyone knew better, Sirius had amassed incredible national
power and armaments, and had even put a spy network in
place to protect its clandestine interests. Before long, the
slogan “Watch out for Sirius!” was on everyone’s lips.
When confronted with these developments, the leaders of
Sirius laughed away any such accusations of tyranny. Other
colony leaders laughed with them, if only defensively, in
sincerest hopes that Earth had merely been spreading
rumors for the purpose of affirming hegemony.
Thus, Sirius became officially recognized by Earth as an
enemy nation. They were a controllable enemy, a miserable
villain that could only yield and beg for mercy if Earth chose
to display her true power. But even as Earth was
propagandizing Sirius’s threat and might on the universal
main stage, an unforeseen development was brewing
behind the scenes.
Many good citizens began to believe that Sirius’s power
and intentions surpassed those of Earth. All other
autonomous nations, including Sirius, followed suit.

At first, and with malicious delight, Earth had magnified a

false image of Sirius, only to watch as the mirage took on
three-dimensional form as a fearful reality in people’s
minds. The colonies were in awe of Sirius’s apparent power
and convinced themselves that all would end well if push
came to shove with Earth. There were also those who held
to more cynical views, as famously exemplified by a
journalist named Marenzio:
“Last night, a local road was flooded when a major
underground water line broke. We have every reason to
believe that a spy from Sirius was behind the incident. This
morning, a man was arrested for a series of arsons in F
Block. Authorities suspect he may have been brainwashed
by that same spy into committing these crimes. Make no
mistake about it: Sirius’s devilish scheming can be traced
back to all those ships that have gone missing in the
Bermuda Triangle, the genocide of indigenous peoples, and
even Eve’s eating of the forbidden fruit. Alas, Sirius, thou
wilt loom over history as a universal evil.”
Not surprisingly, this emblematic piece of hyperbole
incurred the anger and hatred of security agencies across
the board. Because they couldn’t very well punish its author
openly for simply expressing his opinion, they instead
threatened his boss and had him demoted to an undisclosed
location on the frontier, where he was never heard from
again.
 Meanwhile, Earth’s plot to paint Sirius as the enemy of her
own propaganda brought about a most ironic consequence
when several colony planets, harboring animosity toward
Earth, began cozying up to Sirius in hopes of being on the
winning side. Indeed, Earth had made them believe that
casting their lot with Sirius was the only way to shore up
their defenses against Earth’s despotism.
The situation quickly deteriorated for Earth as one colony
after another joined forces with Sirius. And even as Earth’s
government was fretting over the backfiring of its
seemingly foolproof plan, Sirius spearheaded a vigorous
anti-Earth campaign in response to mounting pressures. In
2689 AD, fearing Sirius’s precipitous military expansion,
Earth decided to teach her most self-sufficient colony a
harsh lesson in provocation.
Sirius gathered every colonial garrison at its disposal to
carry out joint military exercises, promising heavy artillery
provisions. Seeing that these activities were being mounted
on such a grand scale, Earth’s military forces used this as a
pretext to launch a preemptive strike. Their blitzkrieg
tactics were a resounding success. Sirius’s homeworld, the
sixth planet of Londrina in the Sirius Starzone, was
overtaken by the so-called Global Forces. All colonial
populations involved, beginning with that of Sirius, fled into
space, leaving the surfaces of their planets in ruins.
Despite having saved their planet from annihilation,
discipline and morale among Earth’s troops had
degenerated to an abominable level. Local headquarters
took to crunching the enormous numbers involved in
cleanup. On the one hand, the amount of confiscated
materials was underreported, while the remainder went
into the roomy pockets of Earth’s highest-ranking officers.
On the other hand, enemy casualties were drastically
exaggerated. The actual number of those killed in action,
who totaled 600,000, had been inflated to 1,500,000. In
order to make that number seem more plausible, not only
did Space Force massacre innocent civilians by the
thousands, but they also quietly carried out the barbaric act
of dismembering corpses to make it seem as if those body
parts belonged to a greater number of war dead. Space
Force officials also underreported the number of casualties
among their own so that officers could embezzle those
salaries that would have gone to the dead had they still
been alive.
The climax of this hideous farce took place at a military
tribunal held in February of the following year, 2690, in the
Earth capital of Brisbane. There, a journalist who’d risked
his life on the battlefield to report from the front lines was
indicted for bringing to light the atrocity of Earth’s civilian
massacre. Flying in the face of his hard-won information,
only military officers took the witness stand. No one from
the side of the victims was brought in to testify. The
perpetrators, of course, denied their complicity in the
matter. They waxed patriotic about having fought so bravely
for the honor of their motherland and fellow countrymen,
only to have their motives questioned while they were still
licking their wounds. How unconscionable it was, they said
through forced tears, that some ignorant journalist should
ride in on his moral high horse and seek to defame them as
a publicity stunt. The court exonerated the defendants and
slapped a judgment of libel on their accuser, barring him
from practicing military-related journalism at any point in
the future. The victors, riding on the shoulders of their
comrades-in-arms, marched down the capital city’s central
avenue, chorusing war songs at the top of their lungs. As
the verses of “Under the Banner of Justice,” “Guardians of
Peace,” “My Life for Honor,” and “The Hero’s Triumphal
Return” rose from their lips, their supremacy felt more
secure than ever.
All of which only further whetted the appetite of Earth’s
military forces. No matter the cruelty, they distorted the
truth under a delusion that they could get away with
anything. With no accountability to show for their actions,
they saw it as a disadvantage not to commit crimes for
personal gain. Slaughtering civilians en masse, raping
women, destroying cities, and looting came far more
naturally, and more easily, than the challenge of battling a
worthy foe. From this sinful turn, they stood only to gain.
The military had gone from a group of soldiers to a band of
thieves, and their hearts burned with romantic idealism for
the next battlefield.
That is, until the Raglan City Incident.

While remnants of defeated colonial armies had fled into

Raglan City, weapons and all, of greater importance to
Global Forces was that Raglan, as the center of production
and distribution for the planet Londrina’s abundant natural
resources, had amassed great wealth from both above- and
belowground. Global Forces mobilized its infantry, using
fifteen mechanized field divisions to make a wall of troops
around the city’s perimeter. In addition, they readied four
aerial assault units and six urban warfare units to storm the
city. The first wave of attack was planned for May 9 but was
postponed twice—the first time because Raglan’s mayor,
Massaryk, had overextended himself in his negotiations to
avoid war, and the second time because within Global
Forces, a certain Vice Admiral Clérambault, second in
command at the Command Headquarters Strategic
Division, had repeatedly downplayed tactical plans on the
part of local forces toward preventing acts of barbarism.
His efforts came to naught, however, when, on the night of
May 14, ten units stormed the streets of Raglan City from
land and air.
The invasion did not go at all as planned. Under siege by a
massive force and gripped by panic, some of the remnant
soldiers in Raglan City, thinking they might neutralize an
attack by giving themselves up to Global Forces, scrambled
to organize vigilante squads and began hunting down
insurgents. But the hunted had their own agenda, and
because they had weapons, they would not simply allow
themselves to be flushed out. Shoot-outs erupted across the
city, and at 8:20 p.m., soldiers watched from the perimeter
as the Western Block’s liquid hydrogen tanks went up in
flames. They took this as their cue to launch an offensive in
what would come to be known as the “Blood Night.”
Their orders were harsh, to be sure:
“Anyone bearing arms will be shot on sight. No questions
asked. Anyone suspected of bearing arms, and those who
appear to be resisting, escaping, or hiding, will be punished
accordingly.”
By giving its troops free license to kill, the military had
effectively openly condoned indiscriminate killing.
Those who stormed the city were hungry for the slaughter
and destruction they’d been authorized to carry out,
feverishly raping and pillaging wherever they could. Such
actions were not officially sanctioned but were quietly
tolerated nevertheless. Paintings and jewels were stolen
from the city’s museums, and rare books were kicked into
the flames by soldiers who understood nothing of their
inestimable worth.
The city’s Northern Block was home to its diamond
refinery, as well as processing plants for gold, platinum, and
other precious minerals. Naturally, it, too, became a target
of attack by the overzealous Global Forces, whose second
air assault and fifth land units accidentally killed some of
their own in their zeal for destruction. Fatalities amounted
to approximately 1,500 on both sides, but an investigation
conducted on the following day revealed that the stomachs
of over sixty bodies had been cut open, presumably to seize
the raw diamonds they’d swallowed. Among the civilian
casualties, such victims numbered a hundredfold those of
the troops. Old men had their jaws cut open with military
knives and their gold teeth pulled out, and women taken by
force had their ears cut off for their valuable earrings and
their fingers cut off for their rings.
The Blood Night lasted ten hours. In that time, nearly one
million inhabitants of Raglan City were killed by Global
Forces, while damages from destruction and plunder
totaled fifteen billion units of common currency. Local
headquarters kept a substantial portion of stolen goods for
themselves and informed their home base on Earth that,
after a fierce battle, enemy forces had been eliminated and
the city successfully occupied.
In his grief, Clérambault grabbed a pen and vented his
anger in his diary over failing to prevent his comrades’
barbarism:
Nothing in human society is so egregious as an army
without shame or self-restraint. And the force I serve in has
become exactly that.
Back at command headquarters in the capital, military
leaders chatting idly before their comm screens with whisky
glasses in hand sobered up at the loathsome voice of a
veteran admiral named Hazlitt.
“You all look pretty pleased for a bunch of men who’ve just
sent other people’s cities up in flames. Does that thought
excite you? Does it bring you joy? I guarantee you that, ten
years from now, our capital will face the same fate. Mark my
words. Should we not at least be prepared for that
eventuality?”
But those who criticized their allies’ misdeeds were
forever in the minority. Two such dissenters were met with
derision and retired from active duty.
A Rear Admiral Weber, who worked as chief press
secretary, made the following initial statement:
“I can say with confidence that no single instance of
massacre or pillaging was carried out in Raglan City. Those
who claim as much should be branded as rebels whose only
goal is to fabricate history and thus wound the honor of
Global Forces.”
Three days later, the military changed its tune:
“After careful internal examination, we have determined
that massacres and pillaging did in fact occur, albeit on a
much smaller scale than originally reported. Casualties
were, at most, twenty thousand. Furthermore, the
perpetrators of these heinous acts were not Global Forces,
but anti-Earth guerilla extremists hidden in the city. They
pinned their own crimes on Global Forces in an attempt to
incite anti-Earth sentiments. You can be sure these heinous
crimes will be met with suitable punishment.”
Military spokesmen never divulged the reasoning or
investigative processes by which they’d arrived at such a
quick about-face regarding their position on the Raglan City
skirmish. Actions, they continued to stress, were more
important than words. It was their responsibility to brutally
punish these armed insurgents who’d destroyed the lives of
civilians, and public order along with them. Carrying out
said duty to its fullest, they claimed, would require them to
conduct another search-and-destroy operation in Raglan
City.
What on the surface seemed a swift act of recompense in
reality allowed Global Forces to go back for those material
goods they’d failed to pillage the first time around,
eliminate any lingering eyewitnesses who might
compromise the credibility of their story, and thoroughly
suppress anti-Earth efforts. But Global Forces, as
Clérambault had predicted, lost control of themselves and
went on a rampage. If their fourth objective was to seed
fear toward the anti-Earth faction and dampen enthusiasm
for the resistance, it never worked. If anything, they
courted further hatred and hostility. Their little “cleanup”
operation cost another 350,000 lives.
Even their cruel hands of oppression, however, let a few
small grains of sand fall unseen through their fingers, much
to the regret of the Global Government and the delight of
the colonies. These grains, it turned out, were the first of
what would grow into a mountain of historic proportions.
A twenty-five-year-old solivision journalist named Kahle
Palmgren was beaten unconscious with laser rifles and left
for dead when he refused a material inspection by the
military. When he came to, he discovered that he’d been
thrown atop a pile of corpses. Seeing that the mound had
been doused with rocket fuel and set ablaze, he managed to
escape through the thick cloud of smoke before the fire
could add him to its victims.
There was also Winslow Kenneth Townsend, a twenty-
three-year-old accountant for a metallic radium mine and
labor union secretary, who was watching the army
marching by from his apartment window when he was shot
at from below by a drunken soldier. The gun’s ray beamed
straight into the forehead of his mother, who was standing
next to him. He was utterly ignored when he pressed
charges against military authorities, who responded by
accusing him in turn of killing his mother himself. Knowing
it was futile to take the case any further, he fled into the
mines, shaking off pursuit until he’d gone completely off the
radar.
Then there was Joliot Francoeur, a twenty-year-old student
of herbal medicine at the institutional affiliate of a medical
school, who with his two thousand–page medicinal
reference guide split open the head of an Earth soldier for
raping his girlfriend. This left him no choice but to slip into
the underground sewers as a fugitive. Only after his
successful escape did he come to learn that his girlfriend
had killed herself.
And finally, there was nineteen-year-old Chao Yui-lun, who
had interest in neither politics nor revolution, and who’d
been studying composition at a music conservatory. After
losing his brother and sister-in-law, who’d raised him in
place of his parents, to the random gunfire of safety corps
officers, he grabbed his three-year-old nephew and fled the
burning city of Raglan.
These four survivors went on to great renown. Unlike
them, most others who vowed to take revenge against
Global Forces as they watched their streets go up in flames
died trying and ended their lives in obscurity. For this
fateful quartet, resistance was more than a matter of
principle. It was the means to survive.
“Raglan City has burned to the ground,” went the official
report, “leaving behind massive carbonized ruins, 1.5
million dead, 2.5 million injured, 4.5 million prisoners of
war, and four avengers.”
“Avengers” wasn’t the most accurate way of putting it, for
what motivated Palmgren, Townsend, Francoeur, and Chao
wasn’t merely a desire to oust Global Forces from their easy
chair of authority and glory fourteen years later, but to see
the phantoms of the razed city rise soundlessly from the
depths of their ideals and ideology, overtaking the ones
who’d killed them like thieves in the night.
The four of them first gathered on Proserpina, fifth planet
of the Proxima central star zone. The date was February 28,
2691 AD. It was the first time they’d come to know each
other by name, although it was possible they’d crossed
paths at the anti-Earth faction’s base of operations without
being formally introduced.
The subsequent division of roles among the four was a
prime example of the right people being in the right place
at the right time. Palmgren drew on his own ideals and
worldview to unify anti-Earth factions and raise awareness
among the public. These actions, combined with his natural
leadership and rallying power, earned him status as the
poster child for the anti-Earth movement. Using his keen
sense of finance and administrative capacities, Townsend
laid an ambitious economic foundation for what came to be
known as the United Anti-Earth Front, thus engendering
giant leaps forward in the potential of undeveloped colonies
to boost domestic production on their own terms. Moreover,
he successfully capitalized on his acumen in these matters
to power an efficient distribution system. Francoeur, as
supreme commander of a combative anti-Earth
organization known as the Black Flag Force, mobilized a
disorderly mob into a highly trained revolutionary faction,
which he reorganized, regimented, led, and commanded. At
the time, the Earth’s governmental army boasted three
superlative admirals in its ranks, along with an
overwhelming abundance of material resources, so initially
Francoeur failed to subdue them on more than one
occasion. But in the tide-turning Battle of Vega, he
succeeded in dividing the Earth fleet, winning all eighty-
four engagements after unlocking the secret to their
legendary invincibility. Meanwhile, Chao Yui-lun oversaw
intel, strategy, and espionage. In his normal life, he’d been a
reserved young man who wouldn’t dare cheat so much as a
bakery out of incorrect change, but when it came to
toppling the Earth’s governmental hegemony he granted no
quarter. To ensure their leadership within the United Anti-
Earth Front, they accused the indecisive old regime of
being Earth spies and banished them at the outset, thus
opening several black holes within factions on both sides
and reducing the number of potential combatants by half.
The aforementioned admirals—Collins, Schattorf, and
Vinetti—were extraordinarily rare tacticians who possessed
both experience and theoretical know-how, but refused to
cooperate and severed contact with one another during the
Battle of Vega. Each lost to Francoeur’s crushing tactics. It
was Chao who took advantage of the dissonance borne
between the admirals by this setback. His plan was devilish
enough to have earned him a certificate of commendation
from Mephistopheles himself. First, he forced Vinetti into a
coup d’état, had Collins killed, and made the truth known to
Schattorf, who had Vinetti captured and killed. He then
pinned it all on Schattorf and incited Vinetti’s former
subordinates to kill Schattorf in revolt. After being riddled
with dozens of bullets, Schattorf lived long enough to let
one word escape his lips:
“Fools…”
And so, in 2703 AD, Earth, effectively cut off from its own
food supplies, raw industrial materials, and energy sources,
commenced a last-ditch attack. Earth’s army, magnificent
only in terms of equipment, was led by second-rate admirals
devoid of talent and collaborative spirit. They were crushed
repeatedly under Francoeur’s tactical boot, especially in
the Second Battle of Vega, in which an Earth fleet sixty
thousand strong suffered shameful defeat by the Black Flag
Force’s mere eight thousand ships. By the following year,
2704 AD, Earth’s army had lost control of the solar system.
Using the asteroid belt as a last defense, Earth kept up its
nearly futile resistance until it abandoned even the
formality of protecting its own people, commandeering
citizens’ provisions and repurposing them for munitions
use.
Within the Black Flag Force, which had been deployed as
far as Jupiter, opinions were split between Commander
Francoeur and Chao’s political committee. Whereas
Francoeur insisted on full-scale attack, Chao was all for a
war of attrition. The only options left for Global Forces were
to surrender or starve to death. Assuming they were too
stubborn to surrender, Earth’s surface would be reduced to
a graveyard soon enough.
A compromise was reached, and Earth got the worst of it.
The Black Flag Force cut off all supply channels to Earth,
and after two months of siege commenced an all-out attack.
The tragedy at Raglan City was reenacted on a scale many
times over.
In the wake of this unilateral slaughter, Global Forces
representatives, along with over sixty thousand high
military officials, were executed en masse as war criminals.
Following this, Sirius’s—that is to say, the Raglan Group’s—
sovereignty was established. The Earth’s power and
authority had turned to ashes in an all-consuming
conflagration, and the four who’d unified an angry mob of
anti-Earth forces would surely be the ones to replace them.
But the “Age of Sirius” would amount to nothing more than
a flash in the pan.
Two years after the Sirius War, in 2706 AD, Palmgren, the
living embodiment of revolution and liberation, died
suddenly at the age of forty-one. A touch of cold had been
exacerbated by inclement weather when he’d attended a
cornerstone laying for an emancipatory war museum on a
rainy day. Immediately after the ceremony, the cold had
quickly escalated into acute pneumonia, which had kept
him bedridden until his death.
“If I die now,” he said to his trusted doctor, “this new
system we’ve created will come apart at the seams. If only
death would give me five more years…”
Not three months after his passing, opposition between
Prime Minister Townsend and Defense Minister Francoeur
on the matter of Sirius’s victory came to a head.
Francoeur was upset that Townsend hadn’t dismantled the
so-called Big Sisters, corporate giants funded by the
Earth’s former regime, choosing instead to absorb them
into the new economy.
Francoeur was a realist on the battlefield, demonstrating
superb flexibility in planning and implementation, but stuck
to his conceptual principles when it came to politics and the
economy. When he suggested they tear down the power of
the transplanetary capital of the Big Sisters, Townsend
curtly refused. He couldn’t afford to lose that privilege,
without which his power meant little to him.
At first, Chao Yui-lun looked on as if at deep-sea fish from
far above sea level. When he saw with his own eyes the
degradation of Earth’s system of authority into cruelty, one
could say his own part to play was finished. He’d already
been withdrawing from the political front lines, and this was
the last push he needed to divorce himself completely from
their downward spirals. Once the new system was in place,
he was offered the dual seats of vice prime minister and
internal secretary, but he refused the positions and the
authority that came with them on grounds of personal
principle, returning instead to his recovering hometown of
Raglan to fulfill his lifelong dream of opening a music
conservatory. Working as board chairman, dean, and
administrator, he found renewed contentment in teaching
organ music and songs to a generation of children who,
more than ever, needed the hope that only the arts could
provide. As far as he was concerned, he’d finally recovered
from both the fever of revolution and the epidemic of
politics, and had gone back to who he used to be. Who he’d
always been meant to be.
The children were very attached to him. No one among
them would ever imagine that their beloved, kindhearted
dean would, in two or three years, be deceived by a cruel
and bitter opponent, and be either assassinated or driven to
suicide, thereby bringing about the ruin of Earth’s
governmental authority. The young dean’s pockets were
always filled with chocolates and candies for the children,
much to the chagrin of mothers worried about cavities. A
sign, perhaps, of his naïveté when it came to securing the
future of those he cared for most.
With Chao no longer claiming affiliation, the dispute
between Townsend and Francoeur reached a tipping point.
At first, Francoeur had tried to legally acquire the highest
authority. When he realized it was impossible to sway the
influence of a man like Townsend, rooted as he was in
bureaucratic and economic soil, Francoeur decided to
resort to a coup d’état. Townsend avoided disaster by a
matter of seconds, as an officer once dismissed for
disobeying Francoeur’s orders exposed the former
tactician’s plan. The consequences of this dismissal played
out one morning in Francoeur’s bedroom, when a Public
Safety Bureau member kicked in the door and shot
Francoeur dead just as he was reaching for his visiphone to
order the coup.
Meanwhile, the Black Flag Force became a faithful
watchdog of the Townsend regime and was reorganized
under a stern policy of purging and oppression. Among the
so-called Ten Admirals under Francoeur’s command, one
had already died of natural causes, six had been executed,
and another had died in jail. This left him with only two
reliable men under his charge.
Townsend had emerged as the victor in this battle of
authority. Like the man he’d overthrown, he believed in his
own righteousness, which made them more alike than he
cared to admit. Since whatever modicum of clout the Global
Government possessed had already fallen by the wayside,
from now on it would be necessary to rebuild resolution and
order out of chaos and, for the sake of societal development
and equilibrium in citizens’ lives, to erase Francoeur from
history like the dogmatic revolutionary he was. With
Francoeur gone, Townsend had no doubt that a new society
would be built in strict accordance with his plans and
abilities.
The one remaining obstacle, it seemed to Townsend, was
Chao Yui-lun. While on the surface Chao seemed more than
satisfied teaching songs to children at his music
conservatory, who knew whether he was secretly cultivating
a desire for his power, like he’d done when his balls were
up against the Global Forces’ wall. Would he scoff at
Townsend’s strategy and attempt to bring him down? Was
he, in fact, capable of something more ruthless than anyone
could imagine?
Hardly a week after Francoeur’s death, eight armed
investigators from the Ministry of Justice’s Public Safety
Bureau were dispatched to Raglan City. An arrest warrant
presented to Chao accused him of being responsible for the
death of revolutionaries who’d been purged for once
opposing the Raglan Group and its hegemony. After silently
reading the warrant and mentally confirming its untruth,
Chao turned to his nephew, now grown up and helping with
his uncle’s work while pursuing his studies.
“To me,” said Chao to his nephew, who advised him to
escape, “strategy is an art form, but to Townsend it’s
business. It was only a matter of time before I lost to him.
There’s no one to blame. This is simply what fate has in
store for us.”
He signed the payment ledger for the cost of the organ
he’d recently purchased and handed it to his nephew.
Twenty minutes later, a Public Safety Bureau worker who’d
been awaiting orders in the adjacent room entered the
dean’s office, only to discover that Chao was unconscious
from a knockout drug. Another twenty minutes passed, and
the untimely death of the revolution’s “elder statesman”
was confirmed. One of the pupils had witnessed a sketchy-
looking man exiting the dean’s room clutching a wet
handkerchief. When he told his parents back home, they
went pale and kept silent, exhorting him to do the same, for
the sake of their family’s safety.

After thwarting Earth’s tyranny on the planet Proserpina

and vowing to emancipate the colonies, the Raglan Group
was utterly annihilated in the following year, 2707. The
eminently powerful Winslow Kenneth Townsend, prime
minister of Sirius and Pan-Human Congress chairman, got
into a car to attend the anniversary of his victory against
Earth, but when he was warned of a bomb planted on-site,
he turned back toward his official residence, only to be
killed by a microwave bomb en route.
This was one month after Chao’s nephew Feng escaped the
Public Safety Bureau’s surveillance as a supposed criminal
ringleader. Feng was never apprehended. Whether he’d
gone on a crime spree or had been killed by an associate,
no one could say for sure. In any event, he was never heard
from again.
Neither was the bureau’s investigation thorough enough
to say for sure. The moment Townsend’s body was blown to
pieces, so too was the new world order that he’d strong-
armed into place. Any bureaucratic loyalty toward
Townsend had lost its cohesive power, left to percolate out
of sight like all the blood that had been spilled to uphold
that power in the first place. The Black Flag Force, for its
part, had atrophied in the face of Francoeur’s tragic death
and the political purge that followed. These events had
triggered an explosion of pent-up energy, splintering the
group in a mess of bloody infighting to the point of total
irreconcilability.
Had Palmgren lived just ten more years, the Space Era
(SE) might have begun nine decades earlier. As the cards
fell, however, it would take almost a century and the efforts
of countless individuals before a “universal order, sans
Earth” could be rebuilt after being demolished halfway
through its construction when, in the year 2801 AD, the
Galactic Federation of States established its capital on
Theoria, second planet of the Aldebaran system.
Throughout the eight centuries that followed, humanity—
with all its developments and setbacks, times of peace and
times of war, tyranny and resistance, submission and
independence, progress and regression—averted its gaze
from Earth. Along with losing her political and military
authority, this lone planet had lost any reason for its
existence, and had no value worth noticing. For all the
valiant (and not-so-valiant) efforts of her citizens, Earth had
become nothing more than flotsam on a forgotten sea.
But a few stayed behind on this forgotten mother planet to
keep her memory alive, hoping to touch the torch of their
Earthly zeal to the unlit candles of the future…
I
TWELVE YEARS HAD PASSED—he’d been but a young
man—since he’d witnessed a coronation. At the time, he had
been just another student at the Imperial Military
Elementary School, where he’d matriculated under the
name Reinhard von Müsel. Standing against the wall of the
grand reception hall, roughly ninety meters away, he had
barely been able to make out the face of the one being
enthroned. It would take him four thousand days to collapse
that distance to zero.
“For every second that blond brat continues to breathe, he
sucks up one ton of blood. Like a vampire, he’s never
satisfied.”
Such were the sentiments of those who hated him. He’d
come to accept even the severest criticisms with graceful
silence. Exaggerated as they were, such negative comments
were founded in certain truths. While throwing his weight
around amid the horrors of war, Reinhard had lost many
allies, consigning a hundred times as many enemies to
oblivion along the way.
His subjects raised their arms and voices high.
 “Long live Emperor Reinhard!”
“Long live the new Galactic Empire!”
It was June 22 of SE 799, IC 490, and year one of the New
Imperial Calendar. Just one minute prior, he’d received a
golden crown upon his golden hair to become the founding
emperor of the Lohengramm Dynasty.
A twenty-three-year-old monarch. His ascendency to the
throne was through no means of providence. He had gained
the position and all the authority that went with it thanks to
his own ingenious power. Nearly five centuries ago,
Goldenbaum Dynasty founder Rudolf the Great’s
descendants, who had usurped the Galactic Federation of
States and claimed the throne, were driven from it after
their long and senseless monopoly on power. And it had
taken thirty-eight generations, or 490 years, for usurpation
to be repaid with usurpation. None before Reinhard had
been able to change history in this manner. It was as if the
stars had required perfect alignment to bring about his
genius.
Reinhard stood up from his throne and met the jubilation
of his many subjects with a simple raise of his hand. His
uncannily natural gestures seemed to follow a melody of
refinement that only he could hear. But while his elegance,
along with his comparable talents in politics and war, was
unsurpassed in his time, it was the impression of those ice-
blue eyes as they scanned the crowd that those present
would remember most. Even those among his subjects less
prone to flights of imagination held those eyes in their
regard as jewels of purest blue, forged in ultrahot flames
and then frozen, ready to smite all of creation should even
one lick of the unimaginable power therein breach its
containment.
First to be reflected in those eyes were his highest-ranking
imperial military officers in the front row. All of them were
clad for the occasion in their finest dress, uniforms of black
trimmed in silver; they were young men not unlike the
emperor, men in the prime of their lives, notorious soldiers
who’d valiantly aided the ascendancy of their young lord.
Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein was thirty-eight years
old. His half-white hair made him look older than he was.
Both of his artificial eyes were connected to an optical
computer and emitted a brilliance that was not always easy
to describe. Known as a cool and keen strategist, he’d been
allowed to carve out a space in the shadow of Reinhard’s
supremacy. Whether valued or misunderstood, he saw no
need to explain himself. No one among his colleagues or
subordinates disliked him. Neither did anyone scorn him,
for none doubted his achievements and abilities. He was
never one to patronize or mince words with his lord out of
self-interest. At the very least, he was instilled with a sense
of reverence that served him well in every situation. He
genuinely strove to accord common courtesy to all. In the
new dynasty he’d been appointed secretary of defense,
serving also in a ministerial position as an official military
delegate.
Imperial Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeier, he of the unruly
honey-colored hair and vivacious gray eyes, was thirty-one
years old. If pushed to say, one might have called him
diminutive in height, but he had the toned and well-
proportioned physique of a gymnast and gave an
impression of being just as agile. Known throughout the
military by his other name, the “Gale Wolf,” he was
unparalleled in tactical speed. By all accounts, Mittermeier
was the Galactic Imperial Navy’s bravest general, and to
prove it he had racked up significant deeds of arms during
the Battle of Amritsar three years before (when he’d first
entered Reinhard’s direct command), the Lippstadt War,
the occupation of Phezzan, the Battle of Rantemario, and
the capture of the Bharat star system. Only the late
Siegfried Kircheis and, of those still with them, Oskar von
Reuentahl possessed comparable track records.
Von Reuentahl himself was thirty-two years old, a tall
young officer with dark-brown hair and graceful features.
But surely his heterochromatic eyes—the right black, the
left blue—were the most impressive of those features. Along
with Mittermeier, he was known as one of the “Twin
Ramparts” of the Imperial Navy, a man of exceptional
offensive and defensive capabilities. Yet when it came to
winning without fighting, he was a man who thought
outside the soldier’s box. Once, he had recaptured Iserlohn
Fortress after it was snatched away by the empire’s sworn
enemy, the Free Planets Alliance, and together with
Mittermeier had subdued the alliance capital of Heinessen.
These were but two of his many splendid military
achievements. Mittermeier was his friend of ten years. And
yet, whereas the “Gale Wolf” was a good family man, von
Reuentahl was a notorious philanderer. In the new dynasty,
as secretary-general of Supreme Command Headquarters,
he oversaw the entire Imperial Navy as the emperor’s
proxy and worked closely with the emperor himself during
official expeditions.
Outside of this formidable trio, who came to be known as
the “Three Imperial Chiefs,” there was Senior Admiral
Neidhart “Iron Wall” Müller, praised by Marshal Yang Wen-
li of the Free Planets Alliance as “a great general.” There
were also thirty-six-year-old Senior Admiral Ernest
Mecklinger, who in addition to being a military man was
renowned as a poet and watercolorist; thirty-seven-year-old
Senior Admiral Ulrich Kessler, military police commissioner
and commander of capital defenses; thirty-two-year-old
Senior Admiral August Samuel Wahlen; and thirty-two-year-
old Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld, a decorated
general and commander of the Schwarz Lanzenreiter fleet.
Mingled among these starfarers, weaving her way through
the cross fires of men, was a single youthful woman:
Hildegard, also called Hilda, daughter of Count Franz von
Mariendorf, who was now secretary of state under the new
regime. Referring to the two as “Fraulein Mariendorf and
her father,” as long-serving heroes did, seemed accurate
enough. This twenty-two-year-old woman, who kept her
dark-blond hair short and dressed almost no differently
from her male counterparts, might easily have been
mistaken for an attractive and vivacious young man were it
not for her lightly applied makeup and the orange scarf
peeking out from her collar. She worked as Emperor
Reinhard’s chief imperial secretary and was treated like a
captain by the military. She’d never commanded a single
soldier, but as far as Mittermeier was concerned, she had
enough gumption to run an entire fleet. Even as Reinhard
had been waging a hard fight against Yang Wen-li in the
Vermillion star system, she had come up with a way to save
him. Hilda alone had paved the way to success by proposing
capture of the alliance capital of Heinessen.
Compared to her illustrious accomplishments, most civil
officials lacked luster against past brilliance, but now that
Reinhard had taken the throne and had gone on to claim
total domination over the Phezzan Dominion and achieve
submission of the Free Planets Alliance, the time for change
had come. Under the young emperor and his regime,
orthodoxy was destroyed, and its progenitors made sure
the new order established in its place would be the stuff of
legend. The future was calling their names.
Secretary of State Count Franz von Mariendorf felt only
modest satisfaction as the ceremony quietly evolved into a
party. Although the ceremony reflected the former—that is,
the Goldenbaum—dynasty’s seemingly institutionalized
extravagance and empty formalities, none of it was to his
liking, despite it being within his duties as secretary of state
to oversee ceremonies and festivals of national importance.
He wanted every soiree and formal display to be as simple,
yet thorough, as possible.
There were several reasons why the emperor should look
upon him favorably. One of which was that, being the frugal
man that he was, he hadn’t made the ceremony any more
lavish than it needed to be. And while some spoke ill of him
behind his back, accusing him of putting on an act, most of
the old-dynasty emperors had failed to respect the
boundaries of the proscenium.
“You must be tired, Father,” came a soft voice.
Count von Mariendorf turned to see standing there the
only person who could rightly call him father. She offered
him a wineglass.
“Not at all, Hilda, I’m fine. Although at this rate, I’m sure
to rest easy tonight.”
Count von Mariendorf thanked her and accepted the
wineglass. He clinked glasses with his daughter, enjoying
the crystalline tone, and took his time to savor the crimson
nectar on his tongue.
“A fine vintage. From the year 410, I’d guess.”
Hilda had little interest in such useless details and cut her
father off before he started lecturing her on the merits of
good wine. Hilda had always been indifferent to the cultural
refinements about which a noble daughter was supposed to
have knowledge—not only in regard to wine, but also
gemstones and horse racing, flowers and haute couture. As
far as she was concerned, knowing there were already
experts on the subjects of wine and gemstones, she felt it
better to leave such matters to those best qualified and to
know which experts she could rely on when their
knowledge was required. She’d known this ever since she
was a little girl of not yet ten. Hilda was singled out for
being a tomboy and was a social outcast among the other
daughters of nobility with whom she sometimes interacted.
In response to her father’s worries, she declared with
melodramatic elegance that she didn’t care about being
girlish, preferring instead to read books and take walks in
the fields. One might have said that her present status of
chief imperial secretary was the culmination of those
childhood tendencies. Either way, she seemed born to
occupy her current station.
 “Which reminds me—about Heinrich. He’s in bad health,
as you know, and couldn’t put in an appearance at the
ceremony. But he was hoping His Majesty might honor him
with a visit, if at all possible. How about it? Would you be
willing to inquire of His Majesty on my behalf?”
Upon hearing the name of her feeble cousin, head of the
Baron von Kümmel family, a gentle pall swept over Hilda’s
lively eyes. He’d once voiced his envy of Reinhard. But it
wasn’t Reinhard’s abilities he so desperately wanted; it was
his health. When she heard him say this, Hilda hesitated to
chide him for such an immodest comment, as she normally
would have done. She could understand the sentiments of
Heinrich, whom she’d come to think of as a younger
brother, but—and maybe it was cruel to say this—even if
he’d been of sound health, he wouldn’t necessarily have
been able to accomplish as much as Reinhard. Heinrich had
exceeded the limits of his abilities, and his body, long ago.
And so, without a wick to burn, his inner flame had faded
into a mere flicker over the years. It was only natural that
he should curse his own infirmity and be jealous of the good
health of others.
“Of course,” answered Hilda. “I can’t guarantee anything,
but if it means that much to Heinrich, I’ll see what I can do.”
Both Hilda and her father knew Heinrich didn’t have much
longer to live. And even if it was somewhat selfish of him to
make such a request, who were they do deny it?
And so, the seed was planted for the Kümmel Incident,
which would capture widespread attention immediately
following the new emperor’s coronation.

II
Reinhard’s coronation took place on June 22. At Hilda and
her father’s insistence, he paid a visit to the residence of
Heinrich von Kümmel on July 6. During the interim, the
young new emperor threw himself diligently into
governmental affairs without rest, putting his
administrative abilities to the ultimate test.
Reinhard’s merits had often been compared favorably to
those of Yang Wen-li on the military front, but he far
surpassed the drive of his nemesis when it came to work
ethic. With a decadence others might have poured into self-
indulgences, and still without an heir, the golden-haired
emperor followed his own honor code. And while his was an
autocratic administration, his virtuousness, efficiency, and
sense of justice set him apart from his Goldenbaum Dynasty
predecessors. He had liberated the populace from the
burden of having to pay exorbitant taxes to fund the
extravagances of the nobility.
The following ten cabinet members were placed under
Reinhard.
Secretary of State: Count von Mariendorf
Secretary of Defense: Marshal von Oberstein
Secretary of Finance: Richter
Secretary of the Interior: Osmayer
Secretary of Justice: Bruckdorf
Secretary of Civil Affairs: Bracke
Secretary of Works: von Silberberg
Secretary of Arts and Culture: Dr. Seefeld
Secretary of the Imperial Household: Baron Bernheim
Chief Cabinet Secretary: Meinhof
Without a prime minister in place, the emperor was the
highest executive officer by default. This meant that, with
Reinhard as emperor, the conquered universe was now
under a system of direct imperial rule. Reinhard had
abolished the former Ministry of Ceremonial Affairs—a
government office that regulated the interests of the high
nobles, investigated family backgrounds, and approved
marriages and successions under the old empire—and
established the Ministry of Civil Affairs and Ministry of
Works in its place.
The Ministry of Works had its cogs in many machines,
including interstellar transportation and communications,
resource development, civilian spaceships and production
of raw materials, as well as construction of cities, mining
and manufacturing plants, transportation bases, and
development bases. It also oversaw imperial economic
reform and was granted the important function of
maintaining social capital. A highly talented individual
possessed of political acumen, managerial experience, and
organizational skills was necessary to keep it all running
smoothly. The thirty-three-year-old secretary of works,
Bruno von Silberberg, was of the confident opinion that he
possessed two of these qualities, but he had also been given
another informal, yet no less important, title: Secretary of
Imperial Capital Construction. In that capacity, he was to
oversee Emperor Reinhard’s secret plans to relocate the
capital to the planet of Phezzan. In the future, he would
annex all Free Planets Alliance territory and, once he’d
doubled the empire’s possessions, realize his plan of
refashioning Phezzan as center stage of a new era of
universal rule.
Compared to mobilizing grand armies across a vast ocean
of stars and wielding his omnipotence to vanquish a
formidable enemy, handling internal affairs was a set of
simple, prosaic tasks. If foreign campaigns were Reinhard’s
privilege, then domestic matters were an uncreative duty.
And yet, the young, elegant emperor never neglected the
obligations incumbent in his position and authority. In
Reinhard’s estimation, even the smallest task was as
important as the larger machinations that had brought him
to this point.
According to one future historian, Reinhard’s diligence as
a politician arose from his guilty conscience as a usurper.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Reinhard never
felt that his usurpations constituted a lapse in his personal
morality. He wasn’t so deluded as to believe that the power
and glory he’d hijacked from the Goldenbaum Dynasty were
eternal. Neither had anyone ever guaranteed them to be.
And while he’d never studied history with anything
approaching the zeal of his rival Yang Wen-li, he knew that
every dynasty ever birthed by human society had been
conquered and overtaken, but that he was the atypical child
who had destroyed the womb of order that predicated his
existence. To be sure, he had hijacked the Goldenbaum
Dynasty. But wasn’t its very founder, Rudolf the Great,
himself a deformed child who’d compromised the Galactic
Federation of States, sucked millions dry of their blood, and
forced his way to the top? Who had ever imagined that the
intention of the emperor alone could produce an
interstellar autocratic regime with enough military power
to enforce it? Even Rudolf the Great, who’d walked his own
path of self-deification, couldn’t cheat death. The time had
come for his magnum opus, the Goldenbaum Dynasty, to
expire, and for a new volume to be written in its place.
Reinhard wasn’t so immature as to ignore the gravity of his
sinful deeds. Likewise, he could find no justification for the
Goldenbaum Dynasty’s actions. Others both living and dead
had provoked in him an acute mixture of regret and self-
admonishment.

On July 1, as early summer transitioned to the heights of

the season, Secretary of State Franz von Mariendorf came
to seek an audience with the young emperor. Count von
Mariendorf thought himself unworthy of being a cabinet
minister in the government of such a vast interstellar
empire. Since the former dynasty, he’d never harbored a
single political ambition. He reliably managed the estates of
both the Mariendorf and Kümmel families, stayed clear of
political strife and war, and tried his best to live a frugal life.
He had no intentions of cozying up to power or status just
to advance his reputation.
From where Reinhard stood, the new dynasty was under
his direct rule. This meant that his cabinet ministers were
no more than assistants, and so there was no need for
someone so prodigious as a chief cabinet minister to aid
him. Keeping as low a profile as he could, Count von
Mariendorf devoted himself to coordinating the other
cabinet ministers, while managing ceremonies and other
organizational tasks at just the right level of involvement.
Moreover, he was known as a man of honest virtue. As
manager of the Kümmel family fortune, he could easily have
embezzled those assets if he’d wanted to. Many such
precedents filled the pages in the reference room of the old
minister of ceremonies. Nevertheless, when Heinrich had
inherited the family fortune at seventeen, it hadn’t
decreased one bit. In that same period, the Mariendorf
family assets had in fact decreased slightly due to a heavy
water mine accident. The count’s impartiality was therefore
never in doubt. As one fully aware of his daughter’s
abilities, he had developed her strong points. These were
just some of the reasons that he’d been given the position
he presently held.
What Count von Mariendorf had come to say caught
Reinhard slightly off guard. After bowing deeply, the
secretary of state asked the young emperor whether he had
any intention of getting married.
“Married, you say?”
“Yes. Getting married, producing an heir, and with that
heir determining the succession of your throne. It’s your
sovereign duty, after all.”
Reinhard couldn’t doubt it was a sound, if artless,
argument. He preceded his response with a brief overture
of silence.
“I don’t intend to. At least not for now. I have too much else
to do before I can even think of having a child.”
 His words were fall-off-the-bone tender, but the gristle of
their rejection was ten thousand times tougher to chew.
Count von Mariendorf bowed in silence. To him it was
enough that he’d aroused discretion in the young emperor
toward the social custom of marriage and that he’d
affirmed its significance in securing the future of the
throne. He knew better than to make too much of it, lest he
incite the emperor’s violent temper.
Count von Mariendorf changed the subject to his cousin
Baron von Kümmel, a man without much time left to live—
his health had been deteriorating for a long time—and who
desired the once-in-a-lifetime honor of receiving an imperial
visit at his home. With uncanny grace, Reinhard titled his
golden head slightly, then nodded in assent.
Count von Mariendorf was pleased and took his leave to
confront the next ordeal. Just before the regular cabinet
meeting commenced at two o’clock, secretary of defense
Marshal von Oberstein broached the subject with him.
“I understand you encouraged His Majesty to get married.
If I might be so bold, what was your intention in doing so?”
The meek secretary of state could give no immediate reply.
Count von Mariendorf knew the artificial-eyed secretary of
defense wasn’t a spiteful man, but he also knew that
nothing escaped him and that it would be futile to hide
anything from him. Von Mariendorf was still on his guard.
He chose his words carefully and steeled his expression.
“His Majesty is only twenty-three years old. I know there’s
no need for someone so young to rush into marriage, but
it’s only natural that he should get married, if only to
ensure the imperial line of succession. I thought it prudent
to at least suggest a few potential candidates to be his
empress.”
Count von Mariendorf thought he noted a strange flicker
in the secretary of defense’s artificial eyes.
“I see. And would your daughter happen to be first on that
list of candidates?”
 Marshal von Oberstein’s tone planted not a stinger but an
icicle. Von Mariendorf felt the temperature around him
lower to that of early spring. The secretary of defense’s
words were serious enough as a joke, but even more
serious if meant in earnest. Gathering his wits, the count
acted as if taking it in jest.
“No, my daughter is too strong-willed in her independence
and self-sufficiency for a position like that. She’s not one to
put on the airs of a noblewoman, nor to seclude herself
subserviently at court. My daughter is well-versed in many
things, but I sometimes worry whether she’s aware of even
being a woman.”
Von Oberstein didn’t smile but nevertheless laid down his
arms.
“Our secretary of state is a man of good sense.”
Von Mariendorf breathed a sigh of relief.
Hilda recapped the situation when her father returned
home.
“The secretary of defense is warning us not to deceive His
Majesty or monopolize his political sovereignty. Whether his
worries come from a place of genuine concern is of little
consequence to me.”
“The whole thing is absurd.”
The count was discouraged. He had no intention of
opposing the secretary of defense for the mere sake of
gaining arbitrary political influence over the emperor.
Furthermore, it was hard to imagine Reinhard as his
daughter’s husband, given the emperor’s distant demeanor.
In Franz von Mariendorf’s reckoning, Emperor Reinhard
was a great child prodigy, but being a genius didn’t mean
he had a higher capacity for emotion than everyday people.
Of course, he possessed just such emotional energy, only it
was unevenly distributed away from matters of love. As
when tilting a water-filled cup, when one part reached the
brim, the other receded from it. As in the famous anecdote
of the ancient astronomer who accidentally fell down a well
while looking up at the sky to study the movements of the
stars, that receding end revealed itself on a daily level. And
when it came to sexual love, Reinhard was at the very least
an enigma.
As Viscount Albrecht von Bruckner, author of The Galactic
Empire: A Prehistory, expressed it: “If you banished all the
perverts and homosexuals from history and the arts, human
culture would never have advanced to such a degree.” But
Reinhard simply lacked experience with intimacy, which
was almost as worrisome to a sensible man like the count,
who wanted nothing less for his daughter than a man who
was ordinary, virtuous, and forthcoming. Then again, if
Hilda wanted to get married…
“Anyway, Hilda, considering how blessed we’ve been by the
emperor’s good favor, we mustn’t forget to keep our
professional and personal lives separate. As the saying
goes, there are as many seeds of misunderstanding as there
are people.”
Even to his intelligent and vivacious daughter, Count von
Mariendorf was a typical father who knew she would do
whatever she wanted regardless of what he said.
“Yes, I understand,” said Hilda, if only to ease this
confrontation with her mild-mannered father. In her mind,
the conversation had already been over before it had even
begun.
Her feelings for Reinhard and Reinhard’s feelings for her
were impossible to parse. For while certainly there was no
hatred or disgust between them, there was a vast distance
between “not hating” and “loving” someone, and there
were limitless bands in the spectrum of good graces. Her
weak point, and perhaps Reinhard’s as well, was in trying to
interpret through reason that which was based on anything
but.
Hilda knew why Reinhard had agreed to pay a visit to the
Kümmel household. Such a visit required careful political
consideration. In the past, any emperor worth his crown
would have thought twice before calling upon the residence
of a rival minister for the first time, as many had before
him. Such precedents were laughable to Reinhard. But the
fact that Baron Heinrich von Kümmel was not one of
Reinhard’s meritorious, or even favored, retainers worked
in the young emperor’s favor. The golden-haired tyrant held
the customs and propriety of the Goldenbaum Dynasty in
utmost contempt, and so the idea of honoring an infirm
member of the old nobility with an imperial visit intrigued
him, if anything, as a way of rubbing the old system’s nose
in its own
accident.

III
On that day, July 6, Emperor Reinhard visited the estate of
Baron von Kümmel with sixteen attendants in tow. These
included Hildegard von Mariendorf, Reinhard’s private
secretary and cousin to the Kümmel family patriarch; senior
imperial aide Vice Admiral von Streit; secondary aide
Lieutenant von Rücke; head of the imperial guard
Commodore Kissling; and four chamberlains and
bodyguards besides.
If you asked any of his subordinates, they would have told
you that anyone ruling over the entire universe required a
far stricter level of protection worthy of his status—an
entourage of over one hundred, at least. When the old
official responsible for court ceremonies, a man who’d
served the Goldenbaum Dynasty for four decades, had
suggested honoring that precedent, Reinhard’s response
had been curt:
“I have no intention of following any precedent established
by the Goldenbaum Dynasty.”
To Reinhard, even sixteen was going overboard. He
preferred to be as casual as possible, on occasion even
acting alone, inspiring one future historian to believe that
Emperor Reinhard had a body double.
In truth, no one knew for sure, although one of his
retainers did, in fact, once advise the use of a body double.
As “Artist-Admiral” Mecklinger recorded it in a memo,
Reinhard was none too happy with the suggestion:
“Is it not enough to look out for myself? Were I to come
down with any serious illness, does that mean my double
would be taken to the hospital instead of me? Don’t ever
suggest such a foolish thing to me again.”
Miliary police commissioner Senior Admiral Kessler had
left a like-minded memo, so it was assumed that either, if
not both, of them had proposed the idea.
“To the emperor,” noted Mecklinger, “the idea of going to
any great lengths to ensure his personal safety is absurd.
Whether out of confidence, overestimation of his own
abilities, or philosophical resignation is anyone’s guess.”
Mecklinger knew when and where to draw the line
between faith and respect. He admired Reinhard all the
same and devoted himself fully to his cause, even as he kept
a sharp eye on this once-in-a-generation character. Some
part of his brain knew that at the head of the empire was
someone who could conquer the universe as far as human
hands could reach.

Baron von Kümmel’s residence was unremarkable. His

lineage boasted no outstanding rulers, idiosyncratic
geniuses, or eccentric libertines and had hardly fluctuated
in terms of status or assets since the reign of Rudolf the
Great. And while the estate had been annexed and
renovated numerous times over the past five centuries and
was now nestled comfortably in a protective barrier of
hedges and moats, no one had any interest in its avant-
garde architecture now that old-fashioned conventions had
made a comeback. That said, the property was grand
enough to fit three hundred ordinary houses, and despite
its lack of individuality, its modestly arranged greenery gave
it a charm all its own.
Those who knew the head of the estate, however, could
sense a certain vitality hidden behind it all. To all
appearances, Master Heinrich, tenth-generation baron of
the Kümmel family, was an even-keeled personality. This
year he would turn nineteen. When he had been taken from
his mother’s womb after a difficult delivery, they had both
been suffering from a congenital metabolic disorder. And
so, even as he grew older, he was dying a slow death more
than living. Had he been born to a common family, he
wouldn’t have made it past his first year. The procedure by
which his inferior genes had been removed had rendered
him a mere shell, but such drastic measure had been the
only way to save his life.
Even had he been moderately healthy, it wasn’t as if all the
elegant young noblewomen would be lining up at his door,
either. For while he was graceful enough in his features,
Heinrich was of meager build and his blood was too thin. He
ate not because he enjoyed it, but only to supply himself
with enough energy to get through each day. As a result, he
always weighed dietary considerations over taste. He
existed only to prolong his life, like the watered-down gruel
he often ate.
Despite enormous efforts, that diluted gruel had been
reduced to little more than hot water. His personal mantra
—“It won’t be much longer”—seemed closer than ever to
fulfilment. Knowing this, both Count von Mariendorf and
Hilda had entreated the emperor to grant Heinrich’s dying
wish.
When the emperor’s party passed through the gates of the
Kümmel estate, the baron himself came out to greet him in
his electric wheelchair, much to everyone’s surprise.
Heinrich’s complexion was pallid, but his hair and clothing
had been arranged to appear presentable. He locked eyes
with Hilda, giving her the briefest of smiles, then bowed his
head to Reinhard.
“I am moved beyond measure that Your Majesty graces my
humble abode with his presence. Please consider this as
much your home as it is mine. From this day forth, the
Kümmel family name shall shine with unmerited glory.”
Reinhard didn’t care for excessive rhetoric but nodded
coolly, saying only that he was glad to see Heinrich so happy
and that his happiness was worth more than the most lavish
welcome. Reinhard, too, could play the decorum game
when he felt like it, and he was more than willing to oblige
for Hilda’s sake. In this case, a little mercy went a long way,
and it was no skin off the back of his self-importance to give
it. After his feeble greeting, Heinrich gave a short cough.
Hilda bowed to the emperor and tended to her cousin.
“Don’t overdo it, Heinrich, okay?”
Reinhard nodded with his natural grace.
“Fräulein von Mariendorf is right. I wouldn’t want you to
overextend yourself for my sake. Your health is paramount.”
And yet, even as the young emperor offered these
uncommon words of sympathy, a strange sensation ran
through his veins. Was it just his guilty conscience as an
able-bodied person? Or was it something more? It was the
same feeling he got whenever he saw man-made points of
light begin to fill the darkness of outer space on his battle
screen. That feeling of going on the defensive. The calm
before the storm.
Reinhard shook his head in imperceptible denial. There
was no point in honoring intuition over reason here. His
opponent was a half-dead invalid whose ambition and desire
for power registered nowhere on destiny’s radar.
“Please, do come inside. I’ve had a modest lunch prepared
for us.”
 Riding his electric wheelchair, Heinrich showed his guests
around the premises. A garden path of flagstones wound
through a cypress forest. Although it was July, the imperial
capital was spared the heat and humidity of the tropical
zones, and so even Heinrich’s modest landscaping gave the
impression of being in another world. After walking some
distance, a slight evaporation of sweat left their skin feeling
pleasantly cooled.
They emerged from the forest at the rear of the estate,
where the flagstones broadened into an open courtyard
measuring twenty meters per side and nestled in the shade
of two old elms. A meal was waiting for them on a marble
table. The servants withdrew upon the party’s arrival. Once
everyone took their seats, the scene took on an
unexpectedly different air as their humble young host
stretched his back and flashed an ominous smile.
“A splendid courtyard, don’t you think, Hilda?”
“That it is, Heinrich.”
“Truth be told, Hilda has been here before. What she
doesn’t know is that there’s an underground chamber right
below us. It’s filled with Seffl particles, ready at my
command to welcome His Majesty into the underworld
where he belongs.”
And in that moment, everything went blank. Hearing the
name of that extremely dangerous explosive chemical
substance, Commodore Kissling’s topaz eyes filled with
dread as he reached for his holstered blaster. The other
bodyguards followed suit.
“There, there, gentlemen. To Your Majesty, universal
sovereign, unifier of all humanity. Born into a poor family,
noble only in name, you who rose precipitously to the
throne as the paragon of our age. And to you, his loyal
subjects. I say this: unless you want this detonator switch to
be pressed, I suggest you stay right where you are.”
The young baron’s tone was zealous yet lacking in
strength, and so it took some a few moments to realize the
gravity of what he’d just said. But the dangerousness of the
situation was clear. They were all sitting over a bomb just
waiting to go off. Hilda’s voice shook off the silence, thick
like molasses.
“Heinrich, you…”
“My dear Hilda. I never meant for you to get involved in
this. Had it been possible, I wouldn’t have wanted you to
accompany the emperor. But now, even if I were to let you,
and only you, get out of here alive, I don’t think you’d
comply, would you? My uncle will be much aggrieved, but
it’s too late to do anything about it now.”
Heinrich’s speech was interrupted several times by painful
coughing fits. Commodore Kissling’s team of bodyguards
knew better than to try anything a second time, for the
young baron’s fist gripped the detonator switch as if it were
an extension of his body, and they weren’t about to lay down
the emperor’s life like a chip on a roulette table when the
odds were stacked against them. Listening to the gasps of
an invalid who they could probably kill with one pinkie, they
stood stock-still in an invisible cage of helplessness, waiting
to see what he would do next.
“I think the baron has something to say,” whispered von
Streit. “Let him speak all he wants. It’ll buy us some time.”
To this, Kissling and von Rücke nodded slightly, their
expressions hard as rocks. Provoking this young man, who
had every intention of assassinating the emperor, would
only lead to the incineration of the Lohengramm Dynasty’s
figurehead, along with his attendants, in an instant.
Heinrich held their lives in his hand, and it was all they
could do to loosen his grip.
“What’s on your mind, Your Majesty?”
Reinhard, who until then had been sitting without a word,
lifted his shapely eyebrows in response to Heinrich’s
derisive smile.
“If I should die by your hand here, then that is a fate I shall
have to accept. I regret nothing.”
 The young emperor, showing signs of heartfelt cynicism,
curled his graceful lips into a glyph of self-derision.
“It’s been only two weeks since my coronation. I doubt
there has ever been a dynasty as short as mine. Not exactly
what I’d hoped for, but your brazen act will immortalize my
name in history. A disgraceful name, perhaps, but who am I
to care about its future value? I don’t even care to know
your reasons for killing me.”
A glint of enmity welled up in the invalid’s eyes. Seeing the
trembling in his almost colorless lips, Hilda withdrew into
her shell. In that moment, she had accurately discerned her
cousin’s intent. Heinrich wanted Reinhard to beg for his
life. If only the absolute ruler of the entire universe would
kneel before him and appeal for clemency, then Heinrich
could at last vent the humiliating powerlessness that had
come to define him. And with that, he’d relinquish the
detonator switch with blind satisfaction.
But in the same way that Heinrich could never be free
from his frail body, neither could Reinhard be free from his
fame and self-respect. As Reinhard had said when meeting
face-to-face with Admiral Yang Wen-li of the Free Planets
Alliance, he wanted the power to get on without following
the orders of someone he despised. For Reinhard to regret
his life and beg his intimidator for mercy now would negate
every step he’d taken along the path to getting here. And
when that happened, there were several people to whom
he’d never be able to show his face again. People who’d
protected his life at the expense of their own. People who’d
loved him even when he lived in the depths of poverty.
“Heinrich, please. It’s not too late. Just hand me the
switch.” Hilda demanded his concession, if only to buy some
time, regardless of outcome.
“Ah, Hilda, even you get riled up now and then. To me, you
were always so graceful under pressure, overflowing with
radiant vitality. But now, seeing that darkened expression of
yours, I must say I’m a little disappointed.”
 Heinrich laughed. Hilda keenly sensed that the pilot light
barely keeping her cousin warm had been malice all along.
There seemed to be no way out of this. Unable to look her
cousin in his overzealous eyes, Hilda averted her own and
held her breath. Commodore Kissling, whose topaz eyes
and unusual gait had earned him nicknames such as “Cat”
and “Panther,” was slowly moving from his original position.
“I said, don’t move!”
Heinrich’s voice, expelled as if on cue, was neither loud nor
forceful, but it exposed a vein of fury in the air all the same,
and so its impact was enough to keep Kissling’s daring
spontaneity in check.
“Stay right where you are, for a few more minutes. Allow
me the pleasure of holding the universe in my hands for just
another moment or two.”
Kissling implored Hilda with his eyes, but she ignored him.
“I’ve lived my whole life for these few minutes. Actually,
that’s not true. It’s why I’ve held off death for so long. Let
me keep it at bay just a little longer.”
When Reinhard heard this, his ice-blue eyes glistened,
filled with an emotion that was neither compassion nor
anger.
Hilda noticed his fingers fondling the silver pendant
hanging on his chest and found herself wondering,
inappropriately enough under the circumstances, what was
inside it. It had to be something of great importance.

IV
Senior Admiral Ulrich Kessler served as both commissioner
of military police and commander of capital defenses. Either
job was exhausting in and of itself. To take on both, even
without the birth of the new dynasty, would have been
nearly impossible for one man alone.
The fact that Kessler had enough presence of mind and
body to withstand this double duty only confirmed his
worth.
On the morning of July 6, in his office at headquarters, he
met with a few guests, but it was the unexpected fourth
who brought the most important business. Job Trünicht, a
gentleman in the prime of his life who’d been the leader of
the Free Planets Alliance until just last month, had sold his
sovereignty to Reinhard and taken up residence within the
empire as a means of ensuring his own safety. The
information he brought was shocking.
“There’s plot to assassinate His Majesty the Emperor being
carried out as we speak.”
The military police commissioner tried to keep calm, yet
his eyes gleamed sharply, betraying their master’s
intentions. Even while commanding fleets in outer space,
his eyes hadn’t quivered in the slightest. But this was
different, as every fiber of his being was loudly attesting.
“And how did you come by this knowledge?”
“Surely Your Excellency is aware of the religious
organization known as the Church of Terra. I’ve dealt with
them on occasion under the auspices of my former position.
That’s when I learned of a conspiracy being hatched within
their ranks. They threatened to kill me if I informed anyone,
but my loyalty to His Majesty—”
“I understand.”
Kessler’s reply was not at all polite. Like his admirals in
arms, he cared little for the defeatist standing before him.
Everything that came out of Trünicht’s mouth reeked of a
strong poison that made people hate him wherever he
went.
“And the assassin’s name?” the military police
commissioner asked, to which the former Free Planets
Alliance prime minister answered solemnly.
Trünicht made it a point to insist that he’d never once
agreed with the tenets of the Church of Terra and that the
one time he had cooperated with the church had been
because the situation had forced his hand, not because he’d
wished to. Kessler had heard all he needed to hear and
barked an order to one of his men.
“Take Mr. Trünicht to conference room number two. He is
not to leave that room until we get to the bottom of this. Do
not, under any circumstances, let anyone near him.”
Trünicht was placed under temporary house arrest under
the pretense of his needing protection.
By the time Kessler acted, his informant no longer
mattered. Kessler cared only about feeding himself, and
there was no use for a dish once the meal was finished.

Kessler first rang the Kümmel residence on the visiphone,

then Vice Admiral von Streit and Commodore Kissling, but
couldn’t get through to any of them. The reason was clear.
Even as the military police commissioner ground his teeth,
he wasted no time in contacting his regiment nearest the
Kümmel estate. The commanding officer was one
Commodore Paumann, a former armed grenadier with
plenty of battle experience for his young age. Kessler had
more faith in those who fought bravely in battle than in
trueborn military police. Although he himself fit the latter
bill to a T, practically speaking, not even the finest police
investigator or interrogator was going to help him in this
case. What he needed was a battle commander.
Upon receiving his orders, Paumann was nervous but not
upset. He jumped into action, ordering all 2,400 armed
officers in his jurisdiction to the Kümmel estate at once. It
was a textbook covert operation. He forbade the use of
armored vehicles, knowing that the sound of their engines
would give them away before they even arrived. The
military policemen ran in their stocking feet to the Kümmel
estate, carrying their laser rifles in one hand and their
military boots in the other. Some would laugh back on it the
next day, but in the heat of the moment their actions were
anything but humorous as they surrounded the
compound.
Kessler’s plan didn’t end there.
The 1,600-strong military police regiment under
Commodore Raft raided the Church of Terra chantry house
at 19 Cassel Street, rounding up all the believers they could
find on-site. These weren’t pacifists, however, and instead of
surrendering, they immediately welcomed the military
police who stormed their building by opening fire.
Commodore Raft ordered his men to return fire. Prismatic
beams shot out in all directions. It was a brutal, if short-
lived, shoot-out. Ten minutes later, Raft’s men had made
their way to the top floor, shooting anyone who stood in
their way. At just past noon, they’d gained total control of
the six-story building. Ninety-six believers were killed on
the scene, fourteen died later of their injuries, twenty-eight
committed suicide, and the fifty-two survivors, suffering
from a variety of wounds, were arrested. No one escaped.
On the military police side, eighteen were dead and forty-
two wounded. Sect leader Archbishop Godwin had just
been attempting to kill himself by drinking poison when a
military police officer burst into the room and struck him
with the butt of his gun. Godwin was placed in
electromagnetic handcuffs and dragged unconscious from
the scene, a failure at his own martyrdom.
The military police officers, still stoked by bloodlust,
scoured the interior of the crimson-splattered building to
gather any evidence that might prove the insurgents’
complicity in plotting the emperor’s assassination. They
removed fragments of documents from the ashes of an
incinerator, stripped corpses naked, pulled out pockets
sticky with blood, kicked over altars, and tore up the
floorboards, but turned up nothing. One of the wounded
rebuked their blasphemous actions, only to be kicked to
death by an officer in the back of the head where he’d been
wounded.
As Commodore Raft’s unit was performing its blood rite in
one corner of the capital, the soldiers of Commodore
Paumann’s unit, having surrounded the Baron von Kümmel
estate, put on their boots, awaiting their order to raid the
compound. Those at the receiving end of that order could
only comply, but the responsibility of the one giving it was
immense. Their emperor’s life was poised on the tip of
Paumann’s tongue.

Those whose lives hung in the balance of all this

mobilization noticed a shift in their surroundings. A
soundless stirring of the air brushed across their skin and
stimulated their neural networks. After playing a quick
game of catch with each other’s gazes, they all shared the
same thought—something that was impossible for someone
like Heinrich, who’d never once experienced combat, to
perceive. Help was on the way. Now all they needed to do
was stall for time.
Heinrich’s perception was focused on two things. First, the
Seffl particle detonator switch in his hand, and second, the
silver pendant that Reinhard kept fondling like a talisman.
Reinhard was moving his hand unconsciously. Or if it was
conscious, then it was surely to provoke the needless
caution of this would-be assassin. This made Heinrich even
more interested in the pendant.
Hilda was also aware of this dangerous cycle but was
helpless to do anything about it. Any interruption on her
part might be impetus enough for Heinrich to put his sick
curiosity into action.
 Heinrich, after barely opening and closing his mouth a few
times, broke the silence.
“Your Majesty, that pendant seems quite valuable to you. I
would very much like to see it, and to touch it, if you would
be so kind.”
Reinhard’s fingers froze. He fixed his gaze on Heinrich’s
face. Hilda trembled in fear, for she knew that her cousin
had trodden his muddy feet into the emperor’s inviolable
sanctuary.
“Out of the question.”
“I demand to see it.”
“It’s not yours to see.”
“Just let him see it, Your Majesty,” von Streit interjected.
“Your Majesty!” said Kissling simultaneously.
Both men knew their allies were closing in and saw no
harm in buying themselves even a few more seconds by any
means necessary. What was the point of angering Heinrich
further with this childish resistance?
Reinhard clearly didn’t share their views. The coolheaded,
keen, and ambitious ruler his attendants all knew and
served had disappeared, leaving in its place a man with the
expression of a troubled boy. He was like a child desperately
clinging to his toy box, which to the adults around him was
filled with junk yet which he was convinced contained
actual treasure.
In Hilda’s eyes, Heinrich was now the real tyrant and
would never tolerate this. Heinrich had crossed the line not
only of her trust, but also of his own into boldest action.
“I’m the one holding the cards here. Or has His Majesty
forgotten? Give it to me this instant. I will not ask you
again.”
“No.”
Reinhard’s obstinacy was hard to believe coming from a
hero who’d crawled his way out of poverty as a young man
with only a name to show for his nobility, only to become
ruler of the greatest empire in history. Heinrich’s irrational
sentiments, it seemed, had been distorted and transferred
over into Reinhard. Heinrich had a sudden fit, but his
imbalanced passions erupted in an unexpected direction.
His lifeless hand, which looked for all like a lab specimen
fixed with formalin, reached out like a leaping snake and
grabbed the emperor’s pendant. Reinhard’s graceful hand,
which any artist would have desired as a model, struck the
half-dead tyrant’s cheek. Everyone’s lungs and hearts
ceased to function but went back online when the detonator
switch flew from the Baron’s hand and rolled across the
flagstones. Kissling sprang at Heinrich, almost
embarrassingly like a cat, and pinned him to the ground.
“Go easy on him!” Hilda shouted, by which time Kissling
was already letting go of Heinrich’s thin wrists. The baron’s
sickly frame had let out a crack that sent the topaz-eyed
brave general into recoil. Feeling the aftertaste of having
mustered far more violence than was necessary, Kissling
left this traitor in the hands of his beautiful cousin. This was
not Kissling’s curtain call.
“Heinrich, you fool,” whispered Hilda, cradling her cousin’s
weak body. It was all even someone of her intelligence and
expressiveness could muster. Heinrich smiled. Not the
malicious grin of moments before, but an almost pure smile,
gilded by impending death.
“I wanted to do something before I died. No matter how
evil or foolish it was. I wanted to do something before I
died…that and nothing more.”
Heinrich enunciated every word with strange clarity. He
didn’t ask for her forgiveness. Nor did Hilda demand that
he beg for it.
“The von Kümmel barony dies with me. Not by infirmity,
but because I acted so carelessly. My illness may soon be
forgotten, but many will remember my foolishness.”
After speaking his mind, the crater of Heinrich’s life
spewed its last glob of lava. His heart, abused by this one
final act, was eternally released, and his veins changed
from rivers of life to thin ponds.
Holding her dead cousin’s face in her hands, Hilda shifted
her gaze to Reinhard. The young emperor stood in silence,
his luxurious golden locks fluttering in the summer breeze.
His ice-blue eyes betrayed nothing of the raging sea within.
He was still fingering the pendant with one hand.
Von Streit plucked the detonator switch from the stone,
muttering something under his breath. Kissling shouted,
announcing to their allies surrounding the mansion that the
emperor was safe and sound. The silence was broken by a
disturbance in the air as an unknown man jumped out in
front of everyone—a straggler who’d fled from the Church
of Terra raid and stolen into the compound. He locked his
blaster on Reinhard, letting out a hostile roar. But von
Rücke was one step ahead of him, shooting out a ray of light
from his blaster. The man turned around as if his survival
instinct had suddenly kicked in. Von Rücke pulled the
trigger again, hitting the center of the man’s back. The man
threw up his arms like a sprinter leaping across the finish
line, did a half turn, and fell headfirst into a thicket of
common broom.
Three of von Rücke’s personal bodyguards carefully
dragged out the body. That’s when von Rücke noticed the
distinct embroidery on his clothing that would confirm his
suspicions. He silently mouthed the words: Terra is my
home, Terra in my hand.
“So he’s one of those Church of Terra cultists?” whispered
Vice Admiral von Streit from over his shoulder.
He of course knew the name of the religious organization
that had somehow expanded its influence throughout both
the empire and the alliance in recent years. There were
also those who’d heard of Terra yet knew little of Earth.
Everyone was at least aware of Earth as the birthplace of
all humankind and understood that it had once been the
center of the known universe. It continued to revolve
around its sun, but the meaning of its existence had been
lost to a distant past. Hardly anyone mourned its loss. It was
nothing more than a modest planet, forgotten—if not
compelled to be vanquished from memory—in the frontier.
Soon enough, however, the name “Earth” would ring in
people’s ears to the accompaniment of an ominous elegy, as
it was revealed to be a strategic base for an outrageous
conspiracy to assassinate the emperor.

V
Upon returning to Neue Sans Souci, Emperor Reinhard had
reverted to his usual dictatorial self, as if his life hadn’t just
been hanging in the balance of an invalid’s hands. But
because he never explained how his silver pendant had
incited a most unforeseen turn of events, both Vice Admiral
von Streit and Commodore Kissling felt a lack of closure.
Hilda, at any rate, being related to a criminal who had
engaged in a wanton act of high treason, was placed under
house arrest.
Senior Admiral Kessler, who held concurrent posts as
military police commissioner and commander of capital
defenses, flagged Reinhard down in the corridors.
Suppressing the surge of emotions swelling inside him, he
formally congratulated Reinhard on his safe return and
apologized for not knowing of Heinrich’s intentions
beforehand.
“Not at all. You did well. Did you not suppress the Church
of Terra’s headquarters where the plot was hatched? You’ve
nothing to blame yourself for.”
“Your magnanimity knows no bounds. Incidentally, Your
Majesty, Baron von Kümmel may be dead, but he’s still a
criminal of the highest order and must be dealt with
accordingly. How do you suggest we proceed from here?”
Reinhard shook his head slowly, causing his luxurious
golden hair to sway attractively.
 “Kessler, imagine you’ve just apprehended someone who
put your life in danger. Do you punish the weapon he used
to do it?”
It took a few moments for the military police commissioner
to grasp what the young emperor had left unsaid. Namely,
that no one was to charge Baron von Kümmel with a crime.
Which meant, of course, that Hilda and Count von
Mariendorf were to be exonerated. If anyone needed to be
blamed and punished, it was the religious fanatics pulling
strings from the shadows.
“I will interrogate the Church of Terra believers
immediately, bring out the truth, and punish them as you
see fit.”
The young emperor nodded silently and turned away,
looking through the reinforced window at the long-
neglected garden. A feeling of disgust roared like a distant
ocean deep inside him. Although he’d found great
fulfillment in fighting to gain power for himself, there was
no joy in continuing to fight to keep the power he already
had. He spoke telepathically to his silver pendant: How I
enjoyed battling at your side against a worthy enemy! But
now that I’ve become the mightiest ruler of all, I sometimes
wish I could defeat myself. If only there were more great
enemies. If only you’d lived just a little longer, then I
might’ve satisfied my heart’s desire. Isn’t that right,
Kircheis?
The emperor’s intentions were conveyed to the military
police through Kessler. The fifty-two Church of Terra
survivors were brought before military police, who were
seething with loyalty to their emperor and a desire to
avenge the attempt that had been made on his life. Kessler
proceeded to dole out punishments so cruel that the
surviving Terraists envied the dead. Kessler and his men
could have gotten all the information they needed without
resorting to a truth serum, but they wasted no time in using
the strongest drugs at their disposal. One reason was that
they were capital offenders, and the necessity of getting
confessions was far more important than any concern for
the well-being of those giving them. The other reason had
to do with the tenacity of the Terra believers. It was as
though they craved martyrdom, which only fueled the
animosity of their interrogators. Such fanaticism provoked
only revulsion in those outside their faith.
During one such interrogation session, a doctor was
hesitant to administer the full dose and cowered at the
officers’ harsh words.
“You’re worried they’ll go crazy? It’s a little late for that,
don’t you think? This lot has been crazy from the beginning.
These drugs might just bring them back to normal.”
In the interrogation room, five levels below military police
headquarters, the amount of blood spilled far exceeded the
amount of information retrieved to show for it. The Church
of Terra sect established on the planet Odin had only
carried out the plot, and had neither given nor drafted the
order.
The chief offender, Archbishop Godwin, after failing to bite
off his own tongue, was injected with a copious amount of
truth serum. He gave up nothing at first, much to the
doctor’s amazement. After the second injection, cracks
appeared in his mental levees, and little by little information
began trickling out. Still, even he could only guess as to why
he’d been ordered to assassinate the emperor at this point
in time.
“As time goes by, the foundation of that golden brat’s
power will only grow stronger. He may reject his
ostentation as supreme ruler, value simplicity, and try to
take down the barrier between subjects and citizens, but he
will eventually brandish his power and make lavish use of
his entourage, of that you can be sure. We’ll never get a
chance like this again.”
“Blond brat” was a term only Emperor Reinhard’s
opponents used to curse him. Those words alone were
enough to convict Archbishop Godwin of lèse-majesté. In
the end, however, he wasn’t judged in a courtroom. After
receiving his sixth injection of truth serum, he bashed his
head against the ceiling and walls of the interrogation
room, muttering incoherently, until he died, bleeding from
every orifice.
The severity of this interrogation left no doubt about the
truth. The Church of Terra had committed high treason.
The only option was to make the church acutely aware of
the nature of its offense.
“But where’s the Church of Terra’s motive? I’m still baffled
as to why they would aim to murder Your Majesty.”
This was a doubt felt not only by Kessler, but by all chief
statesmen who knew of the incident. For all their
discernment, the dreams of fanatics were impossible to
divine with only limited truths as their dowsing rods.
Until now, Emperor Reinhard had always had more apathy
than tolerance for religion. Naturally, he could no longer
remain indifferent about the Odin sect, which, regardless of
goals or methods, had a mind to disavow his very existence.
He’d never failed to reward his enemies with more
retribution than they deserved. The only reason he’d been
so generous this time around was another matter
altogether—one left for his private consideration only.
Among Reinhard’s subordinates, anger and hatred toward
the Church of Terra was much more violent among civil
officials than soldiers. Foreign campaigns had come to a
standstill because of his control of Phezzan and the Free
Planets Alliance’s surrender. And while the age of civil
officials had arrived and that of the military had been
eclipsed, if the new emperor were to be overthrown by
terrorism now, the entire universe would spiral into conflict
and chaos, and the guardian of universal order would be
lost to them forever.
And so, on July 10, an imperial council was convened, even
as the fate of Earth, or at least that of the church, was
losing its grip on the future.
I
WHILE THIS BLOODY INTERMEZZO was reverberating
around Emperor Reinhard’s person, in the Free Planets
Alliance capital of Heinessen, now a protectorate of the
Galactic Empire, “Miracle” Yang Wen-li was living out the
pensioner’s lifestyle he’d always wanted. Or so it seemed.
Even though he was exalted as Emperor Reinhard’s most
worthy opponent, Yang had never once, from the beginning
of his life, desired to be a military man. He’d only enrolled
in the Officers’ Academy in the first place because the
tuition had been free and it had offered courses in his true
interest, history. Since the moment he’d first put on his
uniform, he’d been pining for a chance to take it off. After
pulling off the unthinkable El Facil Evacuation eleven years
back, one medal and promotion after another had made the
uniform heavier. And now, at the age of thirty-two, he had
finally been able to retire.
Yang’s pension, as befitting his status, was an atonement
for the many allies and many more enemies whose blood
had been shed under his watch. The very notion pierced his
soul, and it was all he could do to put himself at ease now
that his desire from twelve years ago had been granted at
last. Yang brazenly left behind memos to that effect: The
thought of getting paid for nothing is almost shameful. On
the other hand, getting paid for not killing people seems
like a more proper way to live, or at least a happier one.
But any historians biased against him ignored these
sentiments.
Commodore at twenty-eight, admiral at twenty-nine, and
now marshal at thirty-two. Under more peaceful conditions,
these achievements would have seemed like the daydream
of a mental patient. To him, being called the alliance’s
greatest, most resourceful general alive was nothing short
of history’s greatest misappropriation of adjectives. Nearly
all the alliance’s military successes over the past three
years had been pulled from his black beret like the
magician’s proverbial rabbit. That the alliance itself had
bowed to the empire didn’t necessarily work to his
advantage, and so he couldn’t help but fret over this
historic turn of events.
Immediately after his retirement, Yang got married and set
up house on June 10 of that year. His bride was twenty-five-
year-old Frederica Greenhill, who’d worked as Yang’s aide
while on active duty, ranked lieutenant commander. She
was a beautiful woman with golden-brown hair and hazel
eyes and had been only fourteen years old during the
escape from El Facil. She had never forgotten that
seemingly inept black-haired sublieutenant, now an
intergral part of her reality. Yang had known how she felt
about him but only this year had felt emboldened to
reciprocate. Even then, their signals had gotten crossed
more than Frederica would’ve liked.
The wedding was a modest affair. The main reason behind
this choice was that Yang hated lavish ceremonies. He was
also worried that an extravagant wedding would appear to
be an ideal pretext for former alliance leaders to
congregate and hatch some dire plot. Arousing the Imperial
Navy’s suspicion at this point would be extremely unwise.
Any big to-do would also necessitate inviting domestic and
foreign bigwigs, which meant that Yang would need to
endure drawn-out speeches from people whose company he
didn’t particularly enjoy. Worst of all, he would have to
invite the galactic imperial commissioners and others who
now held high positions in the alliance government. All of
this was more trouble than it was worth.
As a result, among Yang’s old subordinates, of those still on
active duty, he invited only Vice Admiral Alex Caselnes. The
rest were all retired and in hiding on Yang’s orders.
On the day of the ceremony, his bride looked unbelievably
beautiful. Yang, as ever, looked like an immature scholar,
despite the great pains he’d taken with his uniform, and his
closest allies took every opportunity to remind him of that.
“A regular princess and the pauper,” chided Caselnes in
response to Yang’s grumbling over his tuxedo. “If only you’d
bitten the bullet sooner, you might’ve gotten by just fine
with your military uniform, like me. Looking at you now, I’d
say the uniform suits you better after all.”
Even in uniform, Yang somehow looked more like a boy
than a soldier, and so he didn’t think it made any difference
in the end.
Vice Admiral Walter von Schönkopf, former commander of
the Rosen Ritter fleet and commander of fortress defenses
at Iserlohn under Yang, mixed his own verbal cocktail of
cynicism and regret: “You’ve escaped a military prison, only
to march yourself into the cell block of marriage. You’re an
odd duck, Mr. Yang.”
To which Caselnes responded, “Odd isn’t the word. One
week of married life has enlightened him to something he
never learned in ten years of bachelorhood. I suspect he’ll
sire a great philosopher one day.”
Yang’s Officers’ Academy lowerclassman, the retired Dusty
Attenborough, agreed and threw his own meat into this
roasting. “The way I see it, Yang got the best of the spoils of
war in his new bride. Fitting for our ‘Miracle Yang,’ seeing
as she lowered herself to his level and all.”
Yang’s ward, the seventeen-year-old Julian Mintz, shook his
flaxen, longish-haired head to this round of criticism.
“Admiral, it amazes me that you could lead such people to
victory. They’re all backstabbers, if you ask me.”
“How do you think I got to be this way in the first place?”
quipped Yang, as only a person of character would do.
“Resolve has to come from somewhere.”
Those in attendance demanded that Yang and his bride
kiss, and he approached her like a man on drunken legs.
For just a moment, Julian flashed a pained expression at
Frederica’s vivacious, beautiful face. First, because he’d
held a vague longing for her for quite some time. Second,
because he would be leaving the planet Heinessen that very
night to embark on his own new journey. And while the
latter was by his own choice, it was only natural that his
emotions should run rampant in his young heart once he
was ten thousand light-years away from the people he
loved. Any loneliness he’d ever felt before would now be
magnified to cosmic levels.
Yang’s interlocutors left after the wedding. Julian, too, bid
his farewells to the newlyweds and took his leave of the
young bride and groom before they set out for the lakes
and marshes of their mountain honeymoon. After ten days
in a secluded villa, they returned to begin their new life in a
rented house on Fremont Street. Because Yang’s prior
residence, the house on Silverbridge Street, had been
official military housing, naturally he’d had to move out
when he’d retired.
Thus, Yang seemed to have turned the first page of his
ideal life. But the reality of it was not as sweet as he’d
imagined, for reasons of both his own and others’ making.
Combining the pensions of Marshal Yang and Lieutenant
Commander Frederica, although less than what would have
been given to royalty and titled nobility, was enough to
guarantee them more freedom of activity and material
surplus than they knew what to do with. Even so, pensions
were provided only when the government finances existed
to do so, and in that regard the state of things was
deteriorating beyond their control.
The alliance’s new administration, of which João Lebello
was prime minister, had been bankrupted by the war.
Because of a security tax being loaned to the empire in
accordance with the peace treaty, they needed to improve
their financial situation toward funding the rebuilding
effort. There was much to be done, but for now they were
focusing on the short term. The administration expressed
its determination for financial reform by restructuring the
power system as follows:
Those holding public office faced average pay cuts of 12.5
percent, and Lebello himself relinquished 25 percent of his
salary. Whereas before there’d been nothing but wind and
rain outside Yang’s window, now that the alliance had taken
the scalpel of reduction to soldiers’ pensions as well, that
damp wind had crashed through the glass and chilled him
to the bone.
A former marshal’s pension cut was 22.5 percent, that of a
former lieutenant commander 15 percent. Yang understood
that this disparity reflected their ranks, but that did nothing
to stop him from feeling that his ideal of getting paid
without having to wage war had already been trampled on.
He wasn’t dead to money, but he’d never had the
experience of having more money than he knew what to do
with. Either way, he knew its worth well enough. Yang had
never been one to work harder just to increase his
earnings, and future historians were right in at least one
respect when they described him as “someone who had no
interest in making money.”
Even so, putting their pensions together didn’t guarantee
the most comfortable life after all. But the fact that Yang’s
retirement had become oppressive had nothing to do with
money, but rather with a certain unease lingering just
beyond the surface of his new life.
The first signs were already appearing during their brief
time in the mountains. Every time Yang went fishing for
trout in the lake, threw wood into the fireplace to stave off
the chill of high-elevation nights, or bought fresh milk from
the local farmstead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that
someone was watching their every move.

II
In May of SE 799, year 490 of the old Imperial Calendar
and year one of the New Imperial Calendar, the Bharat
Peace Treaty was put into effect. In accordance with Article
7, the imperial high commissioner was to be stationed in
the alliance capital. His duties were to negotiate and
consult with the alliance government as proxy for the
emperor, but his carrying out of inspections in accordance
with the treaty gave him the power to interfere with
domestic affairs, making him closer to a governor-general.
Helmut Lennenkamp’s appointment to this important office
was evaluated thusly by the man known as the “Artist-
Admiral,” Ernest Mecklinger.
“At the time of appointment, he was far from the worst
choice. But over time, he has become the worst. Now
everyone will suffer the consequences of this decision.”
Helmut Lennenkamp was a sullen middle-aged man, his
dignified mustache rather out of place among the rest of his
features. But he was a sound tactician who’d racked up
medals in all types of battles, and by all accounts lacked
nothing when it came to organizing troops. He was, for a
time, Reinhard’s superior when Reinhard was lieutenant
commander, and had an especial dislike for “that golden
brat.” Aware of this critique, Reinhard was magnanimous
enough to make sure that Lennenkamp was treated fairly,
to the extent that no one talked about him behind his back.
His name was therefore included in the list of candidates
drawn up by the Lohengramm Dynasty’s founder, much to
no one’s surprise.
Lennenkamp was blessed with many virtues—among them
loyalty, a sense of duty, diligence, impartiality, and discipline
—and his subordinates relied on him with appropriate
respect and trust. As the subject of a volume in a series of
imperial commissioner biographies, he would’ve received
much praise. But from anything other than a military
perspective, his lack of Oskar von Reuentahl’s flexibility and
Wolfgang Mittermeier’s open-mindedness, his tendency to
chase helplessly after both his own virtues and the virtues
of others, and the incompatibility of his temperament as a
superior military man and a human being—all of this would
need to be recorded as well.
Lennenkamp was backed by four battalions of armed
grenadiers and twelve battalions of light infantry when he
commandeered the high-class Hotel Shangri-La in the
center of Heinessenpolis to set up his executive office.
Although Admiral Steinmetz’s grand fleet was holding down
the Gandharva star system, being stationed in what had
been enemy territory until just yesterday with that much
military force was unimaginable for a coward.
“If those alliance bastards want to kill me, let them try,”
he’d said of the situation, raising his shoulders defiantly.
“I’m not immortal, but in the unlikely event that I should
die, then the alliance dies with me.”
A “great military” was Lennenkamp’s ideal, and for him it
wasn’t so far-fetched to think he might achieve it. He
believed in superiors who had affection for their men, men
who in turn respected their superiors, and comrades who
trusted and helped one another without resorting to
injustice or insubordination. Order, harmony, and discipline
were his most cherished values. In a sense, he was an
extreme militarist, one who would surely have counted
himself a loyal follower of the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s
founder Rudolf the Great, had he been born in that time. Of
course, he didn’t have the inflated ego of a Rudolf von
Goldenbaum, but Lennenkamp didn’t use his lord as a
mirror to see himself from an objective point of view.

On Lennenkamp’s orders, Yang Wen-li was being surveilled

by the Imperial Navy as a potential threat to national
security.
Yang was increasingly irritated at having to report his
destination and planned time of return every time they
went out. Whether on active duty or retired, the
government kept tabs on its highest-level officers. This was
to be expected. And yet, the Imperial Navy had never given
him any indication of being prison wardens. Rather, their
surveillance was something the alliance government had
suggested to the Imperial Navy. And while it was
understandable that the alliance government would go to
great lengths to keep such a close eye on Yang without
giving the Imperial Navy any excuse for its interference,
Yang wanted nothing more than for them to get it over with.
Yang complained to his new wife, wanting to know what
pleasure they got out of tormenting a peaceful, harmless
man like him, although anyone who knew the full score
would never have bought into his claims of innocence. He’d
supported Julian Mintz’s trip to Earth, planned the escape
of Admiral Merkatz and others banished from the empire,
and had carried out not exactly anti-imperial but certainly
un-imperial activities, and so it was bold of him to play the
role of hapless prisoner.
On that point, Frederica kept silent. In her opinion, it was
in his favor that he’d earned the suspicions of the Imperial
Navy and compromised the position of the alliance
government.
“In that case, go ahead and be as lazy as you want.”
Yang nodded happily at his wife’s advice. Living peacefully,
quietly, and idly suited him just fine. Yang had every reason
to enjoy his indolence. And so, he began to spend each day
lazily, even carelessly, quietly disregarding even the most
obvious signs of surveillance.
One day, Captain Ratzel, in charge of monitoring Yang,
gave a report to his superior.
“Marshal Yang lives a quiet life. I see no reason to believe
he’s stirring up anti-imperial sentiment of any kind.”
Lennenkamp’s response was cynical, to say the least:
“He has a beautiful bride and food on his table. I can’t say
I’m not jealous. An ideal life, wouldn’t you say?”
Lennenkamp put a high value on hard work and serving
one’s country, and saw no merit in someone who’d once
held important military office throwing the responsibility of
defeat into a closet of forgetfulness and living out the rest of
his life on a comfortable pension without a care in the
world. A man of Lennenkamp’s common sense and values
couldn’t wrap his head around Yang Wen-li. Something just
didn’t add up, and he was determined to get to the bottom
of what he saw to be mysterious behavior.
Yang had forced Lennenkamp to swallow the bitter
medicine of defeat on two occasions. If Yang had been a
man possessed of any militaristic virtue, then
Lennenkamp’s chagrin might have been balanced by his
respect for a superior enemy. But unfortunately for both
parties, they were all too often opposite sides of the same
coin, and so duty compelled Lennenkamp to keep one eye
over his shoulder at all times.
To Lennenkamp, it was all camouflage. Yang Wen-li didn’t
seem the type to be content in living out the life of an idle
pensioner until he was old and decrepit. Surely, in his heart,
he was harboring a long-term plan to restore the alliance
and overthrow the empire. His normal daily life was nothing
more than a ruse to gloss over that fact.
Lennenkamp’s opinions toward Yang were myopic, the
viewpoints of a quintessential patriot soldier. Paradoxically
enough, Lennenkamp had forced his way through the
marshlands of his prejudice and the dense forest of his
misunderstanding to reach the gates of truth, before which
he now stood, his hands itching to push them open.
But his subordinate lacked his level of conviction. Either
that, or he wasn’t nearly as jaded. If Reinhard had made a
mistake in choosing Lennenkamp, then Lennenkamp had
made a mistake in choosing Ratzel. As the captain was
monitoring Yang, he courteously delivered the following
message:
“To Your Excellency, Marshal, this must come as an
inconvenient and irritating development. But I am at the
whim of my superior and, as a petty official, am obliged to
obey. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”
Yang waved his hand slightly.
“Oh, please, think nothing of it. We’re all slaves to our
paycheck. Isn’t that right, Captain? I was the same way. It’s
more than a piece of paper; it’s a chain that binds.”
Captain Ratzel needed a few seconds to grin, partly
because of Yang’s poorly constructed joke and partly
because Ratzel’s sense of humor wasn’t all that developed
to begin with.
It was under these circumstances that Yang permitted
himself to be observed by Ratzel. Even in a democratic
regime like the Alliance Armed Forces, let alone the
Imperial Navy, commands from on high could be unfairly
harsh. Of course, Yang couldn’t help but feel a certain level
of discomfort with Ratzel’s boss.
“Lennenkamp holds rules and regulations to be self-
evident. Even if going against them were justified, I doubt
he’d even consider it. He’d do his worst, so long as it meant
following the rules.”
 Even if Yang was right, he didn’t care about rules. He
simply hadn’t revealed how he felt, because he knew when
and where to shout, “The king has donkey ears!” In any
case, he’d somehow carved out a status for himself worthy
of a pension. Then again, he’d also been denounced in a
pointless court hearing like a meek lamb in a round of
rulers and their lapdogs, as Caselnes and friends watched
critically from the sidelines. But so long as the Galactic
Empire existed, Yang’s military genius was indispensable.
Removing him from the equation over questionable
behavior was unthinkable. Despite being taunted
mercilessly in court, he’d emerged from the discomfort of
that memory having come to grips with Lennenkamp’s way
of doing things.
“Then you don’t like Lennenkamp?”
To his wife’s intentionally reductive question, Yang
answered:
“It’s not that I don’t like him. He just gets on my nerves is
all.”
That was more than enough for Yang.
Yang wasn’t fond of scheming. He hated to look at himself
when working out a plot to deceive others. But if
Lennenkamp crossed the line and meddled in Yang’s
personal affairs, he would resort to underhanded methods
to drive him away. Yang’s nerves were still on edge. If push
came to shove, he’d retaliate with another shove for good
measure. He was fully prepared to meet any consequence
of his return head-on.
Nevertheless, even if Yang outwitted Lennenkamp’s
fastidiousness, it wasn’t likely that anyone more tolerant
would be appointed in his place. He couldn’t afford the
mistake of driving out a dog, only to then invite in a wolf. If
someone like the coolheaded, astute Marshal von
Oberstein, for example, were to come into the picture, Yang
would feel mentally suffocated.
“That bastard Lennenkamp! I could…”
 Realizing the indecency of what he was about to say, Yang
acted the gentleman and redressed himself.
“Sure, it’d be ideal if Mr. Lennenkamp left us alone, but the
problem is who would replace him. I’d gladly take
advantage of a traitorous type who took pleasure in doing
as he pleased behind the emperor’s back. But Emperor
Reinhard has yet to appoint someone like that.”
“We can assume Emperor Reinhard would only appoint
such a person if he himself were a corrupt ruler, right?”
“Ah, you’ve hit the mark there. That’s it exactly.” Yang
exhaled through a bitter expression. “It behooves us not
only to welcome the enemy’s corruption, but also to
encourage it. Isn’t this a depressing topic? Whether in
politics or the military, I know very well under whose
jurisdiction evil lies. I bet God is enjoying every moment of
this.”
Meanwhile, in the high commissioner’s office, Senior
Admiral Lennenkamp was again giving orders to Captain
Ratzel.
“Stay vigilant in your surveillance. That man is up to
something—I can feel it. We must eliminate anything that
could bring harm to the empire or His Majesty the Emperor
before it becomes a reality.”
Ratzel was silent.
“Have you nothing to say?!”
“Yes. As you command, from now on I’ll keep an extra-close
eye on Marshal Yang.” It was the answer of a talentless
actor.
Seeing the way Lennenkamp’s mustache quivered, Ratzel
knew his behavior was not at all to his superior’s liking.
“Captain,” said Lennenkamp, raising his voice. “Let me ask
you something. Do we need to be obeyed, or do we need to
be welcomed?”
Ratzel knew what his superior wanted to hear but
hesitated to answer right away. He looked away again, his
tone passionless.
 “To be obeyed, of course, Your Excellency.”
“Exactly.”
Nodding gravely, Lennenkamp continued his tirade.
“We’re both victors and rulers. Building a new order is our
responsibility. At this point, I no longer care about being
ostracized by the losers. If we’re ever going to fulfill our
grander duty here, then we must be steadfast in our
determination and faith.”
Ernest Mecklinger likewise took down the following memo:
Most likely, the emperor will take the heat for this
personnel selection failure. I don’t agree with that. The
only reason the emperor hasn’t noticed Lennenkamp’s
fixation with Yang Wen-li is because the emperor himself
has none. Fixation with someone who has defeated oneself
towers over the mind like an enormous mountain range.
And while it’s possible for a bird with strong wings to fly
over those mountains, to a bird who can’t, they are the very
essence of hardship. In my opinion, Lennenkamp needs to
strengthen his wings a bit more. The emperor didn’t
appoint him to be Yang Wen-li’s jailor. Certainly, the
emperor isn’t omnipotent. But it’s unacceptable to blame
an astronomical telescope for not also functioning as a
microscope.

III
Yang Wen-li wasn’t the only one under imperial
surveillance. Most other high-level officers, at least those
whose whereabouts were known, were being subjected to
the same treatment. The Free Planets Alliance, after barely
avoiding total domination by the Imperial Navy, was like a
criminal on death row, waiting for the inevitable while
authority figures rattled the cage with their sticks.
As an authorized staff member of the alliance government,
Commissioner Lennenkamp was allowed the privilege of
attending all official meetings. His presence was
somewhere between nuisance and token member. Although
barred from giving orders and expressing opinions, neither
could the alliance debate freely for fear of what he might
think.
João Lebello, who was both the alliance’s prime minister
and chief executive officer as chairman of the High Council,
had succeeded Job Trünicht after the latter had
relinquished his political authority. Since nibbling on the
sweet fruit of power, he’d been cultivating a withered
orchard.
Lebello was determined not to give the empire any
excuses. He would maintain the independence, if only
nominally, of the Free Planets Alliance, which had two and a
half centuries of history to show for itself. Sooner or later,
the Free Planets Alliance would need to restore total
independence. The Galactic Empire had enough military
power to annex the Free Planets Alliance at any time it
wished. That it hadn’t already done so didn’t mean it
wouldn’t in the future. Emperor Reinhard was just waiting
for a more opportune moment to fit that last piece into the
puzzle of his rule.
The Bharat Peace Treaty was an invisible chain holding
down the Free Planets Alliance’s limbs. Under Article 4, the
alliance was required to pay an annual security tax of one
trillion five hundred billion imperial reichsmark to the
empire, thereby putting enormous financial pressure on the
alliance. In accordance with Article 6, the Free Planets
Alliance had dutifully enacted a national law against any
activities that would hinder friendship with the empire.
Lebello, along with proposing this Insurrection Act to
congress, had to ban Article 7 of the Charter of the Alliance,
which guaranteed freedom of speech and assembly, to
which the principlists cried foul over this self-denial of a
democratic government.
Lebello knew as much. But the world was in crisis mode,
and wasn’t it worth amputating its necrosis-ridden arms to
save the entire organism? In addition, Lebello was worried
about the alliance’s greatest military hero, Yang Wen-li.
Lebello had been deceived by the conservatives and could
only shudder at the image of revolutionary banners
unfurling on both the imperial and alliance sides.
Lebello knew full well that Yang Wen-li wasn’t the type of
person to gain power by brute military force, as the last
three years could attest. But just because Yang had acted
one way in the past didn’t guarantee he would act
predictably in the future. Former admiral Dwight Greenhill,
the father of Yang’s new bride, had been a man of good
sense, but had not political and diplomatic pressures
compelled even him to side with the die-hards, driving him
to instigate a coup d’état? And when Yang had suppressed
the coup and rescued the democratic government, he had
briefly been in a position to become a dictator himself. But
immediately after liberating the occupied capital, he’d
returned to the front lines, content in his position as
commander of frontier defenses. Although Lebello thought
that a praiseworthy action, people were malleable
creatures. If a man like Yang, no longer able to withstand
the monotonous life of retirement, were to have his
dormant ambitions awakened, there was no telling what he
might be capable of and to what lengths he’d be willing to
go to protect the integrity of his ideals.
And so, the very government from which Yang Wen-li was
receiving his pension was also keeping a close eye on him.
The reality of the situation might go over Yang’s head, but it
was only a matter of time before he connected all the dots.
For all Lebello knew, maybe Yang already had. Yang was no
masochist, and found no joy whatsoever in being the target
of constant surveillance. Still, he had no desire to make a
show of his objections, if only because he knew that the
present government was in a tough spot. He couldn’t help
but sympathize, to a point. Besides, no manner of protest
would stop visitors from showing up at his door
unannounced. For now, he could only play things by ear and
see where it led him.
Whatever others expected of him, however they presumed
to interfere, Yang intended to enjoy the rest of his life,
relaxed and paid for. That is, until something unexpected
took place the next day that changed his mind forever.

His new wife, Frederica, like her slothful husband, did little
else other than eat and sleep. Aside from scribbling down
his randomly dictated flashes of historical insight, she spent
her time relaxing. That didn’t mean, however, that she
enjoyed this unproductive, ordinary life. Had she followed
her husband’s example, the home she’d just made would
have become a weed-infested garden soon enough. At the
very least, she wanted to maintain it as their sanctuary.
Their newlywed home had become a training ground for
her role as housewife, and she took to it with wavering
commitment. As a girl, she’d managed the house in place of
her ailing mother, but in retrospect, her father had done
much to ease her burdens until she’d entered the Officers’
Academy and left the house at sixteen. Food was rarely a
focus of curriculum at the academy, where she learned
which plants were okay to eat should she ever find herself
lost in the wilderness, but never how to make a home-
cooked meal. Although she’d planned to teach herself one
day, and despite a superior memory that had earned her
the nickname of “Walking Computer” at the academy, she
felt inadequate when it came to domestic life. Maybe she
just needed practice.
In the file of her memory, five thousand years’ worth of
human history and the exploits of Yang’s combat experience
and commendations had been perfectly catalogued, yet no
amount of scholarship or lofty philosophy came in handy
when brewing her husband’s favorite black tea or planning
a menu that would stimulate his appetite in the summer
months.
Yang had never once complained about the meals
Frederica prepared. Whether because he truly liked her
cooking, because he didn’t like it but was being considerate
of her feelings, or because he just didn’t even care, was
beyond her. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t long before
she’d exhausted her culinary repertoire and found herself
wanting to learn more.
“Darling,” she asked timidly, “are you at all dissatisfied
with my cooking or the way I keep house?”
“Not at all. Especially that thing you made…Well, whatever
it was called, it was delicious.”
Frederica hardly felt comforted by this enthusiastic yet
vague response.
“I just wish I could give you more variety. Cooking has
never been my strong suit.”
“Your cooking is fine, honest. Oh yes, remember that
sandwich you made for me when we were fleeing El Facil?
That was really tasty.”
Even Yang wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or
just paying lip service. After all, that was eleven years ago.
Frederica appreciated that he was trying to put his wife at
ease, but she hoped he would be more forthcoming about
these things without her having to ask.
“Sandwiches are all I’m good at making. Actually, that’s not
true. I can also make crepes, hamburgers…”
“So, basically, you’re an expert when it comes to anything
with layers, right?”
But Yang’s attempts at being impressed, whether generous
or thickheaded, made Frederica call her abilities into
question. Was “Breakfast: Egg Sandwich, Lunch: Ham
Sandwich, Dinner: Sardine Sandwich” the only kind of
menu she knew how to devise? Did the full extent of her
abilities in the kitchen fit only between two layers of dough?
Four years of dorm life at the Officers’ Academy and five
years of military life had left her ill prepared for her new
role as housewife.
Julian Mintz, before leaving for Earth, had given her
instruction on brewing a strong black tea to Yang’s liking.
With masterful care, he’d demonstrated the perfect
temperature of the water and the exact timing involved, but
when he’d complimented Frederica’s attempts to replicate
the process, she’d wondered if he was being genuine,
because it never came out the same whenever she tried
making it for Yang. Clearly, her husband looked at the world
very differently than she did. She wanted them to be on the
same page, but it seemed Yang was already skipping ahead
to the end without caring much for the events leading them
there.

IV
Alex Caselnes, known as the cubicle king of the Alliance
Armed Forces for aiding Yang with countless administrative
tasks, also couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he
was being watched by the Imperial Navy. Convinced his
house had been bugged, he avoided speaking with Yang on
the visiphone. One day, while sipping coffee next to his
knitting wife, he tutted at the five surveillance guards
outside his window.
“Look at them, working so hard day after day. And for
what?”
“At least we don’t need to worry about getting robbed,
dear. Public funds are paying for our protection. Shouldn’t
we be grateful for that? Maybe I could offer them some tea
or dessert?”
“Have it your way,” her husband said, only half-listening.
Mrs. Caselnes made coffee for five, then told their
daughter, Charlotte Phyllis, to call in the most arrogant-
looking guard she could find. Soon after, the nine-year-old
led a young, freckled noncommissioned officer inside, his
arm linked doubtfully with hers. The officer was visibly
uncomfortable and regretfully declined the coffee offered to
him, saying he wasn’t allowed to engage in any activities
that might distract him from his work while on duty. After
the officer apologized and returned to his watch, it fell upon
Caselnes to figure out how to conserve those five cups of
coffee. But his wife’s gesture had its desired effect, as from
that point on the guards softened up whenever they saw
the couple’s two children running about.
A few days later, Mrs. Caselnes made a raspberry pie and
told her daughters to bring it to the Yang house. Charlotte
Phyllis held the pie box in one hand and her younger
sister’s hand in the other, prompting forced smiles from the
imperial surveillance team as they approached the door and
rang the intercom.
“Hello, Uncle Yang, Big Sister Frederica.”
To these innocent, if unwittingly demeaning, forms of
address, the master of the Yang household felt a twinge of
wounded pride, but his new wife cordially invited the two
small messengers inside all the same and rewarded them,
as Julian Mintz once had, for their labor with a honeyed
milkshake. To soothe her deflated husband, Frederica
cheerfully cut the pie, only to discover a water-resistant bag
inside containing several carefully folded clandestine
messages.
Thus, Marshal Yang and Vice Admiral Caselnes hit upon an
underhanded, if pedestrian, way to communicate with each
other. And while the sheer audacity of it was enough to fly
under the surveillance guards’ radar, they were careful not
to abuse it. In any event, it didn’t take long before
Frederica had exhausted her repertoire of cakes and pies,
which were already hard enough to make. This gave her the
perfect excuse to visit Mrs. Caselnes on a more regular
basis in order to learn more recipes. It wasn’t a total lie,
because she did want a reliable teacher to school her in not
only the ways of the kitchen, but also domestic life in
general.
It was on this pretext that the young couple brought a gift
to the Caselnes household. When she went out onto the
street, Frederica was met with scornful glares from the
locals. This was more than understandable, given that the
cause of their oppression was standing right before them. It
was in moments like these that, despite her best efforts to
ignore the surveillance guards, Frederica was glad for their
presence.
Two fully armed imperial soldiers turned idly in her
direction. That they shed not a single bead of sweat, despite
being drenched in the summer sun, was just one of many
indications of their rigorous training and combat
experience. Such burliness lent them a rather inorganic,
unworldly countenance that was at once comforting and
unsettling. Still, they trembled once they locked Yang in
their sights. They all knew his face from their solivisions,
but to them a marshal wasn’t supposed to lead so simple a
life as to walk around unguarded in broad daylight in a
faded cotton shirt. Clearly, he’d lost his mind, and it was the
first time they’d seen an expression that was even remotely
human on his face.
Seeing that the young newlyweds were standing outside
their gate on the monitor, Caselnes called out to his wife.
“Hey, Mrs. Yang is here.”
“Really? By herself?”
“No, hubby’s with her, too. Although if you ask me, I’m not
sure a commander and his aide make for the most
compatible match.”
“I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Caselnes,
offering her calm assessment. “They’re much too big for the
civilian life. I think settling down would be a mistake for
them. I’m sure they’ll take off to wherever it is they belong
soon enough. Their destiny is out there somewhere.”
“I didn’t realize I’d married a fortune-teller.”
“I’m no fortune-teller. Call it a woman’s intuition.”
Watching his wife saunter off into the kitchen, Caselnes
muttered something under his breath and made for the
foyer to greet their guests. His two daughters skipped
along behind him.
When he opened the door, the Yangs were speaking with
some of the imperial soldiers assigned to the Caselnes
household. To their haughty interrogation about the
purpose of their visit and the contents of their bags, Yang
replied sincerely and with great patience. As the two
Caselnes girls pushed their father lightly aside, the soldiers
saluted and backed down. Yang handed Charlotte Phyllis a
present.
“Give this to your mom. It’s Bavarian cream.”
Now it was Yang who was on the receiving end of
Caselnes’s reprimands when he entered the living room.
“So, I can’t help but notice that you don’t come around
here much anymore.”
“What’s eating you, oh great husband of Madam
Caselnes?”
“Would it kill you to bring over a bottle of cognac from time
to time? What’s with all the girly dishes?”
“Well, if I’m going to kiss up to someone, it’d better be the
one who wears the pants in this family. Last time I checked,
wasn’t it your wife who’s going to all the trouble to make
dinner for us?”
“Man, you’re whipped. Who do you think paid for those
ingredients? Food doesn’t just fall from the sky. No matter
how you slice it, the one who wears the real pants around
here—”
“Is your wife, like I said.”
While the active vice admiral and the retired marshal were
engaged in their light verbal sparring match, Mrs. Caselnes
briskly doled out table-setting instructions to Frederica and
the girls. As Yang watched them with a sidelong glance, he
couldn’t help but think that, in Mrs. Caselnes’s eyes,
Frederica and her two daughters were on the same level of
domesticity.
“I would love to learn more about cooking. You could start
me off with a few basic meat dishes, some seafood dishes,
and then some egg dishes. I was hoping you might show me
the ropes—that is, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Nodding to Frederica’s enthusiastic words, Mrs. Caselnes
answered with a somewhat ambiguous expression on her
face.
“You’re certainly raring to go, Frederica. But there’s no
need to be so systematic about it. Things like cooking
should happen organically. Besides, more important than
providing for your husband is learning how to discipline
him. He’ll walk all over you if you go too soft on him.”
After the Yangs left, Mrs. Caselnes praised Frederica’s
bravery in the strongest possible terms.
“I thought she looked rather composed under the
circumstances. Healthy, too.” Caselnes paused to stroke his
chin, his expression serious. “But if Julian doesn’t come
home soon, he’ll be welcomed back by the corpses of a
young couple who died of malnutrition.”
“Don’t say things like that. It’s bad luck.”
“I was only joking.”
“Jokes are like chili peppers: best used in moderation. You
don’t exactly have the most balanced sense of humor.
Sometimes, you’re not careful and you cross the line. Do it
too much, and others might start taking it the wrong way.”
Alex Caselnes, not yet forty, worked as acting general
manager of rear services, where he was consistently
praised for his competence as a military bureaucrat. But at
home, he was just another wrinkled shirt in need of ironing.
Knowing he was defeated, he lifted his younger daughter
onto his knee, then whispered into the little ear nestled in
her brown hair: “Daddy didn’t lose that one. Knowing when
to back down and make one’s wife look good is the key to
keeping the family peace. You’ll both understand soon
enough.”
He suddenly recalled his wife’s prediction. If Yang took off
into the universe, he would have to think about his own
course of action. His daughter looked curiously at her
father’s face, the calmness of which was now disturbed.

V
Helmut Lennenkamp’s prejudice against Yang Wen-li would
also make a big impression on future historians seduced
into thinking of Yang as a “hero for democracy” and an
“extraordinarily resourceful general.” They would interpret
Yang’s actions more as worshippers than as researchers, as
if his actions were predestined to put him on the path to
greatness. Even his seemingly mediocre retirement, they
concluded, was a farsighted and deeply laid stalling tactic in
anticipation of his ultimate goal to overthrow the empire. To
Yang, it would’ve been an annoying overstatement. Getting
paid even at his young age to live an ordinary life without
having to work was nothing to be praised for. That was
provocation enough to get him back in the game.
Yang did, in fact, have a deeply laid plan. Maybe it was just
a way for him to pass the time, but the details, as conveyed
after the fact by witnesses, went down something like this:
The primary objective of his plan was to rebuild a
republican system of government, unsullied by the
inevitable dangers of a military dictatorship. In the best-
case scenario, he would escape from the Galactic Empire’s
clutches and restore total independence to the Free Planets
Alliance. At the very least, he could aim for a democratic
republic, no matter how large or small in scale. A nation
was the methodological embodiment of the welfare and
republican principles of its people. But it was also more
than that. From time immemorial, those who would deify a
nation parasitized its citizens, and it was pointless to shed
new blood trying to save them. Yang would need to be more
resourceful if he was going to affect lasting change.
With a suitable political system in place, the reconstruction
was to be divided into four parts: A. Fundamental
principles; B. Government; C. Economy; and D. Military.
The entire plan hinged on the integrity of A. A sound
philosophical foundation would determine how much
enthusiasm could be harvested toward rebuilding a
republican government and restoring the people’s political
authority. If the people saw no significance in such a
project, then no amount of planning or scheming would
bear fruit on their already weary limbs. To kick-start the
process, Yang needed either the tyrannical rule of a
despotic government or a charismatic sacrifice. Emotional
and physiological reinforcement would be necessary to
handle the trauma that would result from either scenario.
Were this to be attempted by a purely republican faction,
the situation would more than likely degenerate into
conspiracy. Yang had never subscribed to the constant
mantras around notions of effort. Without patience and
sober action, no amount of even the best-meaning effort
would bring about true and lasting change.
Although B was the direct outcome of A, not only would the
alliance retain autonomy in domestic affairs, but it would
also be possible to organize an anti-imperial faction at the
highest level of administration. Placing someone on the
front lines with experience in both taxation and public
order was preferable to the alternative. In addition, Yang
and his cohort would need to position cooperative workers
both within the empire and the Phezzan Dominion under
direct imperial control. Said workers, especially those who
were intimately linked to the center of the enemy’s
authority, didn’t even need to be aware of their complicity.
In fact, it was better that they weren’t. These were
extremely underhanded tactics, to be sure, but so were
bribery, terrorism, and any number of other methods used
by the most power-hungry players. The only logical
outcomes from such actions were jealousy, animosity, and
betrayal.
In the case of C, more so than in B, cooperation of
Phezzan’s independent merchants was essential. Given that
the alliance was required to pay the empire an annual
security tax of one trillion five hundred billion imperial
reichsmark, there was no hope of finances changing for the
better anytime in the near future. One idea was to loan
money to Phezzanese merchants at high interest rates,
thereby granting mining development privileges and route
priority, but guaranteeing indefinite expansion was no easy
sell. The important thing was to make those merchants
understand it was in their best interest to cooperate with
the republican faction more than with the empire. So long
as they had a stake in industrial nationalization and
monopolization of material-goods-related policies, asking
independent Phezzanese merchants for their cooperation
would be a cakewalk. One reason why great empires of the
ancient world faced uprisings from their own people was
because authorities coveted unjust profits, enforcing
monopolies on the salt necessary for human existence.
Considering this lesson of the past, they would need to give
Phezzan’s merchants appropriate benefits, although this
wasn’t so much of a worry since the rebuilding of a republic
concerned both Phezzan and the alliance.
Only after A through C were completed could D taste the
sweet flavors of reality. At the present stage, there was no
need for a tactical plan. Military rebuilding would yield an
organization responsible for staunching anti-imperial
activities. For this, a core unit would be necessary. And
while the infrastructure was already in place, they still
needed the benefit of military reinforcement. There was
also the matter of who would lead. The self-respecting
Admiral Merkatz had enough character and ability to do
just that, but given his former allegiance to, and recent
defection from, the empire, he couldn’t be trusted to lead a
republican regiment. Admiral Bucock was another
possibility. In either case, further deliberation on the matter
was a tall order.
Underlying all of these was an implicit golden rule:
diminish the enemy and increase the enemies of the enemy,
even if they aren’t allies. Everything was relative.
These were the cornerstones of Yang’s plan, but he had yet
to fit them into a grander scheme on paper. He couldn’t
afford to neglect the competence of High Commissioner
Lennenkamp when it came to maintaining public order, nor
could he leave behind any evidence that would deem him a
traitor under the new dynastic terms.
From first to final movement, the whole notes of this
“Insurrection Symphony” were ordered on the sheet music
of Yang’s brain. Only their composer knew where to pencil
in every tie, slur, and rest. But if Yang was ever asked why
his name didn’t come up in the affairs of military leaders, he
had an answer prepared: “I’m through working. My mind is
spent. At this point, I can only sell the rest of me to a
greater cause. Let them do with me what they will.”
Yang’s plan came down to the all-important task of what he
called “restoring the clan.” As far as he was concerned, the
nation was nothing more than a tool, the purpose of which
depended on the intentions of those wielding it. He’d said
as much to others repeatedly and had even jotted it down
for his own amusement.
Above all, however, he’d managed never to incur the
hatred of Reinhard von Lohengramm. On the contrary, one
might say no one else regarded Yang so highly as his
archnemesis. From Yang’s perspective, Reinhard was a
military genius without equal, an absolute monarch of great
discernment and little self-interest. His government was
impartial, virtuous, and immune to criticism. It wasn’t far-
fetched to think that most people were rather happy with
the prospect of his long reign.
But even as Reinhard brought about universal peace and
prosperity by force of political suggestion, people were
getting used to relinquishing their own political power to
others. Yang couldn’t abide by this. Perhaps it was idealistic
of him, but there had to be a way to broker peace among
the different galactic factions without blindly supporting
even the most well-meaning regime of despotism.
Yang wondered if the good government of a tyrant wasn’t
the sweetest drug when it came to one’s awareness as a
citizen. If people could enjoy peace and prosperity, knowing
that politics were being justly managed without them
having to participate, express themselves, or even think,
who would ever want to get involved with something as
bothersome as politics to begin with? The obvious downside
to such a system was that people grew complacent. No one
ever seemed to exercise their imagination. If the people
were troubled by politics, then so was their ruler. What
happened, for instance, when he lost interest in politics and
began to abuse his limitless power to satisfy his own ego?
By then, it would be too late for anyone to devise a suitable
counterstrategy, for their ingenuity would have already
atrophied beyond the point of no return. A democratic
government was therefore essentially just compared to an
autocratic one.
That said, Yang’s own stake in democratic principles wasn’t
entirely immovable. Yang sometimes found himself musing
that, if change for the better were possible, and humanity
could enjoy the fruits of peace and prosperity indefinitely,
then was there really any use in getting so caught up in the
minutiae of politics? He felt embarrassed thinking back on
his own shameful abstention from voting, when he would
drink himself unconscious on the eve of an election day and
wake up the next night, long after the polls had been
closed. Those were hardly the actions of an honorable man.
 Such self-assessment was necessary when embarking on
something as grand as universal reformation. Most people
would have called this commitment to change nothing less
than “faith.” And while it wasn’t the word Yang would have
used, he would never be able to accomplish anything so
monumental if it required him to see his enemies as
inherently bad people.
Even among future historians were those who thought that
all faith was pardonable. Those same historians would
invariably criticize Yang Wen-li for so often expressing his
contempt for faith:
“Faith is nothing more than a cosmetic used to cover up
the blemishes of indiscretion and folly. The thicker the
cosmetics, the more difficult it is to see the face
underneath.”
“Killing someone in the name of faith is more vulgar than
killing someone for money, for while money has common
value to most people, the value of faith goes no further than
those it concerns.”
As Yang would’ve argued, one needed only to look at
Rudolf the Great, whose faith had destroyed a republican
government and left millions dead, to realize that faith
could be a dangerous virtue. Anytime someone used the
word “faith,” Yang’s respect for that person dropped by 10
percent.
In fact, Yang told his wife, downing his “tea-spiked brandy,”
as someone who was attempting nothing less than
destroying the new order, he was likely to go down as one
of history’s most abhorrent criminals, and Reinhard as
history’s legitimate poster child for greatness.
“No matter how you slice it, the very anticipation of
corruption is reprehensible, because you’re ultimately
taking advantage of other people’s misfortune in order to
tear it down.”
“But aren’t we just waiting it out at this point?” prompted
Frederica.
 She calmly reached for the brandy bottle, but Yang beat
her by a hair.
“Your timing needs work, Lieutenant Commander.”
Yang began pouring more brandy into his tea but, seeing
his wife’s expression, poured only two-thirds of what he’d
intended and capped the bottle, saying apologetically:
“We only desire what the body demands. Eating and
drinking whatever we feel like is best for our health.”
Yang’s point of view may have been broader, and the range
of his sight longer, than most people’s, but he couldn’t
possibly grasp every phenomenon in the universe. For just
as he was settling down into married life, ten thousand
light-years away from home, on the Galactic Imperial
capital planet of Odin, a deployment of punitive forces was
being readied at Reinhard’s command.
I
WHENEVER LIVES WERE irrevocably changed by
circumstances beyond their control, people often dug up
the term “fate” from the graveyards of their memories to
reassure themselves that everything was meant to be.
Julian Mintz, who had yet to turn eighteen, wasn’t old
enough to fully exhume fate from his own mental
graveyard, and he resorted to sleeping in a fetal position
under his bed, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
According to Yang Wen-li, his legal guardian of five years,
fate had “the face of a gnarled old witch”—a natural
sentiment for someone who’d spent eleven years in a
profession he’d never wanted.
Five years ago, Julian had been sent to then-Captain Yang
Wen-li’s house under Travers’s Law, which placed war
orphans in the homes of other soldiers. And when, after
dragging along a trunk that was bigger than he was, he’d
come face-to-face with a black-haired, dark-eyed man who
looked neither like a soldier nor a hero, Julian thought he’d
glimpsed the profile of fate, which in his eyes was fair
complexioned. He never could have imagined how that fate
would change on his trip to Earth.
The cradle of human civilization, which he was seeing for
the first time in his life, emerged on the main screen of the
starship Unfaithful as a dimly colored mass. Of all the
planets Julian had ever seen, he wouldn’t have counted
Earth among the more beautiful. Maybe it was just his
preconception, but the cloudy globe practically broadcast
itself as a planet laid to barren waste.
Over one month since departing from Heinessen, Julian
found himself in the innermost frontier star zone of imperial
territory.
On the occasion of his departure, it was decided that,
between Phezzan and Iserlohn, they would take the former
route. Until just a few days ago, this very sector had been
embroiled in a bloody conflict between the Imperial Navy
and the Alliance Armed Forces. Its militarily strategic
position had played a central part in Iserlohn Fortress
falling into the hands of the Imperial Navy for the first time
in two and a half years. It was currently closed to civilian
vessels.
Every time Julian thought of Iserlohn Fortress, a
disturbance rippled outward along the watery surface of his
emotions. It had been the year SE 796 when his guardian,
Admiral Yang Wen-li, had surrendered Iserlohn, once
believed impregnable, without shedding a single drop of the
blood of his allies. After the alliance’s crushing defeat at the
Battle of Amritsar, Yang had served as commander of both
Iserlohn Fortress and its patrol fleet, and continued to
stand on the front lines of national defense. Julian had
stayed by his side, repairing to Iserlohn. He’d spent two
years on that giant artificial planet, itself sixty kilometers in
diameter and, if you counted both soldiers and civilians,
boasting a population of five million. It was then that he’d
officially become a soldier. It was also where he’d
experienced his first battle. He’d gotten to know many
people, some of whom he’d found himself forever parting
from.
In the hourglass of his life, the most sparkling among those
grains of sand had been plucked from Iserlohn. That this
place, which had brought about qualitatively richer
memories than any other in his mere seventeen years of
existence, had fallen under imperial control was indeed
regrettable. When Iserlohn Fortress had been rendered
powerless by the Imperial Navy’s magnificent strategic
planning, Yang Wen-li had abandoned it without hesitation,
opting instead to guarantee the mobility of his fleet. Yang
had known he’d made the right decision, and even if he
hadn’t, Julian would’ve supported him anyway. Still, Julian
had been astonished at Yang’s audacity, and not for the first
time. Yang’s actions were always surprising in Julian’s eyes.
Unfaithful’s captain, Boris Konev, walked up and stood
next to Julian.
“A pretty gloomy planet, don’t you think?” he said with a
wink.
Konev had transported Julian not merely in his role as
captain. He was a proud former independent merchant of
Phezzan, a childhood playmate of Yang Wen-li, and the
cousin of the Alliance Armed Forces’ ace pilot Ivan Konev,
killed in action. His investment in Julian’s safety was
therefore of multifaceted and utmost priority. Unfaithful
had been originally built as a military transport for the
alliance and had become his property through Caselnes’s
arrangements by way of Yang. He’d wanted to name it after
his beloved Beryozka. Unfortunately, that name came with
far too much baggage to pass through imperial territory
without raising a red flag. Because the ship was illegality
incarnate, they had to keep up appearances as much as
possible. Unfaithful, then, seemed like a worthy
compromise. To Konev, it was a declaration of truth so
obvious that it might just go unnoticed.
Julian felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see
Commander Olivier Poplin, who’d linked up with them
midway through the journey. The young ace smiled at Julian
with his green eyes before turning to the screen.
“So that’s where it all began—the mother planet of the
entire human race, huh?”
An unoriginal thing to say, to be sure, but the ring of
nostalgia in Poplin’s voice wasn’t all that genuine to begin
with. Nearly thirty centuries had passed since Earth had
lost its status as the center of human civilization, and ten
centuries more since the young ace’s ancestors had taken
flight from its surface. The well of sentimentality for Earth
had run dry a long time ago, and far be it from Poplin to
waste any tears in refilling it.
In any case, Poplin hadn’t reunited with Julian out of any
attachment to Earth. He couldn’t care less about an
outdated frontier planet.
“I’ve no interest in seeing a feeble old mother,” he said,
with usual bluntness.
Konev, who’d been consulting with his astrogator, Wilock,
came back to rejoin the conversation.
“We’ll be landing in the northern Himalayas, the usual
drop-off point for pilgrims. You’ll find the Church of Terra’s
headquarters nearby.”
“The Himalayas?”
“Earth’s largest orogenic zone. I know of no safer place for
us to land.”
Konev explained that it had once been an energy supply
center during Earth’s golden age. Establishment of
hydroelectric power from the thaw of alpine snow, solar
power, and geothermal energy sources had been carefully
arrayed so as not to interfere with the natural beauty, all
while supplying light and heat to ten billion people. More
relevantly, shelters for the Global Government’s top brass
had been carved out deep underground.
When the United Anti-Earth Front’s grand forces, blind
with revenge, had plowed their way into the solar system
and assaulted this “proud planet” with everything they had,
the Himalayas, along with military bases and major cities,
had been an epicenter of attack. The flames of a giant
volcanic eruption nine hundred years earlier had increased
their height. Soil, rock, and glaciers had formed a moving
wall, taking down everything man-made in their path. The
Himalayan mountains were a point of Earthly pride,
sometimes even objects of religious worship, but to those
still being abused and rejected in the colonies, they were
nothing but a towering symbol of oppression.
Global Government representatives requested a meeting
with the United Anti-Earth Front’s commander in chief,
Joliot Francoeur, to broker peace. But Francoeur hadn’t
come to beg for mercy. With a pride befitting any legitimate
leader of the entire human race, he explained that
protecting Earth’s honor was the responsibility of every
human being. If they lost sight of that now, then there was
no hope left.
Francoeur’s answer was coldhearted:
“My mother lived in luxury by the fruits of her own labor.
And now, what rights can she claim? The way I see it, you
have two alternatives. To ruin, or to be ruined. The choice is
yours.”
Francoeur told them of his former lover who killed herself
after being raped by an Earth Force soldier. The Global
Government’s representatives were overwhelmed by the
raging violence in his eyes, at a loss for words. Over the
past several centuries, Earthers had planted seeds of
hatred in the hearts of the colonized and by their actions
accelerated the growth of that hatred. Never once had
Earthers showed compassion, let alone entertained the
possibility of compromise.
Dejected, those same representatives committed mass
suicide while on their way home. Beyond having to bear the
responsibility of their failed negotiations, it was the
inevitable banquet of destruction waiting for them back on
Earth that drove them to such extreme measures.
Said banquet lasted for three days. Only after strict orders
came down from United Anti-Earth Front leaders did
Francoeur put an end to the slaughter. Amid whipping
winds and roaring thunder, his youthful face came to
resemble a waterfall as rain and tears of violent emotion
flowed down his cheeks.
Thinking about the amount of blood shed on this small
planet’s surface and the weight of its maledictions sent an
electric current of tension through Julian’s body. Whereas
before he’d always been confronted with questions of an
uncertain future, this time he stood face-to-face with the
undeniably horrific past that was the legacy of everyone
aboard the ship.

II
Julian Mintz’s travel itinerary to Earth was far from linear.
Heading straight for the forsaken planet from Heinessen
was illegal.
Despite having submitted his letter of resignation, as
someone who’d been an officer of the Alliance Armed
Forces until just a few days before, his status as Yang Wen-
li’s dependent was still rather vague from the viewpoint of
the Imperial Navy and alliance government surveilling him.
The fact that Julian and his security guard, Ensign Louis
Machungo, had gotten away safely did little to assuage his
worries about the pressures his escape might’ve placed on
Yang and Frederica.
Yang had risked a lot for Julian’s sake. He’d worked
everything out with the aid of Caselnes and Boris Konev,
procuring a ship and formally registering Julian and
Machungo as crew. And all of this without raising so much
as an eyebrow at either the Imperial Navy or alliance
government. All the while, he would mutter under his
breath things like, “A real father would hardly do as much
for his runaway son.”
Once they’d left Heinessen’s gravitational field, Julian and
the rest of the crew were on their own. The outcome of
their journey hung solely on his discretion and Boris
Konev’s resourcefulness as they ventured into the Church
of Terra’s dark side. If they returned safely, it would be the
first time anyone had succeeded in doing so.
And yet, even with all these meticulous arrangements, the
first hurdle impeding their course appeared before the first
day had even ended when an unexpected signal stopped
everyone aboard Unfaithful in their tracks:
“Halt your ship, or we will open fire.”
The Imperial Navy was possessed of an overwhelming
military power that resonated with the worst of human
instincts. They couldn’t be sure the Imperial Navy wouldn’t
destroy a compliant civilian ship and pass it off as self-
defense.
When Konev was asked if he had any intention of making a
break for it, Julian shook his flaxen-haired head. Who knew
how many inspections they would undergo on their way to
Earth? It was in their best interests to treat each imperial
encounter as the first.
But when Konev did as instructed, the young sublieutenant
who transferred onto their ship to conduct a spontaneous
inspection only asked if they had any young women on
board. When he was met with an unequivocal no, his
expression was that of a child desperate to get his
homework over with.
“I don’t suppose you’re carrying any weapons, habit-
forming substances, or human contraband, either?”
“Of course not,” said Konev. “We’re just humble, fate- and
law-fearing merchants. Feel free to search to your heart’s
content.”
Julian felt as though he’d just witnessed a textbook
illustration of the saying, “Civility is second nature to the
Phezzanese.” Boris Konev was living proof of both its truth
and effectiveness.
Seeing it was useless to make something out of nothing,
the imperial destroyer captain let them off the hook. Free
as he now was to navigate deep into Free Planets Alliance
territory and inspect all vessels registered with the alliance,
he’d only been confirming that fact as a subtle reminder of
his authority to do so. Beginning in the Gandharva star
system, now imperially supervised by terms of the Bharat
Treaty, the destroyer captain and his crew had been under
the command of Senior Admiral Karl Robert Steinmetz.
Steinmetz, as was rare for an imperial admiral at the time,
was concerned for the alliance and was strict about his
subordinates not inflicting unnecessary cruelty upon
civilians under martial law. The inspection came and went
as nothing more than a formality. Nevertheless, Julian
Mintz’s journey was getting off to a rocky start.

Julian reunited with old friends in the Porisoun star zone.

Merkatz’s fleet had been hiding in the half-destroyed,
abandoned supply base of Dayan Khan. Although this
reunion had been planned, any communications regarding
it had been scrambled via cryptocomm waves, allowing
Unfaithful to make a successful approach to Dayan Khan.
Julian cried out with surprise to see a familiar face the
moment he stepped off the ship.
“Commander Poplin!”
“Yo, how’s it hanging, boy? You must have, what, a dozen
girlfriends by now?”
His dark-brown hair and shining green eyes were a
welcome sight. Olivier Poplin, the 28-year-old ace pilot, was
a master of air combat techniques on par with the late Ivan
Konev, and Julian’s single-seat spartanian fighter craft
instructor. He’d followed Admiral Merkatz and the others in
abandoning the alliance, which in their minds had become a
vassal nation under the empire’s terms of peace, and had
been lying low ever since.
“There’s time for that yet, Poplin. But for now, that position
has yet to be filled.”
“I’ll say.” Poplin winked, but got no response. “Man, you’re
no fun. Anyway, how’d everything go back on the home
front? Did our esteemed marshal and Princess Frederica
have their wedding?”
“Yes, a modest one, as you can well imagine.”
Poplin whistled with admiration.
“Our esteemed marshal may have pulled off many
miracles, but none of them compare to shooting an arrow
through Princess Frederica’s heart. Then again, knowing
the strangeness of her proclivities, I bet she stepped right
up to the target.”
Julian was about to ask what all those other lady-killers at
Iserlohn had been doing with themselves, when Admiral
Merkatz and his aide, von Schneider, appeared. Julian took
his leave of Poplin and approached the exiled guest admiral.
After exchanging salutes, Merkatz welcomed the boy with
a warm, if slightly weary, smile. Now over sixty, he was the
very picture of a dignified military man. Although he’d
worked as Yang’s advisor at Iserlohn Fortress, he carried
himself like Yang’s superior.
“Glad to see you made it one piece, Sublieutenant Mintz.
And how is Marshal Yang?”
Julian was out of uniform while Poplin was in his, replete
with black beret. Merkatz and the others wore the silver-
trimmed black of the Imperial Navy. It was a dreary setting,
but at least the officers’ mess was clean and had coffee in
ample supply. After the usual greetings were dispensed
with, von Schneider sat upright.
“For the moment, we have sixty ships. Not nearly enough
for a fleet, and far from war ready.” Von Schneider’s
expression was stern. “It was the most Admiral Yang could
arrange for us and still evade imperial detection. We’re
truly grateful, of course, but numbers equal power. Given
the present circumstances, we have the resources to
mobilize a patrol fleet of one hundred ships at most. The
fact that Admiral Yang sent you here can only mean one
thing: he has something up his sleeve that he’s not telling
us.”
Von Schneider stopped there, looking at Merkatz and
Julian.
“About that,” said Julian, “I have a verbal message from
Admiral Yang, so I will convey it to you in kind.”
Julian cleared his throat and righted his posture, taking
care to relay the message verbatim.
“According to Article 5 of the Bharat Treaty, the Alliance
Armed Forces are required to dispose of any and all
remaining battleships and carriers. Accordingly, 1,820 ships
are slated to be decommissioned on July 16 in the Lesavik
sector.”
Julian repeated the date and the location before
concluding:
“I trust that Merkatz’s independent fleet will make the
best of the situation. End of message.”
“I see. Make the best of the situation? Say no more.”
A broad smile came to Merkatz’s lips. Von Schneider
looked at him with interest because the officer he deeply
respected seemed to have gotten more in touch with his
sense of humor since the exile.
“Very well, then,” concluded von Schneider. “But does
Admiral Yang have any insights as to how the situation
might change after this?”
“Admiral Yang didn’t tell me what was on his mind, but you
can be sure he doesn’t want to be a hermit all his life,”
answered Julian.
Or does he? Julian thought.
 “I think Yang is waiting it out. He once said something to
me: ‘There’s no point in setting fire to the fields during the
rainy season, when the dry season is sure to come.’ ”
Had the imperial high commissioner, Senior Admiral
Lennenkamp, been privy to this information, his suspicions
would’ve hit their expected target. Either way, Yang was a
dangerous character, and Lennenkamp most certainly had
the foresight to know that.
Next to a nodding Merkatz, von Schneider remembered
something.
“Julian, I heard Lennenkamp has been dispatched from the
empire as commissioner.”
“You heard correctly. I take it you’re familiar with the man,
Commander von Schneider?”
“His Excellency Merkatz knows more about him than I do.
Isn’t that right, Your Excellency?”
Merkatz put a hand to his chin, choosing his words
carefully.
“An excellent military man, make no doubt about it. Loyal
to his superiors, fair to his men. But if he takes even one
step outside his uniform, he might not be able to see the
forest for the trees.”
Julian understood this to mean he was shortsighted, but he
nonetheless felt a shadow of uneasiness stretching toward
Yang and his new bride. Yang wasn’t exactly popular among
military supremacist types.
“Julian, did Admiral Yang give you any indication of how
long we are to wait?”
“Yes, he said about five or six years.”
“Five or six years? Come to think of it, I guess we will need
that much time. At the very least, it should be enough to
make a dent in the Lohengramm Dynasty.”
Merkatz gave a deep nod.
“Can’t we expect something unusual to happen in the
interim, though?”
Julian’s question made Merkatz think as he’d intended it
to. Over time, the former imperial veteran had come to hold
Julian’s strategic awareness in high regard.
“I predict—let’s say, hope—that nothing happens. Too
much has gone down to bring us to this point. There are
still many preparations to be made. If we’re too careless in
flying a flag against the empire, one impatient step forward
could set us two back.”
Merkatz’s words made an indelible impression in the clay
of Julian’s memory.
“Memos and such are entirely unnecessary,” Yang once
told Julian. “Anything you’ve ever forgotten wasn’t all that
important to begin with. In this world, there are only those
things we remember, which are sometimes the worst, and
those things we forget, which don’t matter to us at all.
That’s why memos are unnecessary.”
And yet, Yang never went anywhere without his notebook.
Seeing as they had ten hours until departure, Julian was
encouraged to take a nap in Poplin’s room, which looked
like a burglar had just ransacked it. Its tenant was busy
packing, whistling to himself all the while.
When Julian asked what he was doing, the young ace
winked at him.
“I’m going with you.”
“You are?!”
“Don’t worry. Admiral Merkatz gave me the go-ahead.” His
green eyes glittered jovially. “You know, I wonder if there’ll
be any women on Earth.”
“I should think so.”
“Duh, I’m not talking mere biological females, but good,
mature women who understand a man’s worth.”
“Well, I can’t make any promises there,” said Julian with
natural prudence.
“Hmm, oh well. Honestly, I’m so far gone that I’d settle for
any biological female right now. Have you noticed there are
hardly any women around here? I never thought that far
ahead when I signed up for this hitch. Joke’s on me, I
guess.”
“I feel your pain.”
“Not cute, man. Every word you say rubs more salt into the
wound. When you first came to Iserlohn Fortress, you were
like a porcelain doll.”
“But if you come with me to Earth, Commander, what will
all those pilots do without you?” With nonchalant high-
handedness, Julian had tilted the conversational mirror
back in Poplin’s direction.
“I’ll leave them all to Lieutenant Caldwell. It’s about time
he stood on his own as a commander. The way he relies on
me for everything, he’ll never grow up otherwise.”
It was a sound argument, but Julian thought that relying
on the one expressing it was more problematic than the
argument itself. By the same token, Julian wasn’t so
emotionally obtuse as to downplay Poplin’s concerns, which
he concealed with good humor.
“Just don’t blame me if we don’t find any beautiful women
on Earth.”
“Then you’d better pray there are scores of man-starved
beauties waiting with bated breath for our arrival.”
Just then, Poplin’s eyes widened. He clapped Julian on the
shoulder and brought him to the spartanian loading zone.
“Corporal von Kreutzer!”
In response to Poplin’s voice, a fully suited pilot came
running over. The pilot, who was of small frame, had a face
that was hard to make out from all the backlight.
“This one could very well be the next Ivan Konev, if not the
next Olivier Poplin. Hey, why don’t you take off your helmet
and greet our guest. This here’s Sublieutenant Mintz, the
one I’ve been telling you about.”
The helmet came off to reveal a full head of luxurious black
tea–colored hair. A pair of indigo eyes looked directly into
Julian’s own.
“Corporal Katerose von Kreutzer, at your service. I’ve
heard a lot about you from Commander Poplin,
Sublieutenant Mintz.”
“Pleased to meet you,” answered Julian, but only after
Poplin nudged him with an elbow. He was dumbstruck, for
this teenage pilot, beyond the measure of Poplin’s praise,
had done something wholly unexpected. With one flick of
her indigo eyes, Katerose looked away from Julian at the
ace pilot.
“I need to have a word with the mechanics. If you’ll excuse
me?”
Poplin nodded. The girl vigorously saluted and turned on a
heel. Her actions were brisk and rhythmical.
“I know, she’s quite a knockout. But I’ll tell you straight,
I’ve never laid a hand on her. I draw the line at fifteen-year-
olds.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“Women are like wine. They need time to mature to their
fullest-bodied flavor. If only Karin were two years older.”
“Karin?”
“That’s my little pet name for Katerose. How about it?
You’re both at that cheeky age. I think you should go for it.
Talk to her.”
With a bitter smile, Julian shook his flaxen-haired head.
“She didn’t seem to notice me at all. Anyway, there’s no
time for that.”
“Then make her notice you. And make the time to do so.
You were born with that baby face, so use it. Yang is that
one-in-a-million exception who can just laze around and
have a beautiful woman throw herself into his lap.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. By the way, from her name, I take it
she’s an imperial refugee?”
“You may be right, but she rarely talks about her family.
There must be something going on there. Why not ask her
yourself if you want to know so badly? Lesson one, my
unworthy disciple.”
Poplin clapped Julian on the shoulder and smiled. Julian
tilted his head to the side. Hundreds, if not thousands, of
portraits hung in the corridors of his memory, but in
Katerose he’d sensed a perfect match. For reasons he
couldn’t explain, seeing that girl’s face had struck him with
déjà vu.
Admiral Merkatz and his aide, von Schneider, as well as
the commander of the notorious Rosen Ritter regiment,
Captain Rinz, watched from the control room as Unfaithful
made its departure. It was a sober parting, with no
guarantee of a return.
“Before July rolls around, we must finalize plans for
reclaiming our battleships.”
“Yes, I agree.”
But Merkatz was focusing on something deeper within.
“Von Schneider, my role in all of this is to preserve our
military strength in preparation for the future. Most likely,
the sun of that future will rise not for me, but for someone
younger who doesn’t drag the heavy shadow of the past
behind him.”
“You mean Admiral Yang Wen-li?” asked von Schneider.
Merkatz didn’t answer, and neither did von Schneider
expect him to. Both knew better than to speak in
hypotheticals.
They returned their attention to the screen as the
independent merchant ship Unfaithful disappeared silently
into a high tide of stars. They continued to stand before the
screen long after the ship was impossible to distinguish
from the innumerable points of light surrounding it.

III
Boris Konev, captain of Unfaithful, would turn thirty that
year. His legal status was secretary of the Free Planets
Alliance commissioner’s office occupied by the Phezzan
Dominion, but that status had been in limbo ever since the
autonomy of Phezzan had been compromised. Under any
other circumstance, he might’ve been overcome with
uneasiness.
But Konev wasn’t in the least bit discouraged or
embarrassed. For one thing, he was still alive, and the laws
he was subject to were just the shading of a line drawing.
“We’ll be entering Earth’s atmosphere in one hour,” he
announced to his modest crew. “Once we land, my work will
be half-finished. While on Earth, be sure to stay clear of
danger and misfortune. Transporting dead bodies is
miserable work, and I’m in no mood for it.”
Konev let out an incongruous laugh.
“You’ll be posing as Church of Terra pilgrims. You’ll likely
feel out of place, but only because it’s extremely unnatural
for anyone other than pilgrims to come all this way.”
Julian voiced his assent, while Poplin only laughed, saying
he was more than aware of that fact. During their journey,
he and the ship’s captain often looked at each other
askance, exchanging cynical bons mots before and after
meals. The young ace went so far as to say he had a natural
aversion to anyone with the last name Konev.
“What’s the current population of Earth?”
“Approximately ten million, according to Phezzan’s trade
bureau data. Not even 0.1 percent of the total population
during its golden age.”
“And are they all Church of Terra followers?”
“Hard to say.”
Regardless of scale, the fact that one denomination had
managed to seize full planetary control and bring about a
unity of church and state didn’t leave much room for
religious freedom. Otherwise, nonbelievers would have set
up their own social systems. Such was Konev’s supposition.
“Religion is a convenient tool for those in power and
ensures that all hardships are rooted not in politics or
flawed authority, but in unbelief. Revolution is furthest from
the mind of anyone who buys into that ideology.” Boris
Konev spat out those words with overt malice. Although
he’d managed to avoid selling his ship through the income
he made transporting Church of Terra believers to the holy
land, he’d had his fair share of disagreeable passengers. He
sensed a certain naïveté in radical believers but had zero
sympathy for the religious leaders who exploited those
believers for personal gain.
“I hear that the Church of Terra’s leader is an old man
known as the Grand Bishop,” said Julian, “but have you ever
met him?”
“I’m not so important as to get inside access. Even given
the chance, I’d have no interest in meeting him. Maybe it’s
pride talking, but I’ve never found pleasure in listening to
the preaching of old men.”
“The Grand Bishop or whatever that old man’s called,”
Poplin interjected, “must have some beautiful daughters or
granddaughters.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it. And they’re bound to fall head over heels
for the young rebel hero.”
Now it was Boris Konev’s turn to laugh with scorn.
“I think our Commander Poplin should be a teleplay writer
for children’s solivision dramas. Then again, children are
growing up faster than ever these days and might not be all
that impressed by something so formulaic.”
“But don’t you know that formulaic stories deal with
eternal truths?”
Julian’s guard, the dark giant Ensign Louis Machungo,
offered his own opinion with a smile:
“But if such an austere religious leader were to get
married and have daughters, how could that religious
organization exist in the first place, I wonder?”
Poplin knitted his eyebrows, and Konev nodded with
satisfaction.
“Be that as it may…”
Poplin folded his arms, his eyebrows still knitted.
“The way I see it, whatever those Church of Terra folks
profess to love isn’t Earth itself.”
The legacy of Earth entailed controlling those living on
other planets by monopolizing political and military
influence, and by the fruits of its own labors. That’s what
the Church of Terra loved.
“They’re only using Earth as a pretext for what they really
want, which is to restore the privileges once enjoyed by
their ancestors. If they really loved their planet, then why
involve themselves in wars and power struggles at all?”
Maybe Poplin was right, thought Julian. Although he wasn’t
trying to disavow religion, there was something immoral
about any religious organization desirous of political
authority. Controlling people not only on the outside but
also on the inside was the worst totalitarianism imaginable,
and the Church of Terra had done its utmost to achieve its
current monopoly in both realms. All too often, people
accepted a completely uniform existence by overcoming
diversity of value systems and individual tastes. Those who
professed to be God or divine representatives wielded the
power to kill those who didn’t believe. They couldn’t just sit
around and wait for such an age to come.

On July 10, Julian set foot on Earth’s soil. No one could have
predicted that it would be the same day on which the
galactic imperial council would decide to take Earth by
force.
I
AS THE ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF Emperor
Reinhard was unfolding on Odin, the Twin Ramparts of the
Imperial Navy, marshals Oskar von Reuentahl and Wolfgang
Mittermeier, were away from the imperial capital on their
own respective missions. The former, as secretary-general
of Supreme Command Headquarters, was conducting a
domestic fortress inspection, while the latter, as
commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada, was
overseeing the military exercises of newly built ships and
fresh recruits in the Jötunheimr star system.
An urgent message prompted both men to return to the
capital at once. They were beyond surprised, livid over the
fact that the emperor’s life had fallen prey to such a
cunning scheme. That an imperial council was convened
only after they’d returned showed just how highly the
emperor held them in his esteem.
Meanwhile, the Ministry of Defense was busy reorganizing
all military districts under its jurisdiction. The solar system
that included Earth was set to be assigned to the ninth
military district, which for the moment existed only on
paper, having neither headquarters nor commander to its
name. The Galactic Empire was notorious for having an
uneven distribution of military power at its center, the fleets
it normally used for foreign campaigns setting out in grand
formations from the capital of Odin. Reinhard had ordered
their reorganization to free himself of excess
authoritarianism.
Once the recalibration of military districts was complete, it
would become the responsibility of the secretary-general of
Supreme Command Headquarters to oversee them. The
secretary-general would also be taking on the job of
commander in chief of domestic forces. Von Reuentahl’s
responsibilities were enormous, to be sure, if only
on paper.
The relationship between secretary of defense Marshal von
Oberstein and secretary-general of Supreme Command
Headquarters Marshal von Reuentahl was far from honey-
sweet. They politely avoided making eye contact with one
another, speaking and listening only as they felt was
necessary. Sometimes emotions got the better of them, and
their exchanges of cynicism and blame became as heated as
physical altercations, despite the fact that the secretary of
defense was technically the secretary-general’s superior. As
much as they hated each other, however, neither von
Oberstein nor von Reuentahl could deny the other’s
strengths. Von Reuentahl was renowned as a general of
both wisdom and courage who always preferred reason
over sentiment in formal settings. Von Oberstein, on the
other hand, a man so sharp and coolheaded that he was
said to be “sculpted out of dry ice,” was thought of as an
empty shell devoid of emotion. And while he was clearly
prejudiced, he never made any effort to dispel his
prejudices. On that front, at least, no one could blame him
for wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Von Reuentahl had become close friends with the Gale
Wolf after sharing so much in the way of death with him in
the battlespace and saving each other’s lives. Not even an
elevation in rank had any adverse effect on their tight
connection. About von Oberstein, Mittermeier avoided the
usual slander—“that cold-blooded son of a bitch von
Oberstein,” “that merciless von Oberstein,” and the like—
but said quite simply, and in a tone which, like his swift and
determined tactics, no one could imitate, “That damned von
Oberstein.”

Aside from these three, others who attended the July 10

imperial council were Secretary of the Interior Osmayer,
chief of the Domestic Safety Security Bureau Lang, military
police commissioner Senior Admiral Kessler, and Chief
Cabinet Secretary Meinhof, along with Senior Admirals
Müller, Mecklinger, Wahlen, Fahrenheit, Wittenfeld, and von
Eisenach, as well as senior imperial aide von Streit and
secondary aide von Rücke. Including the emperor himself,
that made for a total of sixteen. Secretary of state Count
von Mariendorf, father to chief imperial secretary Hilda,
was still under house arrest, and so the chief cabinet
secretary was serving as his proxy.
Reinhard would never be happy without his two most
trusted men at the imperial council. Despite being a
monarch in the absolute sense, there were times when he
had to hide his discomfort. Hilda’s absence bothered him
above all. Although he’d had other private secretaries
before her, some lacked follow-through despite their loyalty,
while others had blatantly sucked up to him as a means of
furthering their own plans for success.
A dispatch to Earth was unanimously approved by the
council, although individual differences arose regarding the
pros and cons of the deployment. This wasn’t a matter to be
taken lightly, and so Lang, chief of the Domestic Safety
Security Bureau, requested a short recess to consider the
matter further. Since the Church of Terra’s true motives
were still unclear, Lang expected a dispatch of troops to be
successful only after a detailed investigation and private
inquiry were conducted. The emperor laughed at the mere
suggestion.
“Stop skirting around the issue. The Church of Terra’s
rancor is already obvious, so what possible need could
there be for any further investigation and inquiry?”
“I see your point, but—”
“And are you so sure you’ve made no slipups in your own
investigations of those cultists so far?”
“Again, I see your point.”
Lang robotically blurted out his artless answers.
“Which means they will recognize no authority other than
that of their God. Rather, any investigation will tell us the
same thing: namely, that the church wouldn’t so much as
hesitate to violently eliminate anyone standing in their way.
If they have no interest in coexisting inside the new system,
then I see no reason not to let them martyr themselves for
their beliefs. I could show them no greater mercy.”
Lang blushed and bowed to the emperor’s decision, which
superseded his meager bureaucratic judgment.
Whenever Emperor Reinhard stirred in his seat, his lion’s
mane of golden hair bobbed magnificently. With every flick,
some would write, it was as if a plume of gold dust were
being scattered in the air. But to his attendant, Emil von
Selle, sitting patiently against the wall behind him, such
descriptions were no exaggeration. The fourteen-year-old
now lived at court and had been given all he needed to
study medicine while seeing to the young emperor’s needs.
No one saw anything wrong in granting him this privilege.
Emil knew better than to let his ardently revered lord
down.
“As His Majesty has rightfully stated, we cannot expect to
coexist with the Church of Terra’s followers,” said the
orange-haired Senior Admiral Wittenfeld. “It’s about time
we gave those insurgents the punishment they deserve, if
only to demonstrate the extent of our will and might.”
“Shall we go ahead and demonstrate that to its fullest
extent, then?”
“Yes, let’s do just that. And I would be honored if Your
Majesty would grant me the honor of doing so.”
But the emperor shook his head and laughed slightly.
“Deploying the Schwarz Lanzenreiter to take over a single
frontier planet would be overkill. I would have you stand
down this time, Wittenfeld.”
After silencing the reluctant general, Reinhard cast his
gaze to another.
“Wahlen!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Your orders are as follows: Take your fleet and head for
the Terran solar system. There, you will suppress the
Church of Terra’s headquarters.”
“Understood!”
“You are to apprehend their founder and any other
religious leaders you can find. You will then escort them
back to the capital. As for the rest, kill them for all I care.
Whatever you do, do not lay a hand on those unaffiliated
with the church. Not that I would expect any nonbelievers
to be hanging around on Earth.”
Had Boris Konev been in attendance in the imperial
council’s lowest seat, he would have applauded the
emperor’s insightful plan.
Wahlen stood up from his seat and bowed reverently to the
emperor.
“I am beyond honored to have been given this great
responsibility. Rest assured, I will destroy those Church of
Terra insurgents, arrest their leaders, and make them
realize the true meaning of Your Majesty’s sanctity and
lawful providence.”
 The golden-haired emperor nodded, lightly lifting a hand
to signal adjournment. The dispatch to Earth was now in
the hands of those doing the actual grunt work.

No organization exists without inconsistencies and internal

strife, and even the newly birthed Lohengramm Dynasty
had a run in its stocking when it came to spearheading
domestic safety in the wake of the Kümmel Incident.
Between the military police force and the Domestic Safety
Security Bureau, a dangerous antagonism had been making
waves. Military police commissioner Senior Admiral Kessler
and chief of the Domestic Safety Security Bureau Lang
were too different in temperament to achieve any sort of
accord. The former was a military leader, the latter a
newcomer with no achievements to speak of. But Lang had
been chief of secret police since the former dynasty had
been in power, and as such had earned his position as one
of secretary of defense Marshal von Oberstein’s closest
confidants. Moreover, the organization known as the
Domestic Safety Security Bureau was itself part of the
Bureau of Internal Affairs. There was no way that Secretary
of the Interior Osmayer, whose job it was to oversee
domestic safety, was going to watch his own authority being
infringed upon and the established bureaucracy thrown
into disorder.
Thus, Secretary of the Interior Osmayer and military police
commissioner Kessler maintained a tacit connection,
deepening covert opposition between Secretary of Defense
von Oberstein and chief of the Domestic Safety Security
Bureau Lang.
After young Emil brought in coffee and withdrew, Secretary
of Defense von Oberstein sought an immediate audience
with the emperor. Although that in and of itself wasn’t a
rare thing, von Oberstein took Reinhard by surprise when
he asked his sovereign to give the matter of marriage some
serious thought. For a moment, Reinhard’s expression
waxed boyish, and then a bitter smile played across his
graceful face.
“Count von Mariendorf said the same thing. Is my not
having a spouse really that unusual? You’re fifteen years
older than me. Aren’t you the one who should be settling
down?”
“No one will mourn the loss of the Oberstein name. But not
so with the Lohengramm royal line. So long as the dynasty
continues to uphold justice and stability, its people will pay
for its continuation with their own blood if they have to, and
it would bring them much joy should Your Majesty marry
and produce an heir.”
These terms, laid out for the emperor’s sake, had real
worth for von Oberstein as well. He went on:
“But once the empress’s father and older brothers—which
is to say, the heir’s maternal relatives—boast vainly of your
honor by association, wielding your authority as if it were
their own, it will bring great harm to the nation.
Throughout ancient history, there have been many cases of
an emperor doing in the entire family of his new bride upon
marrying her, to strike at the root of evil before it sprouts. I
only ask that you please bear that in mind.”
Reinhard’s eyes were filled with ice-blue brilliance. Had
any subordinate other than the secretary of defense said
what von Oberstein just had, no doubt lightning would have
struck that person down. But the trust between them was
such that von Oberstein would be taken as seriously as he
spoke freely.
“If I’m not mistaken, it would seem you’re opposed to one
person in particular wearing the empress’s tiara. But don’t
you think it’s an inappropriate subject to bring up before a
single candidate for empress has yet to be decided?”
“I know it’s premature.”
“So, it would be extremely awkward if the empress were to
become second to the emperor, politically speaking? Is that
what you’re thinking?”
Had von Reuentahl or Mittermeier been there to witness
this conversation, they would surely have been on the edges
of their seats. They knew firsthand what it felt like to be a
target of Reinhard’s scathing criticism.
Von Oberstein, for his part, was unfazed.
“Your Majesty discerns well.”
“But if I marry, a child will be born.”
“That’s a good thing, of course, because it will
systematically guarantee the continuation of the dynasty.”
Reinhard clicked his tongue sharply and stroked his
youthful face. This gave him an idea, prompting him to
change the subject.
“Count von Mariendorf and his daughter are still under
house arrest?”
“Seeing as they’re directly related to that traitor von
Kümmel, it’s only a matter of course. Were we living under
the Goldenbaum Dynasty, the entire family would’ve been
executed or banished by now.”
Reinhard wound a finger around the pendant hanging
from his neck.
“In other words, not only does the Church of Terra have
aims on my life, but it also wants to take away my
indispensable secretary of state and chief imperial
secretary?” Reinhard’s private emotions and public
authority had been wounded enough. “I see no further
point in keeping them under house arrest! As of tomorrow,
father and daughter von Mariendorf are to be released and
reinstated to their full official capacities.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing. I forbid anyone to blame the von
Mariendorfs for this foolish incident. Anyone who
purposefully goes against my prohibition on this matter
must prepare to be punished for insubordination.”
The absolute monarch’s intentions towered over national
law and people’s emotions alike. Von Oberstein bowed his
head deeply and accepted the young emperor’s
incontrovertible will. Reinhard locked his ice-blue gaze on
von Oberstein, and turned his tall, elegant figure around,
his voice and expression extinguished.

By the time von Oberstein returned to his office at the

defense ministry, a report, sent directly from the resident
high commissioner’s office without going through
Lennenkamp, was waiting for him:
“The commissioner has ordered an intensification of
surveillance of Marshal Yang Wen-li. There is reason to
believe Yang has close connections with antigovernment
movements within the alliance.”
Upon receiving the report from the defense ministry’s
Bureau of Investigations director, Commodore Anton
Ferner, secretary of defense Marshal von Oberstein
narrowed his artificial eyes.
“The masses need a hero to unify them. It’s only natural
that the alliance’s extremists and fundamentalists would
idolize Yang Wen-li. Without him, they have no rallying
point.”
“Lennenkamp? I wonder…”
“Do you think we should let this slide? Even if Marshal
Yang has no intention of rebelling at present, so long as he
has primary color paints at his disposal, at some point he
will make a mess of the canvas.”
Even though Ferner had found von Oberstein in a
heartless mood, he saw the secretary of defense as an
invaluable asset who’d exhibited no signs of erosion from
the recent tide of events. The secretary of defense turned to
his subordinate with indifference, showing no malice.
“Let’s stay out of it for now. Lennenkamp especially hates it
when people intrude on his authority.”
“Yes, but, Your Excellency Secretary, if Commissioner
Lennenkamp is too careless in dealing with the alliance’s
golden boy, Marshal Yang, the grassroots alliance
resistance against the empire might just get out of hand.
The bigger a fire gets, the more difficult it is to put it out.”
Commodore Ferner’s voice had the slightest affectation of
an actor reciting his lines. This time, there was something
other than indifference in von Oberstein’s discernment.
“I’ve exceeded my brief. Please, strike what I just said.”
Now that Ferner had recognized his mistake, von
Oberstein dismissed him with a wave of his bony hand.
Ferner left with a bow. He couldn’t help but guess the
defense secretary’s innermost thoughts.
Did von Oberstein have something planned for Marshal
Yang? Like burying a magnet in the sand and coming up
with small bits of metal, he was covertly rallying the
alliance’s anti-imperial diehards and democratic
fundamentalists around Yang. And what then? What was
the pretext behind executing Yang? Was it to eradicate
distress from the empire’s future? Or was it to expand the
influence of fanatical Yang supporters to bring about a rift
in the anti-imperial forces? If he managed to encourage
internal conflict and mutually destroy both sides from
within, the empire’s hands would remain clean in their grab
for alliance territory.
But will things really develop as the defense secretary
expects them to? Ferner thought to himself.
In the realm of the battlespace, Yang Wen-li excelled at
playing the resourceful general who could drive even a
military genius like Emperor Reinhard into a corner. With
neither fleet nor soldiers, was Yang Wen-li in fact resigned
to being an ingredient in Marshal von Oberstein’s dish?
Didn’t cornered rats always throw themselves upon the cats
chasing them? If so, then Lennenkamp was sure to get
bitten first. A trivial pity.
“In any case, this will be something to watch. Whether the
defense secretary’s will will be done, whether the current
peace will come to define an age, or whether this is just the
eye of the storm, history is at a crossroads. Every decision
from this point forward will have dramatic ramifications.”
Ferner curled the corners of his mouth into a cynical smile.
As a staff officer of the former high noble army, he’d plotted
to assassinate Reinhard. Not out of animosity, but out of
faith to his position. That fateful night, Reinhard had
allowed him to act as his subordinate and under von
Oberstein primarily marked achievements in strategic
planning and office management. He wasn’t a person of
lawless ambition, but as a spectator, he clearly enjoyed
unrest over peace, for he was possessed of a strange
confidence that, by his own ability and dynamism, he could
survive any situation.

Von Oberstein turned toward his empty office with an

inorganic glint in his eye.
Whatever a lord lacked, his retainers had to make up for.
To von Oberstein, the Lohengramm Dynasty and Emperor
Reinhard constituted an opus worth betting one’s life on. It
was incomparable in rapidity and in the beauty of its theme,
but von Oberstein took issue with its durability, or lack
thereof.

In a salon of the Mariendorf residence, the count and his

daughter were sitting on sofas, watching the languid dance
of time go by.
“I don’t feel any pity for Heinrich,” said Hilda to her father.
“For a few minutes, he stood proudly on that stage as the
lead actor in a production of his own making. I have a
feeling that he purposefully chose that location to pour his
life into one final performance…”
“Performance, you say?”
Her father’s voice was intelligent, if devoid of vitality.
“I don’t believe that Heinrich had any intention of
assassinating His Majesty. Leaving aside why the Church of
Terra convinced him to attempt such a heinous act, he took
on the dishonor of being called an assassin just to have
those last few minutes of his life.”
Thinking about it in such a way only somewhat placated
her father’s grief. Hilda knew that her father, who’d never
sired a son, had always felt a certain affection for his feeble
nephew. But now Hilda wondered if her own thoughts
hadn’t caught the sleeve of truth. Baron Heinrich von
Kümmel had refused a gradual death and had chosen to
gather his meager life savings and burn the powder of his
short existence in a flash of radiance. Hilda couldn’t bring
herself to see this as a great act. Then again, there was
probably no other way for Heinrich to have purified the
violent envy and jealousy he felt toward Reinhard.
Hilda reached out her hand and picked up the bell on the
table, intending to ask her butler Hans for some coffee. But
the fair-complexioned and broad-shouldered Hans
appeared before the bell had even made a sound.
“My lady,” the butler announced in a high voice. “There’s a
visiphone call for you directly from the imperial palace. The
man on the screen has introduced himself as von Streit, and
he would like to share some good news. Please come to the
visiphone room at once.”
As Hilda returned the unrung bell to the table, she stood
up with the sprightly movement of a boy. Hilda had been
expecting good news. The young golden-haired emperor
couldn’t very well banish Count von Mariendorf and his
daughter from the court forever. Neither could she help but
predict that the imperial court would show one side of its
thorny crown sooner or later.
Hilda had to protect her father and herself so as not to
give secretary of defense Marshal von Oberstein’s hunting
dogs a scent trail to follow.
“Did they really think I’d give in so easily?” she muttered
while making her way down the hallway.
Hans looked over his shoulder with a dubious glance.
“Is something the matter, my lady?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just talking to myself.”
Even as she said these words, Hilda caught herself
wondering whether the typical noblewoman would’ve kept
her mouth shut. She hit her head of short, dull-blond hair
lightly with her fist. Why should she care at all about how
other women carried themselves at court? It was unlike her
to think of such things.

II
Happiest of all about Count Franz von Mariendorf and Hilda
having their house arrest lifted was Marshal Wolfgang
Mittermeier.
“Who does that damned von Oberstein think he is
anyway?” he said to his wife, Evangeline. “Entire families
pleading guilty to treasonous crimes, regardless of
complicity, is an outdated custom that ended the moment
this dynasty began. I can think of no better candidate for
empress than Hilda. If the two of them produced an heir,
you can be sure he’d grow up to be one sagacious prince.
Wouldn’t that be something?”
“I suppose, but all that matters in the end is how they feel
about each other.”
Evangeline kept her husband’s impertinence in check,
turning her head to the side in that birdlike way he loved.
At twenty-six, she had no children, the innocence she had
when they were first married almost entirely untarnished.
As ever, the way she managed the household had a musical
rhythm to it that pleased Mittermeier to no end.
“I didn’t take your hand in marriage because you were a
capable military officer with a promising future. It was for
who you were, and still are, my dear.”
“If I’d known that, I might’ve been more suave when I
proposed. I didn’t know much back then…”
The chime on their home computer indicated a visitor.
Evangeline left the salon with that cadence in her step he
so adored and soon came back to announce that Admiral
von Reuentahl had come to see him.
Oskar von Reuentahl had visited the Mittermeier residence
much less often than Mittermeier had visited his, and so his
presence told him something serious was going on.
Although he saw families and marriage through the dark
lenses of extreme prejudice, he always adhered to etiquette
when stepping foot inside a friend’s home. He also
presented a bouquet of flowers to the woman of the house
out of sheer politeness.
As Evangeline Mittermeier put that evening’s jonquils into
a vase and brought in a plate of homemade sausage and
cottage cheese to her husband’s guest, the Twin Ramparts
of the Imperial Navy were already watering their own
flowers of conversation with wine.
 Having no interest in being privy to this male bonding
session, Mrs. Mittermeier put down the dish and left with
the name “Trünicht” riding her ear.
“A man like Job Trünicht is sure to go down in history as an
extraordinary salesman,” said von Reuentahl with disdain.
“Salesman, you say?”
“Yes. First, he sold the Free Planets Alliance and his
democracy over to the empire. And now, the Church of
Terra. Every time he rolls out a new product, history
changes. He’s right up there with the Phezzanese
merchants.”
“I suppose you’re right. He is a top-notch salesman. But as
a buyer,
he leaves a lot to be desired. He buys only contempt and
vigilance.
Who would respect him? All he does is sell off his own
character by the piece.”
The secretary-general of Supreme Command
Headquarters gave an unpleasant smile.
“You speak correctly, Mittermeier. He doesn’t need the
respect or love of others to live. His stalks may be thick, but
his roots run deep. He’s like a parasitic plant.”
“A parasite indeed.”
The two famed generals fell into silence for no apparent
reason.
Onetime commander of the Alliance Armed Forces’
Iserlohn Fortress, Admiral Yang Wen-li, had been keenly
aware of Trünicht’s enslavement to a fear and hatred that
went beyond the limits of common sense. Although not
quite so serious, von Reuentahl and Mittermeier came to
the same conclusion.
“We can’t just write him off as a mean bastard, either. He’s
far from a common man, in the worst sense. We’ll just have
to keep an eye on him, either way.”
At this point, while making not insignificant contributions
to the development of the Lohengramm Dynasty, when it
came to lack of respect and goodwill, there was no one
quite like Trünicht. Even Marshal von Oberstein, although
not particularly well liked, had at least become an object of
reverence. But Trünicht was utterly lacking in popularity.
Echoes of his tainted legacy were still being felt throughout
the Free Planets Alliance, and likely would be for a long
time to come.
After suppressing the alliance capital of Heinessen and
facing Trünicht for the first time, Oskar von Reuentahl’s
attitude was one of extreme indifference, while Wolfgang
Mittermeier’s eyes danced with conspicuous animosity. Of
course, Hilda had no choice but to deal with Trünicht in the
two admirals’ stead, but it was entirely impossible to look
with favor upon any politician who would sell his own
country and people in exchange for something so petty and
fleeting as personal security.
Evangeline brought in some of her homemade chicken
aspic, announcing that Mittermeier’s subordinate Karl
Eduard Bayerlein had come to visit. The brave young
general appeared in the doorway, his usual enthusiastic self.
“Your Excellency, I had some business nearby, so I hope
you don’t mind my stopping by. Plus, I caught wind of an
odd rumor.”
Bayerlein had one foot in the room, which now hovered
five centimeters above the floor. He hadn’t expected von
Reuentahl to be there. Flustered, he cobbled together a
formal salute.
“What kind of rumor?”
“It’s nothing, really, only…There’s no proof, so I can’t say
for sure whether it’s even true.”
Von Reuentahl’s presence weighed heavily on the young
Bayerlein’s heart. Mittermeier urged him with a seemingly
bitter smile.
“No matter. Just tell me.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. It’s something I heard from the
alliance prisoners of war.”
 “Oh?”
“They’re saying Admiral Merkatz is still alive.”
Before Bayerlein closed his mouth, silence stepped in and
took a lap around the room. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl
looked away from Bayerlein and at each other, sharing the
same strong feelings. Mittermeier verified with his
subordinate.
“That Merkatz? Are you saying Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz
didn’t die after all?”
His use of the demonstrative “that” of course had a very
different ring to it than when he was applying it to von
Oberstein. Bayerlein shrugged.
“I can only tell you that’s what I heard.”
“But I thought Merkatz was killed in action during the
Vermillion War. Who would be so irresponsible as to spit on
his grave by spreading misinformation about him?”
“Like I said, it’s only a rumor.”
The young general lowered his voice. Waves of regret were
springing up around him.
“It’s not outside the realm of possibility,” muttered von
Reuentahl, as if releasing himself from the grip of a fixed
stereotype. “We know the remains were never identified. I
wouldn’t put it past him to fake his own death.”
Mittermeier groaned.
If Merkatz had survived the Vermillion War, the Galactic
Empire would demand his death. As former commander in
chief of the Coalition of Lords, Merkatz had antagonized
Reinhard. After that, he’d defected and had since denied
any involvement with the young golden-haired sovereign.
“But it’s only a rumor.”
To these words, Mittermeier nodded.
“You’re right. It would be foolish to go around pointing
fingers at this point. Let’s leave it to the Domestic Safety
Security Bureau to uncover the truth.”
“If there’s nothing else, then, I guess I’ll be going…”
Bayerlein had surely wanted to use the rumor as a pretext
for enjoying a drinking bout with the superior he so
admired. Von Reuentahl’s being there had upset that plan.
Sensing as much, Mittermeier made no effort to detain him
further. He filled their glasses and changed the subject.
“By the way, I hear you’ve changed women yet again.”
Holding his glass, the secretary-general of Supreme
Command Headquarters curved his lips into a slight smile.
“If only that were just a rumor as well, but it’s true.”
“Get wooed by another vixen, did we?”
That such instances had become increasingly frequent was
one reason why Mittermeier couldn’t bring himself to
criticize his friend’s philandering ways too strongly.
“You’re way off. It was I who was on the prowl.”
A mixed light swayed in his heterochromatic eyes.
“I made her mine through my own authority and violence.
I’ve become more and more vicious. If I don’t repent, I
won’t hear the end of it from von Oberstein and Lang.”
“Don’t talk like that. It’s not like you.”
There was bitterness in Mittermeier’s voice.
“Sure…”
Von Reuentahl beamed at his friend. He nodded as if
taking advice, then topped off his glass with more wine.
“So, what really went down?”
“To tell you the truth, she nearly killed me.”
“What?!”
“I’d just gotten home and was walking through the door
when she came at me with a knife. Apparently, she’d been
waiting several hours for my arrival. Normally, I welcome a
beautiful woman waiting for my return.” The reflections of
undulating wine flickered in his mismatched eyes. “She
introduced herself as Elfriede von Kohlrausch, adding that
her own mother was the niece of Duke Lichtenlade.”
“A relative of Duke Lichtenlade?!”
The young heterochromatic admiral nodded.
“Hearing that, even I was convinced. She had every reason
to hate me. In her mind, I’m her granduncle’s sworn
enemy.”
Two years prior, in SE 797, year 488 of the former
Imperial Calendar, the Galactic Empire had experienced
the upheaval known as the Lippstadt War, when political
and military leaders had been divided into two factions. A
confederation led by Duke von Braunschweig and Marquis
von Littenheim had sought to overthrow the axis
represented by prime minister Duke Lichtenlade and
supreme commander of the Imperial Navy Duke Reinhard
von Lohengramm. This axis, having set up the old
authoritarians and younger men of ambition not as friends
but as a foundation for its plans, enraged the high nobles by
monopolizing their authority.
While Admiral Merkatz, a veteran commander of the
Coalition of Lords, came to be defeated not only by the wits
of his enemies but also by the indifference of his comrades,
Reinhard returned with victory in his hand. His victory,
however, would be accompanied by tragedy. When an
assassin’s gun aimed at him was blocked by Siegfried
Kircheis’s body, the golden-haired youth lost more than a
friend, but also his better half, and for a while it crippled
him. Had he known that, Duke Lichtenlade would likely
have purged the young alliance men in one stroke and tried
to capitalize on his full authority. Reinhard’s subordinates
beat him to the punch, burying Duke Lichtenlade and his
clique, thus securing Reinhard’s authority.
Mittermeier shook his head.
“As far as enemies go, you and I are no different.”
“No, we are different,” said von Reuentahl. “At that time,
you rushed to parliament to steal the seal of state. And what
did I do? I showed up at Duke Lichtenlade’s private
residence to restrain that old man. I’m more the enemy for
being directly involved.”
Von Reuentahl vividly recalled that night from two years
ago. When he’d kicked down Lichtenlade’s door with a
group of trained soldiers, the old authority figure had been
reading on his elegant bed. The old man had dropped his
book to the floor, knowing he was defeated. After he’d been
apprehended by the soldiers, von Reuentahl had turned the
book over with the heel of his military shoe and read the
words on the front cover: Ideal Politics.
“Incidentally, I was the one who ordered the execution of
that old man and his entire family. All the more reason for
her to resent me.”
“Did she always know what had happened?”
“Not at first. She does now.”
“You didn’t…”
“Yes. I told her.”
Mittermeier heaved a sigh with the entire upper half of his
body as he ruffled his honey-colored hair with one hand.
“What was the point in doing that? Why did you tell her
such things? Do you hate yourself that much?”
“I told myself the same thing. Even I knew it was useless. It
only hit me after the fact.”
Von Reuentahl poured a small waterfall of wine down his
throat. “It’s tearing me up inside, I know it.”

III
Elfriede stirred on the sofa. The evergreen oak door
opened, and the master of the von Reuentahl residence cast
his tall shadow across the floor. With his mismatched eyes,
the man who’d taken Elfriede’s virginity admired her
cream-colored hair and fresh limbs.
“I’m touched. It seems you haven’t run away after all.”
“It’s not as if I’ve done anything wrong. Why would I need
to run away?”
“You’re a criminal who tried to kill the secretary-general of
the Imperial Navy’s Supreme Command Headquarters. I
could have you executed on the spot. The fact that I haven’t
put you in chains should tell you what a forgiving man I can
be.”
“I’m not a habitual criminal like all of you.”
One couldn’t wound the pride of a veteran hero with such
cynicism and get away with it. The young admiral with the
heterochromatic eyes let out a short, derisive laugh. He
closed the door behind him and made his slow approach.
His ferocity and grace were in perfect harmony. Ignoring
his intention, the woman’s eyes were drawn to him. When
she came to her senses, her right wrist was firmly in his
grasp.
“Such a beautiful hand,” he said, his breath reeking of
alcohol. “I’ve been told my mother’s hands were also
beautiful, as if carved from the finest ivory. She never once
used those hands for anyone but herself. The first time she
picked up her own son, she tried to stab him in the eye with
a knife. That was the last time she ever touched me.”
Caught in von Reuentahl’s attractive gaze of gold and
silver, Elfriede held her breath for a moment.
“Such a pity! Even your own mother knew her son would
one day commit treason. She threw her feelings aside and
took matters into her own hands. If only I had an ounce of
her bravery. That such a splendid mother could give birth to
such an unworthy son!”
“With a little adjustment, we could use that as your
epitaph.”
Von Reuentahl released Elfriede’s white hand and brushed
back the dark-brown hair hanging over his forehead. The
sensation of his hand remained as a hot ring on the
woman’s wrist. Von Reuentahl leaned his tall frame against
a wall tapestry, deep in thought.
“I just don’t get it. Is it so terrible losing the privileges you
had until your father’s generation? It’s not like your father
or grandfather worked to earn those privileges. All they did
was run around like children.”
Elfriede swallowed her response.
 “Where’s the justice in that lifestyle? Noblemen are
institutionalized thieves. Haven’t you ever noticed that? If
taking something by force is evil, then how is taking
something by one’s inherited authority any different?”
Von Reuentahl stood upright from the wall, his expression
deflated.
“I thought you were better than that. What a turnoff. Get
out, right now, and find yourself a man more ‘worthy’ of
you. Some dimwit who clings to a bygone era in which his
comfortable little life would’ve been guaranteed by
authority and law. But before that, I have one thing to say.”
The heterochromatic admiral banged the wall with his fist,
enunciating every word.
“There’s nothing uglier or lowlier in this world than
gaining political authority regardless of ability or talent.
Even an act of usurpation is infinitely better. In that case, at
least one makes a real effort to gain that authority, because
he knows it wasn’t his to begin with.”
Elfriede remained on the sofa, a seated tempest.
“I get it,” she spat out, her voice filled with heat lightning.
“You’re just a regular rebel to the bone, aren’t you?! If you
think you have so much ability and talent, then why not
have a go at it yourself? Sooner or later, your conceit will
compel you to go against your present lord.”
Elfriede ran out of breath and sank into silence. Von
Reuentahl changed his expression. With renewed interest,
he gazed at this woman who’d tried to kill him. A few
seconds of silence passed before he spoke.
“The emperor is nine years younger than I am, and yet he
holds the entire universe in his own hands. I may harbor
animosity toward the Goldenbaum royal family and the
noble elite, but I lack the backbone to overthrow the
dynasty itself. There’s no way I could ever be a match for
him.”
As he turned his back on the woman struggling to find her
retort, von Reuentahl left the salon in stride. Elfriede
watched as his broad-shouldered silhouette receded, but
she suddenly turned away, having caught herself waiting for
this abominable man to look back over his shoulder. Her
gaze was fixed on an unremarkable oil painting and stayed
that way for ten seconds. When she finally looked back, the
master of the house was gone. Elfriede had no idea whether
von Reuentahl had indeed looked back at her.

IV
The military’s VIPs were actively mobilizing their Earth
dispatch. No one in the imperial government had gotten
any sleep.
In the Ministry of Arts and Culture, under Dr. Seefeld’s
direct command, compilation of The Goldenbaum Dynasty:
A Complete History was under way. The Goldenbaum line
had been effectively destroyed, but not without leaving
behind a vast amount of data hoarded under the name of
state secrets. The arduous task of sifting through it all was
sure to throw light on various pieces of information hitherto
considered to be off-the-record or the stuff of rumors, and
the ministry’s task was to ensure that every last
incriminating detail would be preserved for all posterity.
The Alliance Armed Forces’ retired marshal Yang Wen-li
had the will of a historian, but since the age of fifteen, when
his father’s death had plunged the Yang family into
economic hardship, he’d gone through life stumbling along
the edge of reality. If he could have seen the researchers of
the imperial Ministry of Arts and Culture combing daily
through mountains of undisclosed data, he would have been
salivating with envy.
Emperor Reinhard made no indication that the Ministry of
Arts and Culture was to dig up especially damning evidence
about the Goldenbaum Dynasty. There was no need. No
matter the dynasty or system of authority, good deeds were
valorized and propagandized, while foul deeds were
concealed. Undisclosed information was therefore
guaranteed to contain evidence of wrongdoing and
misconduct. The researchers kept silent throughout the
process, but surely struck gold everywhere they dug as
they unearthed load after load of the Goldenbaum
Dynasty’s misdeeds and scandals.
Rudolf von Goldenbaum, who’d founded the Goldenbaum
Dynasty five centuries before, was as far from Reinhard as a
ruler could be. He was a hulking mound of self-serving
justice, invisible to the eyes of faith. He achieved success as
a military man first, as a politician second. His physical and
mental aptitude were immense, but like a middle school
math teacher recycling the same old rudimentary
equations, he never evolved beyond the template to which
he’d grown accustomed. To those who didn’t share his
thoughts or values, he responded at first with an iron fist,
and later with the many deaths brought about by its impact.
How many historians had been killed in order to maintain
his just and righteous image?
Reinhard had no interest in such methods.

Rudolf the Great had been a literal giant, one who ruled
over all by his incomparably intimidating air. His more
civilized successor, Sigismund I, was a most capable tyrant.
He unilaterally suppressed the republican insurrection, at
the same time maintaining a relatively fair governmental
administration for those “good citizens” who followed along.
He deftly used a carrot-and-stick policy to reinforce the
cornerstone of the empire laid by his grandfather. And
while the third-generation emperor, Richard I, who followed
him loved beautiful women, hunting, and music more than
government, he never once overstepped his bounds as
sovereign. He lived a guarded life, walking a delicate
tightrope between his headstrong empress and sixty
concubines, never once tumbling to the ground.
The fourth emperor, Ottfried I, was more resolute than his
father but was of sound health, austere and prosaic. To
anyone who knew him, he was a total bore. It seemed his
only objective in life was to digest a precise daily schedule
with as little variation as possible. His utter lack of interest
in music, fine art, or literature had earned him the
nickname “Earl Gray,” for his life was indeed dull and
colorless. It is said the only books he voluntarily read were
the memoirs of founding father Rudolf the Great, along with
a few random volumes on home medicine. He was a solemn
conservative who abhorred any kind of change or reform
like a virus and clung to the precedents set before him by
Rudolf the Great, whom he so admired.
One day, on orders from his doctor and nutritionist,
Ottfried had finished his lunch of vegetables, dairy
products, and seaweed. He was just heading out for his
fifteen-minute constitutional, right on schedule, when an
urgent message informed him that a giant explosion on a
military base had left more than ten thousand soldiers
dead.
The emperor seemed unimpressed by the news.
“This report wasn’t on today’s agenda.”
For him, the almighty schedule was an inviolable entity—
this despite the fact that he lacked both the creativity and
planning ability to set one up himself. Such duties he left to
the imperial private secretary, Viscount Eckhart, whose
responsibility and authority mounted like sand in an
hourglass. Before anyone knew it, Eckhart came to hold
double posts of privy councillor and secretary-general of
the imperial palace, where he served also as secretary for
the imperial council. As even those of little insight could
see, the ashen emperor had become nothing more than a
cheap automaton dancing to whatever tune Viscount
Eckhart played for him. When the emperor died, no one
cared enough to commemorate his life in any meaningful
way.
Ottfried’s son Kaspar was set to become fifth emperor of
the Galactic Empire. As the imperial prince, he showed
above-average intelligence, but those colors faded as he
matured. It’s likely he hid his wisdom as a way of rebelling
against Eckhart’s despotic tendencies. “If the late emperor
was dull prose,” whispered his senior ministers, “then our
current sovereign is equally dull poetry.” Indeed, he was
much more like his grandfather than his father, prizing the
arts and beauty above all things. Only he was less skillful at
walking the tightrope his grandfather had left unfrayed.
What raised the eyebrows of the empress dowager and
senior ministers was the crown prince’s apparent lack of
interest in the opposite sex. He particularly favored a
castrato of the imperial choir. Castrated at a young age, the
castrati had long preserved the boy-soprano tradition and
remained an integral part of imperial and church choirs.
Even after Kaspar’s coronation, he fell in love with an
elegant fourteen-year-old singer named Florian, lending no
ear to any of the marriage proposals the empress dowager
brought before him, no matter how attractive the prospect.
Rudolf the Great, who’d slaughtered homosexuals en
masse as pollutants that would otherwise infect the future,
had now produced a homosexual among his descendants.
Listen closely enough, and one could almost hear his cries
of outrage from the beyond the grave.
Meanwhile, the real political power remained firmly in
Eckhart’s grasp. Having risen to the rank of count, he was
now a man of unrivaled influence, half-jokingly referred to
as the “mooching emperor.” He made the national treasury
his personal playground, where he threw around the
weight of a corpulent body devoid of its virility. As he wore
down his sense of responsibility and ability as a political
administrator, his power sickness continued to afflict him.
He tried offering his own daughter as the new empress, but
she resembled her father now more than ever.
Eckhart approached the emperor in the hopes of taking his
lord’s eyes off Florian, but while the emperor had always
followed his counsel on other matters, he couldn’t be
persuaded or coerced on this one. The moment Eckhart
walked into the Rose Room, he was shot and killed by a
gang under command of one Baron Risner. Risner, who’d
always detested Eckhart’s tyranny, had received the
emperor’s consent to execute this “disloyal retainer.” That
was all well and good, but in the wake of this disturbance,
the emperor left a written declaration of abdication on his
throne and absconded with Florian and a handful of jewels
to boot. This was exactly one year after he’d taken the
throne.
Following 140 days of vacancy, the younger brother of
former emperor Ottfried, Archduke Julius, picked up the
abandoned crown. The senior imperial ministers, however,
had their eyes on his more popular son, Franz Otto.
At the time of his coronation, Emperor Julius was already
seventy-six years old yet was in extremely good health for
his age. Five days after his enthronement, he’d set up a
harem of twenty beautiful concubines, and a month later
added twenty more.
It fell to the middle-aged crown prince, Archduke Franz
Otto, to satisfy the needs of national politics while the
emperor satisfied those of his still-virile flesh. Franz Otto
corrected much of the corruption left over from the Eckhart
era, enforced the law, and reduced taxes slightly for
common citizens. The senior ministers were confident
they’d made the right choice. But Julius I, whom they
expected to expire sooner rather than later, held firm to the
throne into his eighties, then his nineties.
In the end, by a strange twist of fate, when Emperor Julius
was ninety-five, the “oldest crown prince in human history,”
His Highness Archduke Franz Otto, died of illness at
seventy-four. And because the archduke’s sons had all died
young, his grandson Karl became “great-grand heir to the
imperial throne” at twenty-four.
Karl had only a few years to wait before donning the
imperial crown, although to him it seemed the emperor
might live on forever. Julius had been an old man for as long
as Karl could remember. He was still an old man and would
continue to be for years to come. Would this “immortal bag
of bones,” he mused, continue to suck the life force out of
future generations, carrying on even as he continued to
wither in that jewel-encrusted coffin he called a throne?
Karl wasn’t a particularly superstitious young man, but
superstition had made him see the emperor through faintly
colored lenses of fear and hatred. Consequently, his malice
toward the old emperor was, outside of his own ambitions,
at the very least cultivated in the fertilizer of self-
preservation. All of this speculation and impatience led to
the first parricide in the entire history of the Galactic
Empire.
On April 6, year 144 of the old Imperial Calendar, a 96-
year-old Julius I was having dinner with five of his
concubines, whose combined age still fell short of the
emperor’s single life span. After wolfing down his venison
with the appetite of a teenager, he was finishing off the
meal with some chilled white wine when he started gasping
for air. He vomited up his meal and, moments later, died in a
spasm of agony, white silk tablecloth still clutched in his
hand.
The old emperor’s sudden death shocked his senior
ministers, less out of suspicion than by their own relief that
the old man had finally perished. In truth, his ministers,
almost without exception, were bored with him. Archduke
Karl presided over a grand, if emotionless, funeral. The
senior ministers all expected the young new emperor to
implement fresh administration after a requisite period of
mourning. The people expected nothing. Lacking any
political authority whatsoever, they did the best they could,
living lives of hard labor and simple pleasures. But on May
1, coronation day, the public was just as amazed as the
senior ministers when not Archduke Karl but former
archduke Franz Otto’s second son and Karl’s cousin,
Marquis Sigismund von Brauner, solemnly accepted the
imperial crown.
The reasons behind the enthronement of Sigismund II
were, of course, never made public. Now, more than three
thousand years later, the archives at last revealed the truth
behind this last-minute switch. Upon the old emperor’s
sudden death, the five concubines who’d been seated at his
table were forced by Archduke Karl to follow their master
to the grave. Having served the old emperor as faithfully as
they had, in this time of crisis they panicked, refusing to
carry their duties over to the next reign. For that crime,
they were sentenced to take their own lives.
The five concubines were confined to a room nestled in the
rear palace, where they were forced to drink poison. Just
before taking that fatal dose, one of the concubines wrote
the truth in lipstick on the inside of her bracelet and had it
sent to her older brother, an officer in the imperial brigade.
Upon reading her message, her brother learned that
Archduke Karl had coated the inside of Julius’s wineglass
with a poison that, once absorbed into his stomach lining,
rapidly diminished the ability of his red blood cells to
absorb oxygen. His younger sister, the concubine, had been
bribed by Karl into being an accomplice. The brother
decided then and there to exact revenge for his sister’s
death. He brought the evidence before Sigismund, second
in line for the throne. Sigismund was pleasantly surprised
at having just cause to oust Karl, and after shuffling things
around within the palace, succeeded in forcing Karl to give
up his succession to the imperial throne. He was unable to
make known the fact that the emperor had been poisoned
by his own great-grandson, and so he carried out his own
little coup d’état behind closed doors.
After being confined to the palace, Karl was transferred to
a mental institution on the outskirts of the imperial capital.
There, behind thick walls, he was treated well enough to
live a long life, eclipsing his great-grandfather by expiring
at the age of ninety-seven. By the time of his death, the
reigns of Sigismund II and Ottfried II had passed into the
age of Otto Heinz I. There was no longer anyone at court
who remembered the name of the old man who’d failed to
take the throne more than seventy years before. Between
Karl’s death in year 217 of the Imperial Calendar and the
Battle of Dagon that the Free Planets Alliance took in 331,
the Goldenbaum Dynasty would see eight more emperors,
giving rise to their own stories across a spectrum of good
and evil.

As he ran his eyes over this unofficial interim report

presented to him by the Ministry of Arts and Culture,
Reinhard found himself at times smiling derisively, at others
pausing to go deep into thought. Though he lacked Yang
Wen-li’s passion for history, those with designs on the future
couldn’t get there without knowing the blueprints of the
past.
Not that every indicator was to be found in what had
already come to pass. Reinhard wasn’t one to follow
someone else’s path.
Because now, everyone was following his.
I
IN THE LATTER HALF OF SE 799, in the first year of the
New Imperial Calendar, a change that no one could have
accurately predicted came to pass. The enactment of the
Bharat Treaty in May of that year, in conjunction with
Reinhard von Lohengramm’s coronation the following June,
was supposed to have put an end to two and a half
centuries of war and implemented a new universal order in
its place. And while it was too optimistic to think this might
go on forever, common sense dictated that the new dynasty
would at the very least devote itself to the establishment of
a new system, that the alliance would be bereft of vengeful
power, and that the next few years would be relatively
peaceful ones. Even Emperor Reinhard and Yang Wen-li
couldn’t escape the gravity of common sense between their
own plans and the universes of which they dreamed.
In response to Commodore Ferner’s doubts, secretary of
defense of the Imperial Navy Marshal von Oberstein
claimed he’d done nothing more than read into these
sudden developments and use them to his advantage, as
anyone in his position might have done.
 “It’s your choice whether you want to believe me,” von
Oberstein had said.
Of special mention about the chaos that ensued in the
latter half of SE 799 was that those only tangentially
involved wanted to claim themselves as instigators, while
those who’d been more proactive in their involvement,
despite recognizing themselves as actors on an
intergalactic stage, denied their roles as producers and
playwrights.
Those who believed unconditionally in a higher power
called it “God’s will” or “a twist of fate” and threw
themselves like stones in a glass house of blind following.
But cursing unbelievers like Yang Wen-li—“If my pension
suddenly increased tenfold, I might believe in God, too!”—
made things harder for themselves by looking for answers
within the range of human reason. Whenever Yang spoke of
God, Frederica unconsciously looked at her husband
differently, unable to suppress a certain uneasiness over
putting God in the same category as inflation. Yang’s
conclusion was that everything was a coproduction between
a dead playwright and living actors. But if asked who that
playwright was, he would have been hard-pressed to come
up with an answer. If anything, he might have said it was
“an actor who believes himself to be a playwright.” In other
words, Helmut Lennenkamp, the Galactic Empire’s high
commissioner and senior admiral.
Although it was Reinhard who’d put Lennenkamp in that
position, that didn’t mean he’d surveyed the play’s story in
its entirety and decided on its cast. Lennenkamp was thirty-
six, just four years Yang’s senior, but by all outward
appearances he appeared no older than twenty.
Yang wasn’t the type to let on about the hardships of the
battlespace and had always been indifferent to the fortitude
so giddily ascribed to him by war correspondents. Admiral
Steinmetz, who’d once suffered defeat because of him, took
one look at Yang, who seemed nothing more than a lanky,
boyish student, and muttered with disappointment.
“I lost to him?”
Then again, Steinmetz knew full well the folly of judging a
book by its cover and blamed such thinking on his own part
for leading to his defeat in the first place.
Lennenkamp couldn’t let go of this fixation. According to
Artist-Admiral Mecklinger, Walter von Schönkopf had some
choice words about Lennenkamp:
“So, he’s that much of a big shot, is he?”
Whether Lennenkamp was indeed a big shot remained to
be seen.

This was how a modest, irresponsible rumor grew into a

tide that changed history.
Attaching the phrase “or so I hear” to the statement
“Merkatz is still alive” started it all by clouding the
memories of a nervous population. Von Reuentahl and
Mittermeier laughed off the very notion of Merkatz’s
survival for the same reason.
As Ernest Mecklinger recorded it:
It didn’t take us long to confirm the truth of that rumor.
Nevertheless, a second truth remains to be verified.
Namely, who circulated that rumor in the first place, and
why.
While concluding it was just one form of never-ending
groupthink, the manifestation of delusional hero worship,
Mecklinger was almost tempted to think that this was all
meant to be. He therefore saw no reason to deny the
veracity of its effect, even if the cause was born in
deception:
The rumor has created the reality. Either that, or an
unwitting public has interfered with the passage of time by
digging its heels into a past it just can’t let go of.
Mecklinger was exercising self-restraint in putting it the
way he did.
In any event, this rumor, which since June had hovered
around countless lips like dark matter, crystallized into
something even darker on July 16 when, in the Lesavik
sector, the more than five hundred alliance ships
supposedly being decommissioned and dismantled were
hijacked.

The man responsible for carrying out this operation was

Admiral Mascagni, who might have feigned ignorance had
only the ships been seized. But the fact that four thousand
of his men had vanished along with the hijackers wasn’t
something he could chalk up to illusion.
During a hearing at Joint Operational Headquarters, his
entire being oozed with sweat and excuses.
“In full compliance with the Bharat Treaty, we were in the
middle of demolishing our relinquished warships and
carriers, when suddenly, upwards of five hundred ships of
unknown affiliation showed up…”
This number was, of course, an exaggeration, although
there were some among his men who inflated that number
to five thousand ships, and so Mascagni’s testimony was
deemed relatively objective. Continuing with his “objective”
testimony, Mascagni said the intruders, after making a
grand entrance, had sent a seemingly credible transmission
offering their assistance. With the war now over, he saw no
reason to fear enemy deception, and the ships, he now saw,
were undoubtedly of Alliance Armed Forces make, and so
he welcomed them with full assurance that nothing would
go wrong. But the moment he did welcome them aboard,
the warships were taken from them at gunpoint. The
working flagship—which is to say, Admiral Mascagni himself
—was taken hostage, while the other ships were helpless to
do anything. Moreover, this “band of thieves” announced
themselves as a group of freedom fighters opposed to the
imperial autocracy. They claimed a common goal and bid
anyone who would join their cause to lay down their arms
and follow them, upon which four thousand of Mascagni’s
men, fed up with their lot, ended up doing just that.
Naturally, people were interested in who was behind all
this. Several groundless theories suggested Admiral
Merkatz as the culprit.
If true, then Merkatz’s disappearance following the
Vermillion War had surely been orchestrated under Yang
Wen-li’s baton.
Only this part of the rumor was more correct in practice
than in theory. Yang saw the value in it the moment he
heard it.

II
Had Yang Wen-li not anticipated the ripple effect of
circulating such a dangerous rumor? Not that he could
have stopped it even if he had anticipated it. Yang had
never considered drawing out the Imperial Navy using
Merkatz as a scapegoat, as such a strategy would have
been too risky for everyone involved. That said, neither
could he assume a lack of affiliation once he set Merkatz
free. It was, perhaps, naive on his part to deny the potential
of a single rumor. In any case, he was neither almighty nor
omnipotent, and it was all he could do to follow the trail of
events in the hopes of one day carving out a significant
detour of his own.
As Mrs. Caselnes put it to Frederica:
“Yang is so young to have risen to such a high rank in such
a short amount of time, but it’s all because of the war. Now
that we’re in a time of peace, he’s got nothing to do. You’ve
got to admit, Yang has never looked more content than he
does now.”
Frederica agreed. Surely, Yang had never considered
himself to be one of the elite, and neither did the elite
consider Yang to be one of them. And yet, despite his lack of
political clout and authoritarian intentions, Yang had
earned his position through an uncanny aptitude in the heat
of battle and the string of commendations born of that
aptitude.
The elite were an exclusive group of people who shared
such profound awareness of themselves as self-righteous
leaders and an implacability toward distribution of privilege
that, even had their door been open to him, Yang wouldn’t
have cared to step through it. What would be the point of
walking into a den of wolves who saw him as nothing more
than a meddlesome sheep?
Yang had always been a heretic. Whether at the Officers’
Academy, in the military, or in the national pantheon of
authority, he preferred to sit in the corner, sticking his nose
in a favorite book while letting the just cause of an arrogant
orthodoxy at the core of the alliance’s center of power waft
in one ear and out the other. And when that aloof heretic
outshone them all by his grand achievements, the
orthodoxy praised him even as they cursed themselves for
having to treat him so politely.
One can only imagine how much this incurred the elite’s
anger and animosity. Yang was more than vaguely aware of
their frustrations. He also knew how ridiculous it was to
waste his consideration, and he put it out of his mind.
The orthodoxy spoke of barring Yang from their ranks
more out of instinct than intellect. Although he was a
military man, Yang rejected the significance of all wars,
even—if not especially—those in which he’d been involved.
He also denied the majesty of the nation and saw the
military’s raison d’être not as protecting citizens but as
protecting the special rights of the very authority figures
who’d parasitized the nation. There was no way they were
going to let a natural-born provocateur such as Yang Wen-li
into their innermost circle. They had even tried subjecting
Yang to a political thrashing in an above-the-law hearing,
but in a panic had ended up having to dispatch Yang
directly from the courtroom into the battlespace to fight the
Imperial Navy’s massive invasion of the Iserlohn Corridor.
As it turned out, the one man they detested above all was
the only one who could save them.
They conferred upon him the rank of marshal, making him
the youngest to bear that insignia in the history of the
Alliance Armed Forces, and awarded him enough medals to
weigh by the kilo. And still, that insolent heretic had the gall
to give them not so much as a thank-you for all the praise
they openly bestowed upon him. Anyone else in his position
would have bowed his head in deference, groveled, and
begged to be allowed into their ranks, but Yang crammed
their hallowed medals into a wooden crate and tossed them
into the basement, out of sight and out of mind. He also
skipped out on important functions, preferring to go fishing
instead of debating the allotment of privileges he saw to be
arbitrary at best. To them, the most precious things in this
world were forcing others into submission, openly
appropriating taxes from the population, and creating laws
that guaranteed personal profit. Yang, on the other hand,
kicked aside those things as casually as he might pebbles on
the side of the road. An intolerable heretic, indeed.
Yang’s lack of interest in trying to seize power by military
force was ultimately due to the fact that he placed no value
whatsoever on authority. It was his contempt for those who
desired power—for their sense of values, their way of life,
their very existence—that made him smile with scorn.
People in high positions of power couldn’t help but despise
Yang Wen-li, for to affirm Yang’s way of life was to deny
their own. One can only imagine the depths of their
indignation over their paradoxical relationship to Yang.
They’d been waiting for an opportunity to tear him down
from his national hero’s seat and throw him into a
bottomless pit. But not even that was an option so long as
the Galactic Empire posed a threat to their own
ascendency. The Galactic Empire continued to thrive, even
if its significance had changed. What was once an enemy
nation had now become a sovereign ruler. Had not the
elite’s shining star, Job Trünicht, given himself over to the
empire in exchange for a comfortable life? Were they,
perhaps, resentful that he’d taken the easy way out, leaving
them to cough at the dust he’d left in his wake? Although
his firebrand speech had saved millions of soldiers from
certain death, one of the joys of his power was expending
the lives of his citizens like cheap commodities. Anyone
deceived by such cajolery as Trünicht’s was a fool. He’d sold
the alliance’s independence and democratic principles to
the empire for the pocket change of personal safety. But
had they not also sold Yang Wen-li, who’d made the
Imperial Navy eat its own foot on numerous occasions, in
exchange for their own safety? In any case, the alliance was
no longer. Seeing the nation as indestructible was an ideal
that only mindless patriots believed in. They, however, knew
the truth, and it was all they could do to cling to their
assets, waiting for a chance to jump ship onto another that
wasn’t sinking.
Thus, a few shameless “merchants” had a mind to sell the
commodity known as Yang Wen-li to the empire. Several
pieces of anonymous intel to that effect had been sent to
the imperial high commissioner, Senior Admiral Helmut
Lennenkamp. Their content was virtually identical.
“Yang Wen-li lied about Admiral Merkatz’s death and
helped him escape in preparation for a future revolt against
the empire, at which time Yang himself will rally his soldiers
together to rise again.”
 “Yang plans to mobilize the anti-imperialists and
extremists within the alliance under the banner of
revolution.”
“Yang is an enemy of the empire, a destroyer of peace and
order. He will lord over the alliance as a tyrant, invade the
empire, and try to crush the entire universe under his
military boot.”
Captain Ratzel, who oversaw surveillance of Yang,
presented Lennenkamp with this anonymous intel inside
the building that was a hotel turned commissioner’s office.
The commissioner watched calmly as Ratzel’s expression
changed from astonishment to anger while he read over the
intel.
“If this information is correct, Captain, then I must say the
mesh of your surveillance network isn’t nearly tight
enough.”
“But, Your Excellency,” said Captain Ratzel, mustering
fortitude against the former enemy general, “you can’t
possibly take any of this seriously. If Admiral Yang had any
inclinations toward being a dictator, why would he wait
until such a difficult time as this when he had plenty of
opportunities to seize that power before?”
Lennenkamp gave no response.
“To begin with, you can be sure these informants have
been rescued from danger by Admiral Yang. And however
much the political situation has changed, those who would
turn their backs on the ones to whom they’re most indebted
aren’t to be trusted. If and when, as they themselves claim,
Admiral Yang does monopolize power as dictator, you can
be sure they’ll change the colors of their flag at once and
prostrate themselves at his feet. Are you really going to
lend credence to such shameless slander, Your Excellency?”
As Lennenkamp listened, an unpleasant expression arose
on his otherwise-blank face. He nodded silently and
dismissed the captain.
Ratzel had never understood his superior’s state of mind.
 It wasn’t that Lennenkamp believed this anonymous intel.
It was that he wanted to believe it. Rejecting Ratzel’s
admonition, he advised the alliance government to have
retired marshal Yang Wen-li arrested on charges of
violating the Insurrection Act. On July 20, a simultaneous
order was given to the armed grenadiers unit affiliated with
the commissioner’s office to be on standby. Chaos, Part the
Second, had begun.

An invisible noose had been placed around Yang’s neck. The

frenzied thinking of alliance leaders and Lennenkamp
would never compare to Yang’s stable foresight and
precaution. In the end, so long as Yang was breathing, he
would always be an obstacle they would need to avoid. In
order to prevent that, Yang would need to bow to the
authorities or lose to Lennenkamp in the battlespace. The
former wasn’t something of which Yang was incapable,
while the latter wasn’t something that could be dragged
upstream from the past and corrected.
Udo Dieter Hummel was chief of staff of the imperial high
commissioner. What Hummel lacked in creative thinking he
made up for with his penchant for dealing with the law and
administrative subjects efficiently and in good order.
Because of his diligence, to Lennenkamp he was a most
satisfactory assistant and, in any case, overly creative types
with less than half a heart for anything other than their own
creations were an unnecessary hazard in a militarily
occupied administration.
Nevertheless, there were such things as formalities in this
world, and the Free Planets Alliance was an independent
nation founded on those formalities. Lennenkamp was no
colonial governor-general. His jurisdiction went only as far
as the Bharat Treaty specified. Hummel’s assistance was
indispensable in allowing him to make the most of his power
within the scope allotted to him.
Hummel had also been carrying out a more important duty
behind the scenes: namely, reporting Lennenkamp’s every
word and deed to Secretary of Defense von Oberstein.
On the night of the twentieth, Lennenkamp called Hummel
into his office for one of their regular debriefings.
“Seeing as Marshal Yang isn’t a subject of the empire, he
will be punished in accordance with alliance laws.”
“I know, the Insurrection Act.”
“But that’ll never fly. Yang helped Admiral Merkatz escape
before the Bharat Treaty and the Insurrection Act were
even put into effect. We can’t just apply the law
retroactively. What I was going to suggest is the alliance’s
National Defense Base Act.”
As soon as he’d taken up his new post, Hummel had
brushed up on the alliance government’s various laws and
ordinances in the hope of finding a legal loophole to nail
Yang once and for all.
“When Marshal Yang helped Admiral Merkatz escape,”
Hummel continued, “his furnishing of military ships was
tantamount to an abuse of his authority over national
resources. Under normal law, it would be possible to charge
him with malfeasance. He’s guilty of a far greater crime
than violation of the Insurrection Act.”
“I see.”
Lennenkamp grinned, his mouth stiffening under his
splendid mustache. He wanted any possible excuse to
execute Yang Wen-li only because he was regarded by the
new dynasty and its emperor as public enemy number one,
not because he wanted to dispel some personal grudge of
defeat. He wanted to make that clear, so as not to be
misunderstood.
Yang Wen-li was renowned for his invincibility, his youth,
and his seemingly inherent virtue. If accused of
malfeasance simply for treading on Article 3, Yang’s renown
would also be tarnished.
Lennenkamp’s private secretary appeared and saluted.
“Your Excellency Commissioner, there’s an FTL incoming
from the secretary of defense.”
“The secretary of defense? Ah, von Oberstein, you mean,”
said Lennenkamp, somewhat forced, and with a joyless
cadence in his step made his way to the special comm room.
The image was slightly blurred, being transmitted from ten
thousand light-years away. Not that Lennenkamp cared.
Von Oberstein’s pale face and oddly glinting artificial eyes
aroused no fascination in those disinclined to aesthetics.
The secretary of defense got right to the point.
“From what I hear, you’ve ordered the alliance
government to execute Yang Wen-li. Is this your way of
seeking vengeance for losing to him in battle?”
Lennenkamp went white with anger and humiliation. The
blow to his heart was so deep he didn’t bother to ask if
that’s what everyone had been told.
“I can assure you this is not a personal matter. My
recommendation to the alliance government to execute
Yang Wen-li is nothing more than an attempt to clear a path
toward a better future for the sake of the empire and His
Majesty the Emperor. To say that I’m trying to resolve a
grudge would be a gross misinterpretation.”
“Just making sure we’re on the same page. There’s no
need to get all worked up.”
There was no mockery in von Oberstein’s businesslike
tone. Lennenkamp nevertheless picked up on negative
vibes behind it. The secretary of defense’s mouth slowly
opened and closed on-screen.
“Allow me to tell you how to get rid of both Yang Wen-li and
Merkatz at once. If, by your own hand, you do manage to, as
you put it, clear a path toward a better future for the
empire, your achievement will surpass those of marshals
von Reuentahl and Mittermeier.”
 Lennenkamp was displeased. He didn’t like that von
Oberstein was stirring up his competitive spirit, or that he
couldn’t help but approve of its outcome.
“By all means, then, give me your instructions.”
After a short yet deep psychological civil war, Lennenkamp
had given in.
“There’s no need for any complex maneuvers,” said the
secretary of defense, with no sense of triumph. “Even
knowing you have no such privilege, you will demand that
the alliance hand Admiral Yang over to you. You will then
officially announce that you are taking him away to the
imperial mainland. Once you’ve done so, Merkatz and his
clique are sure to come out of hiding to rescue the hero to
whom they’re so indebted. That’s when you strike.”
“Do you really think it’ll be that easy?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Even if Merkatz doesn’t
show himself, Admiral Yang will still be under our control.
It’ll be up to us whether he lives or dies.”
Lennenkamp was silent.
“If we’re going to incite the anti-imperialists within the
alliance, the first thing we need to do is to arrest Yang Wen-
li despite his perceived innocence. That will be enough to
send his sympathizers on a rampage. Sometimes one needs
to fight fire with fire.”
“If I could just ask you one thing, Secretary. Does His
Majesty Emperor Reinhard know of this?”
A questionable expression flickered across von Oberstein’s
pale face.
“I wonder. If it concerns you so much, why not ask him
yourself? See what His Majesty thinks of your intentions to
kill Yang Wen-li.”
Of course, Lennenkamp couldn’t speak of such things to
Emperor Reinhard. Something he struggled to understand
was how the young emperor could hold Yang Wen-li in such
high regard. Or maybe the emperor just hated Lennenkamp
more.
 But it was too late for Lennenkamp to jump out of the race
now. If he stopped swimming, he would sink to the bottom.
Sooner or later, the alliance would need to be completely
subjugated. Safeguarding universal order as soon as
possible was therefore of paramount importance. Because
Yang was such a dangerous character, he had to be
eliminated at all costs. And if Lennenkamp could pull off
such a grand achievement, he could have any position he
wanted, superseding the limited positions that von
Reuentahl and Mittermeier had held for most of their
careers. Imperial marshal, director of the Imperial Navy,
and who knew what else…?
After ending the transmission, von Oberstein looked
blankly at the opaque screen.
“One must bait a dog with dog food, a cat with cat food.”
Commodore Ferner cleared his throat nearby.
“But Commissioner Lennenkamp may not succeed. If he
fails, the entire alliance government will side with Admiral
Yang and unite as a show of resistance against the empire.
Is that what you want?”
Von Oberstein was unfazed by Ferner’s misgivings.
“If Lennenkamp doesn’t follow through, so be it. Someone
else will just have to carry out that duty in his place. The
one who clears the road and the one who paves it needn’t
be one and the same.”
I see, thought Ferner. Any harm that comes to an imperial
representative will be a clear violation of the treaty and will
serve as an excuse to mobilize his troops once again in all-
out conquest. Did the secretary of defense intend to
conquer the alliance once and for all, scapegoating not only
Admiral Yang but Lennenkamp as well?
“But, Your Excellency Secretary, don’t you think it’s too
early to be taking over the alliance?”
“If we’re just going to back down from our objective and
do nothing, then we’d better come up with a better backup
plan.”
 “Certainly.”
“We cannot allow Lennenkamp to become marshal while
he lives. It is, however, an honor for which he is
posthumously qualified. Being alive isn’t the only way to
serve one’s nation.”
Ferner wasn’t surprised to be privy to such sentiments.
Perhaps von Oberstein was correct in his estimation of
Lennenkamp. Not only in this case, but in overwhelmingly
most others, von Oberstein spoke soundly. Then again,
Ferner was opposed to thinking of human beings as mere
variables in the equations of others. And what would
happen if von Oberstein found himself in Lennenkamp’s
position? Had the secretary of defense never considered
that possibility? But Ferner wasn’t bound by duty to voice
such concerns.

III
Upon receiving Lennenkamp’s “counsel,” the alliance’s
High Council chairman João Lebello found himself in a
predicament. It went without saying this was a grand
imperial pretext, and he couldn’t just ignore the fact that
Yang was the cause of it.
“Yang fancies himself a national hero. Wouldn’t letting
down our guard now make light of the existence of our
nation?”
Lebello was suspicious. If only Yang had listened, no doubt
he would have grown bored and lost the will to rebel. But,
seen only from the outer circumference of the situation,
such suspicions as Lebello’s weren’t surprising. From the
perspective of society at large, any man naive enough to
throw away a seat of highest authority at such a young age
for a pensioner’s life was nothing more than a degenerate.
It was more compelling to assume that he was hidden away
in some obscure corner of society, working on something
bigger than anyone could fathom.
 Yang had underestimated his own false image. Those
bitten by the hero-worship bug were prone to hyperbole,
going so far as to believe that Yang was laying down a
millennium’s worth of future plans for the nation and
humanity at large in his sleep. Even Yang, depending on his
mood, was prone to such rhetoric:
“There are farsighted warriors in the world. I know that
for a fact. I don’t sleep neglectfully, but am thinking deeply
about the future of humankind.”
And because he was known to spout such things, those
who didn’t get the sarcasm out of context polished Yang’s
false image even more. Anytime Julian Mintz heard Yang
talking like that, however, he would just brush it off:
“Then allow me to make a prediction about the admiral’s
future. At seven o’clock tonight, you will have a bottle of
wine for dinner.”
As Lebello saw things, he was forced to choose between
incurring the wrath of the empire by protecting Yang, thus
risking the very existence of the alliance, or sacrificing Yang
alone to save the alliance. Had he been a more audacious
man, he might have appealed to Lennenkamp’s coercions, if
only to buy himself more time. Lebello had convinced
himself that the commissioner’s intentions were the
emperor’s intentions. And while he usually voiced his
conclusions after much mental turmoil, he decided to invite
his friend Huang Rui, who’d left government service, to
share that turmoil in progress.
“Arrest Admiral Yang? You’re serious?”
Huang Rui almost asked Lebello if he was insane.
“Understand me. No, you must understand. We mustn’t
give the Imperial Navy any excuse. Even if Yang is a
national hero, if he endangers the peace of our good nation,
I’ll be forced to execute him.”
“But that goes against all reason. While it may be true that
Marshal Yang aided in Admiral Merkatz’s escape, the
Bharat Treaty and Insurrection Act had yet to be put into
effect. Any retroactive application of the law is forbidden
under the alliance constitution.”
“Not if Yang encouraged Merkatz to hijack those ships, in
which case that would’ve been after the treaty was put into
effect. There’s no need whatsoever to apply to law
retroactively.”
“But where’s the proof? Let’s just say Yang went along
with it. I doubt his subordinates would do the same. They
might even take matters into their own hands in rescuing
Marshal Yang by force. No, that’s precisely what would
happen. And what do you plan on doing when infighting
breaks out within the Alliance Armed Forces as it did two
years ago?”
“In that case, I’ll just have to execute them as well. It’s not
as if they’re beholden to Marshal Yang in any way. Their
place is to protect the fate of the nation at all costs, not
Yang alone.”
“I wonder if they’d agree with that. I know I wouldn’t. And
another thing, Lebello—it makes me uneasy to think what
the Imperial Navy’s intentions really are and what they
might be planning. Maybe they’re waiting for us to rouse
Admiral Yang’s subordinates and bring about civil unrest.
That would give them every excuse to intervene. Not that
they ever do as they’re told anyway.”
Lebello nodded but could think of no better plan to rescue
their nation from danger.
If asked to personify the questionable existence of fate,
Lebello was convinced its limbs would flail around as its
central nervous system struggled to control itself. In any
case, the situation was quickly escalating.
The next day, on the twenty-first, the chairman was paid a
visit by Enrique Martino Borges de Arantes e Oliveira, who
oversaw the central think tank of the alliance government
as president of Central Autonomous Governance University,
a training school for government bureaucrats. They met for
three hours for a closed-door discussion. When they came
out of the chairman’s office, several guards observed that
Lebello’s lips were pursed in an expression of defeat, while
Oliveira wore a thin, insincere smile. In that meeting, a
proposition was made that was even more radical than
Lebello’s original decision.

On the following day, the twenty-second, morning dawned

peacefully on the Yang household. Frederica’s hard work
and effort had paid off. Her cheese omelets were now to
both of their liking, and her black tea–brewing skills were
improving. Although it was summer, Heinessenpolis was
spared the heat and humidity of the tropical zones. The
wind passing through the trees layered their skin with the
fragrances of chlorophyll and sunlight. Yang had carried his
desk and chair to the terrace so that he could try his hand
at writing out some of his thoughts, basking in the waltz of
light and wind composed by summer. He had a distinct
feeling that he was setting down what would one day
become a famous literary composition. Or maybe he was
just deluded.
Ninety percent of the reasons for war will be shocking to
posterity. As for the other 10 percent, how much more
shocking to those of us in the here and now…
When he’d written that far, rustic sounds echoed from all
directions, and the pleasant summer waltz faded in a
flourishing cadence. Yang looked toward the entranceway
and knitted his brow when he saw a tense Frederica
leading half a dozen men in dark suits toward the terrace.
The men introduced themselves gruffly. Their leader shot a
glance at Yang.
“Your Excellency Marshal Yang, by authority of the Central
Public Prosecutor’s Office, you are hereby detained on
charges of violating the Insurrection Act. You will come with
me at once, unless you’d like to contact your lawyer first?”
“Sadly, I don’t know any lawyers,” said Yang, discouraged.
He then politely asked to see some identification.
Frederica examined it for him. After determining its
veracity, she visiphoned the Public Prosecutor’s Office to
confirm. Frederica’s uneasiness was palpable. The nation
and government weren’t always right, as she well knew, and
Yang knew better than to resist arrest.
“Don’t you worry,” he said to his wife. “I’m not sure what
crime I’ve committed, but there’s no way they’ll execute me
without a trial. This is still a democracy. Or so our politicians
say.”
He was, of course, speaking also to his uninvited
messengers. Yang gave Frederica a kiss, a skill in which
he’d made no improvement since getting married. With
that, the youngest marshal in the history of the Alliance
Armed Forces, in his off-white safari jacket and T-shirt, was
forced to bid farewell to his beautiful wife.
After watching her husband go, Frederica rushed back
into the house. She threw her apron onto the sofa, opened a
drawer in her computer desk, and took out a blaster.
Grabbing half a dozen energy capsules in her palm, she
walked upstairs to the bedroom.
She came back down ten minutes later, clad in her active-
duty uniform. Her beret, jumper, and half boots were all
black, the scarf and slacks ivory white. In mind, body, and
attire, Frederica was armed to the teeth.
She stood before the body-length mirror at the bottom of
the stairs, adjusted the beret sitting on her golden-brown
hair, and checked the position of the holster at her hip.
Unlike her husband, she’d graduated from Officers’
Academy with full honors and was an excellent
markswoman. Even when devoting herself to desk work as
Yang’s aide at HQ, she never parted with her blaster and
wore the same uniform as her male counterparts, always
prepared to fight back in the unlikely event that enemy
soldiers ever stormed the premises.
With everything in order, she spoke to her reflection in the
mirror.
“If you think for one second we’re going to let you run our
lives, you’re sorely mistaken. The more you beat us, the
more your hands will hurt. Just you wait and see.”
This was Frederica’s declaration of war.

IV
Despite not being handcuffed, Yang Wen-li was dragged
into one of the low-rise buildings of the Central Public
Prosecutor’s Office, dubbed “the Oubliette.” It was a place
where suspected high-level criminals were detained and
interrogated. The detention room was comparable in size
and amenities to a high-ranking officer’s private suite on a
spaceship. It was, he thought, far preferable to the room he
had been thrown into at the time of his hearing two years
before, although the comparison did little to console him.
The public prosecutor was a dignified man past middle
age, but the daggers in his eyes cut against the grain of his
gentlemanly good looks. To him, there were only two types
of people: those who’d committed crimes and those who’d
yet to try. After dispensing with a customary greeting, the
prosecutor looked at the young black-haired marshal like a
chef eyeing his ingredients.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Admiral. Recently some odd
rumors have come our way.”
“Is that so?”
It seemed the prosecutor hadn’t been expecting that
answer. He’d rather expected Yang to deny it.
“Do you even want to know the nature of the rumor?”
“Not really.”
The prosecutor flung needles of hatred from his squinted
eyes, but Yang ignored them with characteristic
nonchalance. Even under the unilateral prosecution of his
trial, he’d never deferred to intimidation. The prosecutor,
for his part, stumbled over Yang’s renown and status, and
decided it was better to dial down on the bad-cop routine.
“People are saying that Admiral Merkatz, supposedly killed
in action during the Vermillion War, is, in fact, still alive.”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh, is it now? The world must always be so full of
surprises for you, eh?”
“Indeed. I live every day as if it were the first.”
The prosecutor’s cheek muscles twitched. He wasn’t used
to being mocked. Usually the ones who came before him
were in a much weaker position.
“Then it should be the first time you’re hearing of this as
well. There’s a rumor going around that the one who faked
Admiral Merkatz’s death and aided in his escape is none
other than you, Admiral Yang.”
“Oh, so I’ve been arrested on nothing more than a passing
rumor without a shred of evidence to support it?”
Yang was raising his voice, half-earnest in his anger. He’d
relented when presented with an arrest warrant and had
succumbed to being questioned, but if the warrant was
founded on nothing, then who in the government had
sanctioned it? As if to underscore Yang’s uneasiness, the
prosecutor went silent.

Around the time of Yang’s arrest, an official notice was sent

out to the following effect:
“Regarding the arrest of retired marshal Yang, there is a
possibility that his old subordinates will transgress our
lawful order and resort to taking matters into their own
hands. Regardless of whether they are active or retired,
you are to keep a close eye on the Yang fleet’s old leaders
and put a stop to any potential danger before it develops.”
This notice was a double-edged sword. Vice Admirals
Walter von Schönkopf and Dusty Attenborough, who’d
retired from service to become ordinary civilians, had
already guessed as much by the sudden appearance of
surveillance guards. But von Schönkopf’s feelers were
much longer and more sensitive than the government could
imagine. He had, more boldly and more meticulously than
Yang, been carrying out underground activities of his own
as a conspirator.
On that day, at eight o’clock in the evening, Attenborough
was called by von Schönkopf, whereupon he headed for the
restaurant known as March Hare. On the way, he turned to
look behind him several times, bothered as he was by the
guards tailing him. Upon entering the restaurant, a
gentlemanly mustached waiter led him to a corner seat.
Wine and meals were waiting for him at the table, as was
von Schönkopf.
“Vice Admiral Attenborough,” he said, smiling. “I see you
brought an entourage with you.”
“Retirement does have its perks.”
They noticed that both surveillance teams had come
together along a wall not ten meters from their table.
It wasn’t as if the alliance government had the
wherewithal to surveil every retired military leader, and
neither did the Imperial Navy. The lenses of prejudice and
caution, mused Attenborough, were focused solely on the
Yang fleet’s staff officers.
“Is it true that Admiral Yang has been arrested, Vice
Admiral von Schönkopf?”
“I heard it directly from Lieutenant Commander Greenhill
—Mrs. Yang, that is. It has to be true.”
“But they have no right. What excuse could they possibly
have to…”
Attenborough broke off there. He couldn’t stop the
powerful from doing whatever they wanted when they
believed in their right to monopolize interpretations of
“justice” and to alter the dictionary as it suited their needs.
“Even so, to execute Admiral Yang at this point would give
those aimless, smoldering anti-imperial tendencies a symbol
around which to rally, then erupt. Then again, knowing
them, I’m sure they’re aware of that already.”
“If you ask me, that’s exactly what the Imperial Navy is
hoping for.”
Attenborough caught his breath at von Schönkopf’s
answer, letting out a sound like a whistle that ended before
it began.
“You mean they’ll use this as a reason to round up the
entire anti-imperial faction?”
“And Admiral Yang will be their bait.”
“How very cunning.”
Attenborough clicked his tongue loudly. The empire, he
thought, wouldn’t be satisfied until it had gained total
domination over the alliance, and the very thought of the
underhanded methods they’d used to deceive their
commanders made his skin crawl.
“Will the alliance government allow itself to be taken for
that ride?”
“About that…Cunning as the trap may be, I can’t believe
anyone in the alliance government won’t see right through
it. The kicker is that everyone will have to go along with it,
knowing it’s a trap all the while.”
Attenborough agreed with what von Schönkopf left unsaid.
“I see. So, if the alliance government refuses to execute
Admiral Yang, that’s an automatic violation of the Bharat
Treaty?”
And an ideal excuse for the empire to conquer the alliance
once and for all. The alliance government couldn’t afford
another war. According to their logic, the unfair death of a
hundred people was preferable to the unfair death of a
hundred million. Attenborough frowned.
 “Of course, now I get it! The alliance government has only
one choice, and that is to prevent the Imperial Navy from
sticking its nose into this and to dispose of Admiral Yang by
their own hands.”
Von Schönkopf praised this colleague five years his junior
for his acumen. Since receiving Frederica G. Yang’s
transmission, which had likely been tapped, the alliance
government had been trying to read through a hastily
cobbled script to deal with the situation. In his head, a
completed crossword would look something like this:
“Here we have a group called the anti-imperial
extremists,” explained von Schönkopf, lowering his voice.
“Without knowing what the alliance government has done
to stave off total subjugation on the part of the empire, all
they can do is shout their democratic principles from the
rooftops. They put Admiral Yang on a pedestal as national
hero and try to bring down the current alliance government
as a challenge to the empire, regardless of the
consequences.”
Von Schönkopf went on:
“And yet, as an apostle of democracy, Admiral Yang refuses
to bring down the government through violent means.
Enraged, the extremists denounce Admiral Yang as a traitor
and ultimately kill him. The Alliance Armed Forces rush in
but are too late to rescue Admiral Yang, even if they are
successful in annihilating the extremists. Admiral Yang
becomes an invaluable human sacrifice toward protecting
the democratic principles of his motherland. It’s pretty
seamless, don’t you think?”
Von Schönkopf smiled bitterly. Attenborough lightly
brushed his brow, transferring cold beads of sweat to his
fingertips.
“But does the alliance government have the guts to pull it
off?”
Von Schönkopf turned to someone who wasn’t there with a
look of contempt.
 “A despotic government and a democratic government may
wear different clothes, but people in power never change.
They feign innocence for the wars they started, claiming
only the achievements of bringing those wars to an end.
They sacrifice anyone outside their circle, shedding their
crocodile tears. Such performances are their forte.”
Attenborough nodded and brought the whisky glass to his
lips, but his hand stopped in midair and he lowered his
voice further.
“Then whatever are those of us shouldering the honor of
being extremist military leaders supposed to do?”
Von Schönkopf seemed pleased with his young colleague’s
discernment.
“Then you also think we have a part to play in their little
scenario?”
“It’s pretty obvious. They’d even use Admiral Yang and
throw him away like unwanted trash, so you can be sure
they’ll use us as well to the best of their advantage.”
Von Schönkopf nodded and smiled, throwing a cold stare
at the plainclothes guards still eyeing them from across the
room.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if those bastards thought we were
discussing a rebellion against the government at this very
moment. In fact, they’re hoping for it. In which case, it’s our
duty as actors to play our parts to the fullest.”

Attenborough was riding in von Schönkopf’s landcar,

heading down the highway at night toward his house in the
suburbs. Because both were full of alcohol, naturally they’d
engaged the automatic driver. Von Schönkopf asked
Attenborough what was weighing on his mind.
“I’m a man without attachments. I’ve got nothing to live
for, nothing to hold me back. Is that true in your case, too?”
“I have a daughter.”
The shock Attenborough felt from this casually delivered
remark was probably the biggest of the night.
“You have a daughter?!”
“Going on fifteen…ish.”
Attenborough was about to stress the fact that he wasn’t
married but quickly realized how impolite that would be
and chided himself for getting so riled up. For while von
Schönkopf may not have boasted of having “a lover on
every planet” like Olivier Poplin, it would empty an artist’s
paint box to depict his varicolored history with women.
“Do you know her name?”
“She has her mother’s maiden name: Katerose von
Kreutzer. I hear she goes by Karin.”
“Judging by that name, I gather her mother must’ve been
a refugee from the empire, like you.”
“Could be.”
When Attenborough asked, in a somewhat suspicious tone,
whether he didn’t remember, von Schönkopf heartlessly
told him that he couldn’t very well bring to mind every
woman he’d slept with.
“Just thinking of the stupid things I did, back when I was
nineteen or twenty…”
“Makes you break out in a cold sweat?”
“No, I just never want to go back to that time. The very
existence of women seemed so fresh to me back then.”
“And how is it that you know you have a daughter?”
Attenborough couldn’t resist bringing the conversation
back around to that topic.
“Right before the Vermillion War, she told me in a letter
that her mother had died. There was no return address.
Although I’d been an irresponsible father, at least she’d
taken the initiative to let me know that much.”
“You never met her?”
“And if I did, what would I do then? Tell her how beautiful
her mother was?”
Von Schönkopf’s bitter smile was lit by flashes of light
through the window.
“This is the police. Pull over your landcar immediately.”
The two of them checked the gauge to see if they were
speeding and noticed several lights in the dark screen of
the rear monitor. Attenborough let out a nervous whistle.
“They’re demanding we pull over. What should we do?”
“I like giving orders, but I hate taking them.”
“That’s a good philosophy.”
The police car, having been duly ignored, raised the shriek
of its overbearing siren and closed in on them. From
behind, several backup vehicles joined in the pursuit, and
armed soldiers emerged from their reinforced glass
windows.

V
Immediately after his tasteless, largely untouched meal was
cleared away, Yang was told he had a visitor. For a moment,
he thought it might be Frederica, but just as quickly, he
abandoned that hope. The authorities would obviously have
rejected Frederica’s request for a meeting. Maybe it’s him,
Yang thought, none too happy about the prospect.
Chairman of the alliance council João Lebello appeared
before the young imprisoned marshal. When the door
opened, a dozen or so military police officers were right
behind him.
“It’s truly a shame that we should be meeting in a place
like this, Marshal Yang.”
His voice was well suited to the pensive mask he wore, but
it made no impression on Yang either way.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I didn’t exactly ask to be
here, either.”
“Of course you didn’t. Mind if I sit down?”
“Go right ahead.”
 As he took a seat on the sofa opposite, much more
uprightly than Yang, Lebello answered the unspoken
question.
“You have violated the Insurrection Act and become a
danger to the survival of our nation. These are the charges
brought against you by the imperial high commissioner’s
office.”
“And does the chairman agree with the charges?”
“I’m not sure yet. I was hoping you’d do me the favor of
denying these allegations outright.”
“And if I did, would you believe me?”
Yang could tell this conversation was going nowhere.
Lebello’s face went dark.
“Personally, I’ve always believed in you, but I can’t very
well deal with this situation on a purely emotional or moral
level. The survival and safety of our nation has nothing to do
with our one-on-one relationship.”
Yang vented a sigh.
“You can stop right there, Chairman. You’ve always been
known as a fair-minded politician, as your many actions
attest. So how can you think it’s at all natural to sacrifice
individual rights of citizens for the sake of the nation?”
Lebello’s expression was like that of someone with a
respiratory disorder.
“You know I don’t think that. But isn’t that how it goes?
Self-sacrifice is the most noble of human deeds. You’ve truly
devoted yourself to the nation. If you realize that way of life
to the very end, then posterity will value you even more.”
Yang was ready to object. Lebello was in a tough position,
to be sure, but even Yang had a right to assert himself. The
way he saw it, reality wasn’t reflected in the civil servant’s
mirror, and yet he’d always gone above and beyond what
his salary required. What’s more, he’d always paid his
taxes. After already being cursed as a “murderer” by
bereaved families of subordinates who’d been killed in
action under his command, why did he have to sit there and
be lectured by a representative of the very government for
whom he’d made all those sacrifices?
Yang chose not to speak what was on his mind. He gave a
small sigh and sat back into the sofa.
“What would you have me do?”
There was nothing admirable in asking for such
instruction. Yang wanted to know what Lebello really
thought. Lebello’s response was more abstract than it
needed to be and set off loud warning bells in Yang’s head.
“You’re so young to have gotten so far. You’ve never once
met defeat at the hands of even the most formidable
opponents. Time and again, you’ve saved us from certain
danger and kept our democracy from crumbling. Present
and future generations will intone your name with pride.”
Yang stared at Lebello. There was something almost
palpable that Yang couldn’t ignore in his far-too-formal way
of speaking. Was Lebello reading off Yang’s epitaph?
Lebello wasn’t speaking to the Yang of the present, but
justifying his use of the term “present and future
generations.”
Yang’s mental roads were suddenly jammed with traffic. In
fact, many fruits in the orchard of his intellectual activity
had ripened, and among them hung the very conclusion
that von Schönkopf had also reached. He didn’t want to
believe it, but the situation was beyond his control. Yang
reprimanded himself for being so naive. He’d had an inkling
for the past five or six years that something bad was going
to happen, but the situation had now thrown on a pair of
roller skates and amped up to full speed, and it was as if the
brakes of his shame were no longer operational.
“Naturally, good citizens should obey the law. But when
their nation seeks to violate individual rights by laws
they’ve set up only for themselves, it would be an outright
sin for those same citizens to go along with them. The
people of a democratic nation have the right and
responsibility to protest, criticize, and oppose the crimes
and errors committed by the nation.”
Yang had once said as much to Julian. Those who opposed
neither unfair treatment nor the injustice of the powerful
were no more citizens than they were slaves. And those
who didn’t fight back even when their own equitable rights
were violated were certainly never going to fight for the
rights of others.
If the alliance government was going to try Yang for
“commandeering military vessels and ordinances belonging
to the Alliance Armed Forces,” he could only be resigned to
his fate. But what of his opinion? The law was the law, and if
he’d broken it in any way, he had a right to stand before a
jury. But Yang wasn’t ready to give in just yet.
They wanted him dead, and this was the only way they
could get away with it. The government’s power structure
enabled laws through due process and punished criminals
in accordance with those laws. Premeditated murder was
an unjust use of their authority, and the act itself was proof
of the ugliness of their motive.
Even more deplorable was that his accuser was the very
government for which he’d performed his many duties.
Even knowing that Lebello’s hand had been forced, Yang
found it hard to sympathize. It was an unthinkable story, but
it stood to reason that the one being killed should be
worthier of sympathy than the one doing the killing.
Even if the government did have the right to kill him, he
wasn’t obligated to go down without a fight. Because Yang
was weak on narcissism, he agreed with the sentiment of
Lebello’s “epitaph,” but not out of some masochistic
allegiance to the idea that death by self-sacrifice was more
meaningful than death by resistance. He looked through
the figure of this unwilling actor to Frederica’s hazel eyes in
the background. She wasn’t going to just stand and watch
as Yang died a useless death or was unjustly abducted.
Rescuing her good-for-nothing husband would take every
ounce of courage and scheming she had. Until then, Yang
would need to buy some time. Yang turned these thoughts
over in his mind, barely noticing that Lebello had already
stood up and bid his farewell.

Admiral Rockwell, seated as director of Joint Operational

Headquarters after the establishment of the Lebello
administration, had yet to return home, waiting as he was
for a certain report in his office. The Joint Operational
Headquarters building had just the other day been
decimated from the ground up by a missile attack from the
imperial Mittermeier fleet, and minimal operations were
still being conducted in several of the underground rooms.
At 11:40 p.m., a transmission came via Captain Jawf,
commander of special forces. Jawf had failed to bring vice
admirals von Schönkopf and Attenborough into custody. The
admiral chewed out Captain Jawf, making no efforts to hide
his disappointment.
“Vice Admiral von Schönkopf is an expert in hand-to-hand
combat. I’m sure Vice Admiral Attenborough can hold his
own as well. But aren’t there only two of them? I guess I
should’ve lent you two squads.”
“But it wasn’t just the two of them,” Captain Jawf
corrected in a gruff yet dejected tone. “Rosen Ritter
soldiers came out of nowhere and attacked us, and so they
escaped. Highway 8 is covered in flaming cars and dead
bodies. See for yourself…”
The captain leaned out of frame to reveal a flurry of
silhouettes moving about orange flames painted on indigo
canvas. Rockwell’s heart did a triple axel in his chest.
“The entire Rosen Ritter regiment was in on it?!”
Captain Jawf rubbed the light-purple bruises on his
cheekbones. As you can see, he wanted to say, it took a lot
out of us.
“Their membership hasn’t been replenished since after the
Vermillion War, and yet there are still more than a thousand
soldiers attached to that same regiment. And not the usual
thousand, either.”
Admiral Rockwell shivered. No exposition was needed. The
Rosen Ritter regiment may have been exaggerating when
they said their combat abilities were comparable to those of
an entire division, but they clearly had enough resources to
substantiate that claim.
“Your Excellency, I’m fine with starting the fire, but I
wonder if we have everything we need to extinguish it.”
After voicing this half-sarcastic musing, Captain Jawf
waited for his superior’s answer, knowing beyond the
shadow of a doubt that the spread of fire was inevitable in
this case. Admiral Rockwell’s face was like a dozen sour
expressions in one.
“Beats me. Go ask the government.”
I
THE PLATEAU WAS FOUR THOUSAND METERS above
sea level and had been scorched bare by excessive sunlight
through a thin atmosphere. Julian Mintz sat on solid earth
that had been eroded more by time than by wind or water,
watching the rhythm of the waves gently breaking and
receding along the shore. The opposite shore was well
beyond the horizon, imperceptible to Julian’s naked eye.
The strong wind blew his flaxen hair into disarray.
This lake was called Namtso, located one thousand
kilometers inland from the southernmost coast of this
continent. It had an area of nearly two thousand square
kilometers and served as a landing spot for merchants and
pilgrims alike. After acclimating themselves to the altitude,
new arrivals would head out in landcars or on foot to the
holy land, where an eight thousand–meter mountain called
Kangchenjunga served as the Church of Terra’s stronghold.
People in black clothes dotted the landscape, barely moving
in the distance. Julian had been watching them for the past
three days.
The bluish-purple sky drew his gaze upward as if by
magnetic attraction. As he gazed upon that sky, Julian
recalled the eyes of the girl Poplin had introduced him to on
Dayan Khan supply base in the Porisoun star zone. Her eyes
had glistened as if under immense pressure and had
convinced Julian there was no room in them for himself. Her
name, if he remembered correctly, was Katerose,
nicknamed Karin. Her surname escaped him, but he was
sure he’d seen her before. She was a beautiful girl,
impressive in every way and impossible to forget.
Someone sat down next to him. Out of the corner of his
eye, he caught a glimpse of Olivier Poplin’s grin.
“You don’t have a headache?”
“I’m fine. I’m younger than you, Commander. I adapt
better.”
“I guess you are fine if you can talk back like that,” Poplin
snorted.
As Poplin stretched out his long legs in front of him, he
squinted and looked at the vast bluish-purple dome above
them. He’d only ever had an interest in everything beyond
this so-called sky, and since landing on the surface of this
“worthless planet,” three days had been enough to make
him homesick for what lay on the other side of the
atmosphere. The ace pilot said he was never meant to live
on land, but that was just his ego talking. Julian felt no
homesickness for the time being. But sooner or later,
thought the boy, he would come to agree with Poplin.
On July 13, Julian, along with four fellow travelers, hopped
in a reserved landcar and set out for Mount
Kangchenjunga, 350 kilometers to the south. Accompanying
him were Commander Olivier Poplin, Captain Boris Konev,
Ensign Louis Machungo, and a crewman with the overly
decorous name of Napoleon Antoine de Hotteterre.
Unfaithful was left in the capable hands of its administrative
officer, Marinesk, and its astrogator, Wilock. Such
precautions allowed them to leave the planet at a moment’s
notice should something come up.
 Marinesk and Wilock bade farewell, left the others on the
shore of the lake, and crossed over a massive landform
protruding in the distance.
The ground was like something out of a black-and-white
movie, interrupted only by the Technicolor brown of high
mountains. By the time the Creator had gotten to this
desolate land, his supply box had surely been almost empty.
The atmosphere and sunlight played harshly on the skin.
The panoramic ridgeline of the mountains was precise
enough to have been rendered by hand.
Realistically, it would take them twelve hours to reach
Mount Kangchenjunga. Along the way, they would pitch
tents and camp for a night. In such high altitude, it was
impossible to overestimate one’s own stamina. Making a
journey of ten thousand light-years to Earth only to collapse
from altitude sickness had all the makings of a morbid joke.
They’d packed the back of the landcar with space food,
medicine, and a modest selection of silver ingots for “alms.”
Boris Konev, who’d brought several groups of pilgrims,
knew from experience that such alms held currency value
as commodities and would only work in their favor.
According to him, everyone here was happy to receive even
a simple gift.
Along the way, they occasionally came across returning
pilgrims and exchanged casual greetings with them.
Meanwhile, Konev shared the various bits of knowledge he
knew about Earth.
“The United Anti-Earth Front was nicknamed the Black
Flag Force, but even after their indiscriminate attack, there
were about a billion people left alive. But even that number
dropped in the blink of an eye.”
Nearly all of them had abandoned their barren homeworld
for other planets, but bloodshed was rampant among those
who remained on the surface, first out of a need for survival
and subsequently for their beliefs. Boris Konev didn’t know
the specifics. What he did know for sure was that those
Earthers who fell from high positions of authority only
fought among themselves to satisfy their belligerence and
lust for power.
“So, Earth’s present degeneration can be traced back to
that meaningless conflict?” asked Julian.
“Who knows? It’s been eight hundred years since the
Western calendar ended. And this is an isolated and
introverted society. I’d be surprised if it hadn’t
degenerated.”
More surprising was that this incessantly degenerate
Earth had reverted to the same methods of influence that
had brought about its downfall in the first place.
“I’m hoping there’s some sort of reference room at the
church’s headquarters,” mused Julian.
“Even if there is, we may not be allowed inside.”
“If security is too tight and we try to break in, we’ll get
what’s coming. That might just be our chance.”
Either way, Julian knew they couldn’t do much of anything
until they’d gathered more information and acted
efficiently, and with better judgment. But Admiral Yang,
who was surely aware of these developments, had only
allowed this reckless plan because he thought there was
something useful to be found within the scope of Julian’s
capability.
The following afternoon, Julian and the others reached the
Church of Terra’s base of operations. More than a thousand
meters of Mount Kangchenjunga’s summit, which at one
time had pierced the azure sky, had been blown off by
missiles, giving it the appearance of an abandoned, half-
built pyramid. A deep ravine cut its way between the
plateau and the mountain peak. Julian’s group would need
to leave the landcar behind and scale the cliffs until
nightfall.
Inside the enormous door, sixty centimeters thick and made
of multiple layers of steel and lead, they found themselves
in a spacious room of bare concrete. A throng of believers,
each cloaked in black, sat waiting to be led in. Julian
guesstimated about five hundred of them. As he sat down to
join them, an elderly man with white hair who’d clearly
been sitting on his blanket for a while held out his basket
with a kindhearted smile. Once he caught the meaning of
this gesture, Julian thanked him and accepted a piece of rye
wheat bread, then asked where he was
from.
The elderly man gave the name of a planet Julian had
never heard of.
“And where are you from, young man?”
“Phezzan.”
“That’s much farther. I’m impressed, especially for
someone as young as yourself. Your parents must have
taught you well.”
“Thank you…”
Julian looked even less favorably on the Church of Terra’s
cultish ways now that he’d seen the simpleminded people
whose piety they were taking advantage of just to restore
their selfish power.
While Julian took stock of his surroundings again, a low
inner door opened to reveal a small congregation of what
appeared to be lower-level acolytes or clergymen in the
middle of their ascetic practices. They began mingling with
the believers, whose plain black clothing matched their
own. In exchange for waterproof sacks filled with alms,
which they received with chants of blessing, they handed
out guidebooks to the compound. Julian did as the other
pilgrims did, trying to hide his face as much as possible.
 “This is an underground shelter,” said Boris Konev with
blunt scorn when they’d first entered the room. “At one
time, the Global Government’s top army brass secluded
themselves in this fortress while directing the war with the
colonies. You may have heard good things about this place,
but…”
Secure in their fortress of thick bedrock, massive firearms,
and air purifiers, these military leaders had watched as
tragedy unfolded on the surface. They had plenty of wine
and women, to say nothing of food, and expected to enjoy
the tranquility of their underground paradise for years to
come. This enraged the Black Flag Force’s commander,
who, realizing that a full-on attack would be futile, instead
blew up one of the giant irrigation channels running
beneath the Himalayas, sending millions of tons of water
into their underground den of sin. Of the twenty-four
thousand people trapped inside, only a hundred had
escaped a death by drowning.
Julian examined the guidebook handed to them, thinking it
might have the whole incident recorded inside. Then again,
no religious organization, past or present, had ever thrown
open its infrastructure, financial affairs, and full backstory
to believers. Whatever was written there was probably a lie.
The grand chapel, crypt, bishops’ assembly hall,
archbishops’ assembly hall, Grand Bishop’s audience room,
confessionary, meditation room, interrogation room, and
several larger and smaller rooms besides were included in
the guidebook. There were, of course, also the pilgrims’
quarters and mess hall, but no reference room was
mentioned.
“Hey, find any nuns’ quarters in there?”
“Afraid not, Commander.”
“Does that mean men and women bunk together?”
“I’m amazed, perhaps even a little jealous, that you can
still go there, given the circumstances,” said Julian half-
jokingly, standing up with his rucksack in one hand.
 At the clergymen’s signal, the pilgrims obediently formed a
line and made their way slowly through the doorway. As
they followed suit, Julian and the others were handed small
tags, each printed with a room number.
Julian, Poplin, Konev, Machungo, and de Hotteterre quickly
confirmed each other’s lodgings. Machungo and de
Hotteterre were in the same room, while the rest were in
separate ones. Was this by chance or design? Julian
wondered. Before he could trace the implications of that
thought further, whispers of elation and excitement swept
through the fluorescently lit hallway as believers fell to
their knees along the wall. The reason for their obeisance
became clear when Julian noticed the solemn approach of a
black-clad procession.
“It’s His Grace the Grand Bishop,” came waves of
whispers.
Julian followed their example and knelt in kind, warily
observing the figure at the center of the procession.
He did more than wear black. It was the black clothing
that gave him any sense of form at all. That was how little
presence this old man had. So little, in fact, that Julian
found himself wondering if he was looking at a hologram.
His feet made almost no sound. His skin color was almost
indistinguishable from the fluorescent lighting. His eyes
seemed to be fixed on something way beyond this transient
world. Julian wanted to know if there was anything inside
his body. He had to know.
“To witness the countenance of His Grace the Grand
Bishop,” whispered an old believer standing next to Poplin,
tears of gratitude streaming down her face, “is a chance
one might not get in a lifetime. What a fortuitous blessing.”
“If I could,” muttered a dejected Poplin to himself, “I’d
rather go through life not having seen him at all.”
Poplin saw no evidence of wrinkles or even muscles in the
Grand Bishop. He was a dry shell of a man who looked like
he’d burn that much more quickly if one cremated him,
mused the ace pilot.

The archbishop was around thirty years of age. His

exceptional promotion was a result neither of his command
of doctrine nor depth of faith, but rather his abilities as a
natural-born man of the world. Had there been a
bureaucratic society on Earth, he might have ruled from its
summit. But because no such structure existed anymore,
he’d entered the Church of Terra and secured his position
as archbishop in the space of one or two years. He knew
better than to tell anyone that the only thing he worshipped
was his own resourcefulness.
“I understand our branch on the planet Odin has been
annihilated?”
“Regrettably, it would seem so, Archbishop de Villiers.”
His superior lowered his head solemnly.
“Baron von Kümmel is dead, and it seems everyone in the
sect martyred themselves.”
“Baron von Kümmel, you say? What a worthless man. What
did he live for, and what did he die for?”
A gloomy cloud of disappointment crossed the archbishop’s
face. His office was a low-ceilinged yet spacious room, filled
nine centuries ago with the souls of those who had drowned
—the very thought of which, if you asked him now (not that
he’d tell you), was laughably absurd.
“Even if Baron von Kümmel is to blame for our failure,
aren’t we taking things a little too fast?”
The old bishop’s voice was like that of an emperor
criticizing his highest general’s tactical error. At least that
was how the archbishop chose to interpret it as he glared at
his much older subordinate with venom in his eyes.
 “The Imperial Navy’s invasion is imminent. Such failures
are therefore nothing to worry ourselves about. We can
revisit the emperor’s assassination once we’re out of harm’s
way.”
“Indeed. We cannot allow our holy land to fall into the evil
hands of those heretics.”
“Don’t worry. His Grace the Grand Bishop already has
taken measures.” The archbishop’s lips made a half-moon
smile. “Knowing we were able to get that close to an
emperor, there’s no reason to think we can’t get close to an
admiral.”

II
On July 24, the 5,440 vessels of Senior Admiral August
Samuel Wahlen’s punitive expedition to Earth entered orbit
on the outer edge of the solar system. After receiving his
orders, Wahlen had quickly assembled a regiment of
cruisers, managing the difficult task of putting them into
formation along the way.
August Samuel Wahlen had been instrumental in helping
to establish the Lohengramm Dynasty. And while he had a
few defeats on his military record, his victories were
overwhelmingly many. His ingenious determination as a
tactician and his manly fortitude instilled confidence in his
soldiers.
If one defeat brought him shame, it was his loss in March
of that year, when, near the Free Planets Alliance’s Tasili
star zone, he had fallen prey to Yang Wen-li’s tricks and had
been unilaterally crushed. One would think his every vein
would have burned with regret at the time, but in terms of
recognizing his opponent’s worth, Wahlen was even more
flexible than his comrade Lennenkamp. And while he
admired Yang’s ingenuity with a bitter smile, he bore no
grudge against him. He was simply determined to never let
it happen again.
 He was greatly pleased by Reinhard’s order to capture the
Church of Terra’s stronghold. He’d never expected to have
the chance to redeem himself so soon. He had to satisfy
Reinhard’s favor at all costs, especially since the emperor
had chosen him over Wittenfeld to do it.
If the Church of Terra was indeed nothing but a cult, he
would have no trouble banishing them to some frontier
planet like the Galactic Federation of States had done eight
centuries ago. But there was no way he was going to take
their political influence, organizational abilities, and assets
for granted, especially considering they’d almost gotten
away with regicide. There was no sound reason to pardon
any terrorist group just because they acted in the name of
religion.
Wahlen was thirty-two years of age, the same as Yang Wen-
li and Oskar von Reuentahl. He was a tall and burly man
with hair of bleached copper wire. Five years ago, he’d
gotten married. A year later, their son had been born, but
his wife had died due to complications in the delivery. Their
son was being brought up by Wahlen’s parents. They’d
spoken to him of remarrying as many times as he had
fingers and toes, but he had no interest.
The frontier planet which humanity had abandoned nine
hundred years ago was reflected on the flagship’s main
screen. His chief of staff Vice Admiral Leibl, chief
intelligence staff officer Commodore Kleiber, and others
had assembled around their commander to plan their
method of attack in front of the 3-D display.
“I see. Under the Himalayas, is it?”
“Their underground headquarters is protected by a
hundred trillion tons of dirt and bedrock. We could attack it
with ELF missiles and be done with it in one or two
sweeps.”
“You mean blow up the whole mountain? Where’s the art
in that? Besides, the emperor was explicit about not
sacrificing any innocent civilians.”
 “All right, then. Shall we send in our armed grenadiers? It
wouldn’t take very long.”
Wahlen looked to his chief of staff.
“How many exits and entrances does their underground
base have? Unless we determine that, they’ll just escape
the moment we come barging in. Destroying their base and
killing any fanatics we can find, only to let their ringleaders
get away, would undermine the emperor’s good graces.”
“Then what do you—”
“Relax,” said Wahlen, reining in his chief of staff’s
impatience. “The Earth isn’t going anywhere, and neither
are they. We have until we reach Earth’s orbit to come up
with a solid plan. I’ve got a prized 410-year-old white wine
to present as a trophy.”
After releasing his staff officers, Wahlen leaned against a
wall and folded his arms, savoring the opportunity to see
the screen from anywhere but his commander’s seat. It was
a habit he’d kept since his days as a recruit. He was too
absorbed to notice that one of his noncommissioned officers
was cautiously approaching him.
“Admiral!” cried out one of his staff officers.
Wahlen wrenched his tall body just in time to dodge a glint
of light drawing a diagonal across his field of vision. He
recognized it as a battle knife as he rammed against the
wall behind him.
At once, Wahlen lifted his left arm to protect his throat.
The fabric of his military uniform ripped audibly, the blade
sending a searing pain through his muscle tissue. He waited
a moment for it to cool into a throbbing pain.
As splattered blood from his wound temporarily blinded
the raging eyes of his would-be assassin, Wahlen pulled the
trigger of the blaster in his right hand, sending rays of light
into the man’s right shoulder where it met his arm.
The assassin threw his head back, his hand still holding the
knife high, and let out a shriek of agony.
The staff officers, who until then had held fire for fear of
hitting their commander, wasted no time in leaping upon
the assassin, forcing him to the floor.
Wahlen’s face was pale from blood loss and pain, but he
managed to get to his feet and bark his orders.
“Don’t kill him! Keep him alive. I want to know who he’s
working for.”
But then a white light burst in a corner of his
consciousness, and the expeditionary commander fell
against the wall and slid to the floor.
The medic who rushed to his aid determined that the knife
had been coated with an alkaloidal poison and that if they
didn’t amputate Wahlen’s left arm, his life would be in
danger.
The surgery left Wahlen minus one arm in exchange for his
life. A lingering trace of the toxin left him feeling feverish,
conversely making the hearts of his staff officers run cold.

Wahlen pulled through a serious injury and fever that

might’ve brought anyone to death’s door, regaining total
consciousness sixty hours later.
After drinking the nutrients given to him by the medic,
Wahlen said not a single word about the left arm he’d lost
but instead had the noncommissioned officer who’d
attacked him brought into the sick bay. The assailant,
propped up between two soldiers, had a bandage around
his shoulder and appeared to be in worse shape than he
was.
“We didn’t torture him. He just won’t eat anything.”
Wahlen nodded at his subordinate’s explanation and
looked straight into the man’s eyes.
“Now then, you feel like telling me who sent you to kill
me?”
 In the eyes of the assassin, clouded by ashen fog, the
crimson flames of bloodlust rose again.
“No one ordered me. Those who refuse to let the sanctity
of Mother Earth alone must suffer by the transcendental
will that governs the entire universe.”
Wahlen gave a fatigued smile.
“Spare me your theology. I just want to know the name of
the one who ordered you to assassinate me. I’m guessing
it’s someone affiliated with the Church of Terra. Is he
aboard this ship?”
Tension had an eagle grip on everyone in the sick bay. The
assassin let out a maddening scream and began to struggle.
Wahlen shook his head once, raising his remaining hand
and ordering the man back to his isolation cell. His chief of
staff looked anxiously at his commander.
“Shall we interrogate him again, Your Excellency?”
“I doubt he’ll talk. That’s the way religious fanatics are. By
the way, when can you get me a prosthetic arm?”
“In a day or two,” the medic said.
Wahlen nodded, looking down at where his left arm used to
be, but soon turned away his emotionless gaze.
“Speaking of which,” he said abruptly, “isn’t there another
officer with a prosthetic arm on this ship?”
To which his staff officers exchanged bewildered glances,
but Commodore Kleiber’s superlative memory was
triggered.
“That would be Commander Konrad Rinser, one of the staff
officers aboard the flagship.”
“Yes, Konrad Rinser. I was introduced to him by Siegfried
Kircheis during the Battle of Kifeuser. Right, call him in.”
Thus, Konrad Rinser, imperial commander, came to be
under Senior Admiral Wahlen’s command, landing on Earth
before the main force to scout out the Church of Terra’s
headquarters and clear the way for companion forces to
invade.
III
On Earth—or rather, under it—time passed idly for a spell.
The date was July 14, ten days after infiltrating the Church
of Terra’s underground base, and Julian found nothing of
worth during his stint as a faux believer.
Surveillance cameras were installed everywhere,
rendering meaningful exploration of the compound
impossible, and any stairways or elevators leading to the
lower levels were invariably guarded. Being separated from
his fellow travelers meant Julian couldn’t freely associate
with them. Thinking he had no choice but to gain the trust
of his hosts, he’d engaged in a sort of involuntary servitude.
In between worship, prayer, and sermons, together with
other believers he cleaned the hall and sorted the
provisions storehouse, all the while committing the layout of
the underground base to memory. But even Julian couldn’t
help but feel like a fool and could only imagine that Poplin
and Boris Konev were in especial agony without a defined
sense of purpose.
On the night of the twenty-sixth (not that either noon or
night meant anything underground), Julian was finally able
to sit across from Poplin in the buffet-style mess hall and
speak to him quietly.
“So, any young beauties caught your eye yet?”
“No way. Just some antiques that might’ve been women
half a century ago.”
Poplin sipped his lentil soup with a sour face. The mess hall
had passed its peak time slot, so there weren’t many other
people around. The two of them were afraid of what others
might think if they talked for too long, but at least they
could talk.
“More importantly, did you find any sort of reference room
or database?”
“Nothing. Anything like that is more likely to be another
level down. I’m sure I’ll find it soon.”
 “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I won’t.”
“I haven’t said anything about it until now, but even if you
do find a reference room, there’s no guarantee it’ll have
what you need. These guys might be nothing but a cult of
megalomaniacal crazies.”
Poplin closed his mouth, looking past Julian’s shoulder in
that way he did when talking about women. Julian turned
around. The moment he did so, a piercing racket assailed
his eardrums. A male believer stood with his arms
overhead, while another was writhing under an upturned
table. Elderly and female believers screamed and
dispersed. The man’s eyes, which betrayed a long-lost mind,
glimmered from underneath his black hood. He lifted the
table with surprising strength, throwing it into the crowd of
believers. Another crash, and more screams.
Someone must have notified the authorities, because five
or six clergymen armed with stun guns jumped in through
the door and surrounded him. Thin cords shot out from
their guns and pierced the man’s body. A low-output, high-
voltage current sent him flying into the air before he hit the
floor with a short scream.
Poplin’s face, half-concealed by his hood, went completely
pale, as if some ominous suspicion had been realized.
“Dammit,” groaned Poplin. “So that’s it. How did I not see
it before?”
Poplin grabbed Julian by the wrist and led him out of the
mess hall, hurrying his pace against the crowd running over
to see what the commotion was all about. When Julian
finally asked what was going on, Poplin shot him a serious
look.
“We need to find a bathroom fast and throw up everything
we just ate.”
“Are you saying we’ve been poisoned?”
The ace pilot took a moment to answer.
“Something like that. That man who went berserk in the
mess hall just now? That was a classic reaction to a
psychotropic drug called thyoxin.”
Julian’s voice caught in his throat. Amid the cymbals of
shock crashing in his head, fine singing voices of reason
told him the truth. The food they’d been eating for the past
twelve days in the cult’s headquarters had been laced with
narcotics, the same addictive synthetic drug that both the
empire and the alliance had secretly collaborated on.
“It’s the reason why the Church of Terra’s followers are so
damned docile, like slaves,” said Poplin, shifting the focus to
the other believers, if only to ignore his growing
uneasiness. “A long time ago, revolutionaries used to call
religion the opiate of the masses, but this is a whole other
level.”
When they entered the bathroom, they jammed their
fingers down their throats and vomited up their meals.
While rinsing out their mouths, Julian was warned not to
drink the water, as there was a possibility that the entire
water supply was laced with the drug.
“Don’t eat anything else today or tomorrow, although if we
happen to go into withdrawal, we might not have much of
an appetite anyway.”
“But the others…”
“I know. We need to let them know as soon as possible.”
The two of them were on the same page. They could only
hope they weren’t being monitored right now. They had to
find a way, however risky, to avoid suspicion. But if they
continued eating the food and became addicted to the drug,
they would become nothing more than livestock for the
Church of Terra. They were hung on the horns of a
dilemma.
“At any rate, Commander, you sure do know a lot.”
Poplin cocked a half smile in response to Julian’s praise.
“Women aren’t the only thing I pursue. I’m a regular
walking museum.”
That night somehow passed without incident. Perhaps it
was because these lodgings were intended for soldiers that
this room of exposed bedrock was large enough to fit fifty
three-tiered beds. Curtains of tattered cloth were their only
barriers for privacy. At some point, Julian managed to fall
asleep, caught between real hunger and imagined
withdrawal.
From noon onward the next day, Julian sensed that his
physical condition and mood were beginning to deteriorate.
He was racked with chills, broke out in hot flashes, and was
becoming generally uncomfortable. He was lax in his chores
as well, made even more challenging for the lack of
nourishment.
Full-on withdrawal set in that same night.
He knew it was coming when something snapped inside
him, and his body began to tremble violently. Chills ran up
his spine, his heartbeat spiked, and he began coughing
violently in a way he hadn’t since he was a baby.
Someone grumbled from another bed, but he couldn’t stop
the cough no matter how much he tried. Wrapping his head
in a blanket was all he could do to muffle it. During one of
the brief interims that it abated, as he was fervently
steadying his breathing, the kindly voice of an old believer
came from the bunk above him.
“Young man, are you okay? Should I take you to the
infirmary?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
His voice was barely audible. His neck and chest were
soaked in cold sweat, and his shirt was stuck to his skin.
“Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“I’m fine. Really, I’m okay.”
Julian wasn’t just being modest. If the doctors examined
him and saw that he was experiencing withdrawal
symptoms, they were sure to pump him full of something
stronger and turn him into a total junkie. The cult was in on
it.
The urge to vomit jumped up from his stomach to his
throat. Anything that came up was pure digestive acid. He
pressed the sheets to his mouth and finally forced the bitter
liquid back down. After that first wave, he was again
wracked by violent coughing, now to the accompaniment of
stomach pains.
The other four—Poplin, Konev, Machungo, and de
Hotteterre—were surely braving the same storm, and Julian
knew he wasn’t alone. Even so, he couldn’t bear the eagle’s
grip of pain and unpleasantness wrapped around his body.
In the middle of a nasty coughing fit, he felt like he was in
the harshest G-force training. Beneath his damp skin, the
cells of his muscles began running wildly in all directions.
His internal organs and nervous system shouted a
hysterical resistance song as Julian’s sense of self was
thrashed about by strong winds and thunder. The pain and
unpleasantness of it all radiated from his core, bouncing off
the underside of his skin and back to his core. Shooting
stars streaked across the black canvas of his inner eyelids,
bursting into supernovas and battering Julian’s
consciousness.
A voice feigning kindness flowed into his ear canal:
“Whatever is the matter with you?”
Julian stuck his pale face out from under the blanket. After
who knows how long, the storm inside him was slowly but
surely giving up its seat to calm. Two men were looking at
Julian with courteous sympathy.
“I heard from other believers that you’re really suffering.
We share the same faith. Our hearts go out to you. There’s
no need to hold back. Come with us to the infirmary.”
The men had white square patches sewn onto their black
robes, designating them as the church’s medic unit. Try as
he might to deny it, Julian felt a divine presence. Was this
how he was supposed to react? He nodded obediently and
got to his feet. Taking that as a signal, his pain and
discomfort retreated into the domain of the past. Now more
than ever, his act would need to be convincing.

IV
Upon entering the infirmary, Julian knew that the door to
Ali Baba’s cave had at last opened before him. Two
preceding visitors were in the examination room—a refined
young man with green eyes and a hulking giant who
appeared more bovine than human. Although they were
both emaciated, their eyes flickered with hope when they
locked on Julian, who found that he was recovering
confidence and energy with every passing second. In his
mind, fate was still showing her gentle old woman’s profile.
“What’s with all the sick believers today?” grumbled a
middle-aged doctor whose white clothing stood out in a sea
of black.
Perhaps it was Julian’s own preconception getting in the
way of his thinking, but he didn’t look much like a man
who’d devoted his life to medicine.
“I wonder if something is making you all sick.”
One by one, the doctor placed a dozen syringes on a silver
tray. Poplin kicked one to the floor.
“There is,” he said calmly.
“Oh? What could that be?”
“Because you made us eat ketchup laced with thyoxin, you
damned charlatan!”
The doctor tore off his mask and sprang at him with a laser
scalpel in his hand. But Poplin’s agility wasn’t up to snuff.
The young ace flicked his wrist instead, sending a
hypodermic needle straight into the doctor’s right eye. The
doctor let out a bloodcurdling scream. The door opened and
two men from the medic unit came bursting in.
 Before one of them could reach for his stun gun, Julian’s
right foot sank into the abdomen of his black robe and sent
the man flying without a sound. The other was restrained in
Machungo’s iron grip, only to kiss the wall at ten meters a
second.
Poplin dissolved the white powder he had taken from a
desk drawer in a cup of water, then filled the biggest
syringe he could find. He knelt in front of the doctor, who
was sprawled on the floor, clutching his right eye and
struggling in pain and anger. Machungo pinned down one
of the doctor’s arms and wrapped a rubber tube around it.
Poplin spoke softly.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that once I inject this
much thyoxin into your bloodstream, you’ll die from shock
in under a minute.”
“Please, stop.”
“I’d like to, but life doesn’t always go the way you want it.
Sometimes, growing up means separating what you want to
do from what you’ve got to do. Well then, bon voyage.”
“Stop!” the doctor cried. “Spare me, and I’ll tell you
anything you want to know. Just stop.”
Poplin and Julian exchanged sinister smiles. Julian knelt
beside the ace.
“I want to know what the Church of Terra is hiding. First,
tell me, in no uncertain terms, where I may find the
church’s financial base of operations.”
The doctor’s left eye moved in Julian’s direction, exuding
fear and panic. The nonchalance with which Julian had
made his demand only made the doctor tremble more.
“I have no idea about such things. They don’t give me
access to that information.”
“If you don’t know, then I want you to tell me, if you can,
about those who do.”
“I’m just the doctor.”
Poplin laughed through his nose.
“Are you now? Then you serve no purpose here. In which
case, I’ll make a corpse out of you.”
The doctor’s final scream was drowned out by an alarm. An
electric current of tension ran through the three of them as
gunshots and explosions filled the air.
The door opened again. This time, the bishop-level
clergymen who came tumbling in took one look at what was
happening in the room and yelled as loud as they could.
“We’ve been invaded by heretics! I found some here, too.
Kill anyone who violates the sanctity of—”
Before he could finish his sentence, he was thrown against
the wall and slid to the floor as if refusing the wall’s
embrace.
“You call yourselves clergymen, yet you traffic innocent
people and who knows what else. Repent before God of
your impoverished hearts,” sputtered Poplin as he began
tearing off the bishop’s robe for a disguise. “It’s not so easy
taking off a man’s clothes. There’s no payoff for doing it.
Was this the reason I came all the way to Earth?
Meanwhile, Marshal Yang is living it up with his beautiful
new wife. Totally unfair.”
Poplin continued to deride the situation, but when he
peeked out of the half-opened door, he let out a soundless
whistle and stepped back a few paces, clutching his black
robe. He shook his head in exasperation.
“You know, Julian, things don’t always go the way you’d like
them to at first.”
“But over time…?”
“They usually get worse.”
Poplin pointed to a group of imperial soldiers taking full
advantage of their heavy artillery to barrel their way
through the cross fire.
I
WALLS OF ORANGE FLAME had turned one section of
the highway into a living oil painting. Fire brigadiers and
rescue workers were moving about between the corpses
and car fragments, sirens heightening people’s uneasiness
all the while. The night was filled with tension, spreading
out over the alliance capital of Heinessen.
On a hill one block away, a group of armed soldiers was
gazing at the carnage with both the naked eye and night
vision binoculars.
Three former Alliance Armed Forces soldiers in military
garb stood in the center of the group: retired vice admiral
Walter von Schönkopf, retired vice admiral Dusty
Attenborough, and retired lieutenant commander Frederica
G. Yang, now commanders of a “rebel force” against the
alliance government. When Frederica had married Yang
and the other two had handed in their letters of
resignation, they’d already made their choice between Yang
Wen-li and the alliance government.
Going by the definition that “strategy is the art of creating
a situation, and tactics the art of taking advantage of a
situation,” it was safe to say von Schönkopf and
Attenborough had acted as top-notch strategists
tonight.
“First, we incite a big uproar.”
The alliance government was secretly planning to kill
Admiral Yang, whom it had wrongfully arrested with no
evidence. Fear of an Imperial Navy invasion was mounting
into panic, and even without Admiral Yang’s involvement,
they were deluded in thinking they could keep the nation
from harm. At this point, the rebel force’s objective was to
bring about an imperial invasion, thereby allowing them to
rescue Yang.
“Second, we control that uproar.”
If the ensuing chaos went unchecked, then their dealings
with the Imperial Navy would also become too large to
handle, and they might end up summoning not
Commissioner Lennenkamp the fox, but Emperor Reinhard
the tiger. By streamlining the chaos, as it were,
Lennenkamp would feel confident enough to take them on
himself. In any event, they would need to buy some time.
Once they had Yang in their possession, they would flee
Heinessen and link up with Merkatz and the rest.
What came next was Yang Wen-li’s idea. Which was why
they were rescuing him in the first place—to make that idea
a reality.
“The problem is whether Admiral Yang will say yes.”
“He probably won’t say yes, even if we press him.
Naturally, it’ll be different if his wife is the one who
proposes it. Otherwise, he can rot in prison, and then no
one will be able to save him.”
As von Schönkopf said this, Attenborough shrugged his
shoulders.
“I feel sorry for Admiral Yang. He’d finally gotten out of
that uniform and was duly blessed with a wife and a
pension.”
Von Schönkopf winked at Frederica.
 “Gardens exist only to be devastated by scavengers. No
one should keep a beautiful flower all to themselves.”
“Oh, why thank you very much. But maybe I want to be
kept all to someone’s self.”
Both retired vice admirals then noticed the suitcase at her
feet.
“What’s with the suitcase, Lieutenant Commander?”
Attenborough asked.
“It’s his military uniform,” responded Frederica with a
forthcoming smile. “I think it suits him better than any
formal clothing.”
Then no other clothes suit him, no matter what he wears,
von Schönkopf mused to himself.
“Maybe I should renounce my bachelorhood as well,”
whispered Attenborough to the night sky.
“Sounds good to me. But before you do, let’s get this one
job over with, and fast.”
Von Schönkopf let out a shrill whistle, spurring his armed
soldiers into action. Fearing the alliance government would
be notified of the situation by the Imperial Navy, they
doubted if there was anything they could do to cover it up,
and so they decided to march headlong into the storm.
Perhaps this rebel force would be successful after all.

Free Planets Alliance council chairman João Lebello first got

word of the incident just as he was about to leave his office
for the day. The stiff face of Admiral Rockwell on his comm
screen glared at the chairman, who was amazed to learn of
the Rosen Ritter regiment’s mutiny, and concluded his
report.
“I humbly take full blame for this failure, although for the
record I’ve always been against these kinds of sly tactics.”
 “It’s a little late to be saying that now.”
Lebello barely managed to keep himself from yelling with
rage. He’d been assured there’d be no technical problems
in the execution stage. And before he shirked any
responsibility, he had to take down this rebel force.
“Of course, I will take them down. But if the situation gets
out of hand and the Imperial Navy gets wind of it, they’ll
intervene for sure. It would behoove you to keep that in
mind.”
Rockwell already saw little need in trying to earn the
chairman’s respect. His shameless expression disappeared
from the screen.
After a few seconds of deliberation, Lebello called the man
who’d instructed him on this “sly tactic,” Central
Autonomous Governance University president Oliveira.
He’d already returned home, but when he’d learned that
von Schönkopf and the others had gotten away and
launched a full-on counterattack, and after being scolded
for his failed plan, he’d sobered up from the fine brandy
he’d been nursing.
“How can you say such a thing?”
Now it was the brains behind the operation calling him out
for unfairness. He’d always interpreted the law as it was
written, and in the best interests of those enforcing it. For
legalizing certain privileges, he’d reaped small rewards,
and he had never taken responsibility for any trickle-down
effect of his decisions. He simply proposed plans and left
the implementation to others. He praised his own planning
skills even as he disparaged others’ abilities to get things
done.
“Chairman, I don’t recall twisting your arm when I gave
you my proposal. Anything that’s happened since then is the
result of your own judgment. In addition, I demand some
armed protection so that no harm comes to me.”
Realizing he could count on neither the brawn nor the
brains, Lebello left the council building and got into his
landcar. He was a sinking ship. No, he told himself, the
alliance government was the ship, and he was its
incompetent captain.
For Lebello, it was nothing more than karmic retribution
that he was scheduled to see an opera that night with the
imperial high commissioner. If he didn’t show up, the
commissioner might suspect foul play. And so, he made his
way to the National Opera House to waste the next two
hours of his life.
Lebello’s landcar was sandwiched by escort vehicles on
either side. Where normally one car was standard, such
protection increased in proportion to a decline in
governability. By year’s end, four cars would probably turn
into eight. His regret grew with each passing second.
Lebello folded his arms and scowled at the back of the
driver’s head. The secretary riding with him was trying his
best to avoid looking at his boss, directing his attention
instead to the nightscape outside, when he suddenly raised
his voice. Lebello turned his gaze to the window and froze.
Several landcars had made sudden illegal U-turns and were
rushing toward them against traffic. They’d apparently
disengaged their automatic controls and were driving
completely manually.
The drivers shouted insults at the secretary. From the
sunroof of a car closing in on them, they saw a soldier
emerge with a hand cannon.
The man shouldered the cannon, met Lebello’s eyes with
his own, and laughed without a sound. Lebello felt a lump of
ice slide down his back. As someone in a high position of
power, he’d been resigned to being a terrorist target, but
having the muzzle of such a large weapon aimed at him
crushed his theoretical determination and summoned a
deep-seated fear in its place.
Fire arrows were unleashed, and a thunderous roar tore
through the night. The escort landcars went up in balls of
yellow flame, rolling across the road. At almost the same
moment, those two balls of flame split into four, encircling
Lebello’s landcar in a dazzling ring.
“Don’t stop. Just keep going,” Lebello shouted, his voice
scaling upward.
But the driver chose to surrender. Lebello’s command was
ignored, and the quickly changing scenery outside his
window came to a halt. Surrounded by unfamiliar vehicles,
Lebello stepped out of his landcar at their center, feeling
little dignity in doing so. The council chairman, on whose
shoulders now weighed a sense of defeat, was approached
by the same man who’d just blasted away the escort cars
with a hand cannon. His shoulders were now free of their
burden.
“High Council Chairman, His Excellency Lebello, I
presume?”
“And who are you?! What’s the meaning of all this?”
“The name’s Walter von Schönkopf, and as of this moment,
you’ve just become our hostage.”
Lebello tried frantically to calm his heart and lungs.
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” responded von Schönkopf
without an ounce of zeal.
“Why all the theatrics?”
“I should ask the same of you. Between you and me, can
you really say with any pride that you’ve treated Yang Wen-
li fairly?”
“As much as it pains me to say this, the destiny of a nation
isn’t something to be examined through the prism of a
single individual’s rights.”
“A nation that does everything it can to safeguard
individual human rights would be a democratic nation,
would it not? To say nothing of the fact that Yang Wen-li has
done more for this nation than all of us put together.”
“Do you think my heart is not aggrieved? I know it’s unfair.
But ensuring the survival of our nation supersedes all.”
“I see. So, you’re an upright politician when it comes to the
greater good?” A bitter smile ran obliquely across von
Schönkopf’s graceful face. “And yet, in the end, you bigwigs
always end up standing on the side of collateral damage.
Cutting off your hands and feet is painful, to be sure. But
from the perspective of those same appendages, any tears
you shed just come across as hypocritical. What a pitiable
man—no, a great man—you are for having killed your own
self-interest in sacrifice to your nation. How does that
saying go? ‘Shedding tears as you put down your horse’?
Hmph. So long as you can get by without sacrificing
yourself, you can shed as many tears of joy as you like.”
Lebello was done trying to justify himself. Clearly,
submitting to dishonor was nothing more than the hubris of
a man in power.
“And what do you intend to do now, Vice Admiral von
Schönkopf?”
“Only what’s most sensible in this situation,” said the
retired vice admiral calmly. “Yang Wen-li was never suited
to play the part of the tragic hero. As an audience member,
I have a mind to finagle the script. I’m not averse to using
violence, as the situation demands. And the situation,” von
Schönkopf added with another smile, “indeed demands it.”
Lebello sensed no compromise or conciliation in that smile.
He had never signed up to be a tool for others.

II
Until he had been seated as the Free Planets Alliance High
Council chairman following Job Trünicht’s resignation, the
value of João Lebello’s ability and character had been far
from low. By SE 799, at the exact age of fifty, he’d already
served under two cabinet ministers, showing a rare talent
for administration and policy making in the fields of finance
and economy. He’d always been opposed to reckless foreign
campaigns, had kept the military from overgrowing, and
had striven to improve diplomatic relations with the empire.
His political opponent Job Trünicht often cursed Lebello’s
“honeyed words,” but never his character.
On this night, he’d become a target of intense criticism for
buckling under the pressure of imperial high commissioner
Lennenkamp and attempting to take out Yang Wen-li. Now
he saw truth in the saying, “A capable man in times of peace
reveals his true colors in times of crisis.”
But this kind of worldview was more apt to consider a
“profitable man in times of crisis” versus a “capable man in
times of peace.” Had Yang and Lebello been born half a
century earlier, the latter would have served the Free
Planets Alliance as a capable and noble statesman, while
Yang would have been a second-rate historian scolded by
the PTA for not taking teaching seriously enough and
making students learn everything on their own. And that’s
probably just what Yang would have preferred.
In any event, there was no doubt that Lebello was a most
capable hostage. For now, nothing else mattered to von
Schönkopf and Attenborough.
From his landcar, von Schönkopf cut in on a channel
reserved exclusively for military use. On the cloudy portable
visiphone screen, chromatic and neutral colors resolved
themselves into the shocked expression of a middle-aged
man with thick eyebrows and an angular jaw. Incredibly,
they’d managed to connect to Admiral Rockwell’s office at
Joint Operational Headquarters.
“This is the lawless, villainous rebel force. It is with the
utmost sincerity and courtesy that we present you with our
demands, Your Excellency. Listen carefully.”
One of von Schönkopf’s special skills was adopting an
attitude and tone of voice that sent his opponents flying into
a genuine rage. This time, too, Rockwell felt every fiber of
his being creaking with anger at the arrogance of this
unexpected talking head. Rockwell was in his midfifties and
in perfect health, a slightly elevated blood pressure his sole
cause for concern.
 “I take it that you’re von Schönkopf, head of the Rosen
Ritter regiment. Don’t go recklessly wagging your tongue,
you damned rebel.”
“I don’t know much about ventriloquism, so I’ll wag it as I
please. May I proceed with the particulars of our
demands?”
Having uttered this affected request for approval, von
Schönkopf waited for no answer before going on.
“The honorable alliance prime minister, His Excellency
João Lebello, is currently being put up in our luxury prison.
In the event that our demands aren’t met, we’ll be forced to
banish His Excellency Lebello to heaven and put an end to
this despair by attacking the Imperial Navy in the name of
the alliance, starting a magnificent war in the streets,
civilians and all.”
A war in the streets between the Imperial Navy’s armed
grenadiers and the Rosen Ritter regiment! Just the thought
of it made Admiral Rockwell shudder. Part of him relished
the prospect of engaging his romantic bloodlust, a fault
common to all military men, while most of him fell under the
influence of fear and uneasiness.
“You’d involve innocent civilians in your pointless
showdown just to save yourselves?”
“And what about you? You’d kill an innocent man just to
save yourselves?”
“I have no idea what you mean. Don’t slander us without
anything to go on.”
“Then let’s get back to our demands. Assuming you don’t
feel like attending Chairman Lebello’s state funeral, you are
to release Admiral Yang, unharmed. Oh, and a hundred
cases of the finest wine you can get your hands on.”
“It’s beyond my station to make that call.”
“Hurry up, then. If no one in the alliance government has
the proper qualifications, then we might as well negotiate
directly with the imperial high commissioner.”
“Don’t be rash. I’ll get back to you ASAP. You are to
negotiate only with the alliance government and the
military. At least that’s what I hope you’ll do.”
Von Schönkopf threw a vicious smile at the HQ director
and cut the call. Rockwell turned his fuming gaze from the
screen to his aide, who threw up his hands in exasperation.
He’d been unable to trace the source of the call. Rockwell
clicked his tongue loudly, throwing his voice at the screen
like a stone.
“Traitors! Unpatriotic bastards! That’s why we can never
trust anyone who defects from the empire. Merkatz, von
Schönkopf, the whole lot of them.”
And now Yang Wen-li, the very man who’d appointed them
to their posts. He should never have counted on that
disloyal, unpatriotic bunch for their talents alone. Those
who fought to live were useless, nothing more than
brainwashed livestock who spent their days happily,
embracing neither doubt nor rebellion as capable men for
the nation and the military. This wasn’t about safeguarding
democracy. It was, however, about safeguarding a
democratic nation.
Rockwell’s eyes flashed. An unfair yet proper solution to
the situation tempted him with irresistible sweetness. It
would be difficult to extricate Chairman Lebello from
imprisonment. But if they ignored his capture, couldn’t they
just leave it up to the alliance government to deal with the
rebel force? Yes, protecting the nation was paramount. And
no sacrifice, no matter what kind or how large, would be
spared to achieve it.

While Rockwell’s mental temperature was busy rising and

falling, the empire’s high commissioner Lennenkamp, clad
in his formal military uniform, was just settling into his
luxurious box seat at the National Opera House.
Although he hadn’t even an ounce of his colleague
Mecklinger’s affection for the arts, he knew when to be
polite and had therefore arrived at the Opera House just
five seconds before the appointed time. Nevertheless,
Mecklinger’s natural anger was aroused when their host
appeared to be late.
“Why has the chairman not shown up yet? Is he too proud
to sit with us uniformed barbarians?”
“No, I’m sure he has already left the council building and is
on his way as we speak.”
Lebello’s chief secretary servilely rubbed his hands. If
there was one bad attribute of bureaucrats, it was that they
could only grab on to human relationships as rungs for
going up or down. Lebello stood on Lennenkamp, and
Lennenkamp on Lebello. To whoever was in the higher
position at any given time, the other could bow and scrape
without even the slightest injury to his pride.
Just as Lennenkamp’s displeasure was reaching a breaking
point, he received a visiphone call. Everyone looking after
the high commissioner went out into the hallway reverently
like manservants as Lennenkamp heard out a report from
Vice Admiral Zahm, a chief officer in the commissioner’s
office. Chairman Lebello, he now learned, had been taken
captive by Yang’s subordinates.
The lips half-hidden by Lennenkamp’s mustache curved
upward. It was a better excuse than he ever could have
hoped for. The chance to openly blame the alliance
government for its lack of ability to handle things, get rid of
Yang, and compromise the alliance’s autonomy on the home
front had jumped right into his pocket.
Lennenkamp shot up from his overly soft chair, having no
need to cover up his disinterest in the performance.
Arrogantly ignoring anyone connected with the flustered
alliance government and the theater, Lennenkamp took his
leave. He was about to star in an even more magnificent
opera of bloodshed.

III
At some point in the future, Dusty Attenborough would wax
poetically about what happened thereafter, as if he’d been a
witness to history:
“At the time, I didn’t know which side had the upper hand.
The people of Heinessen were blind for all the smoke,
running around in a panic and crashing into each other at
every turn.”
Then again, it was Attenborough and his comrade von
Schönkopf who’d been throwing oil into the flames of that
confusion from the start. The side on which said oil was
being poured was in a total frenzy. And while both the
galactic imperial high commissioner’s office and alliance
government were spinning their own webs of conspiracy,
they were unable to grasp the full picture of the chaos,
trying as they were to find and exploit a weak point in their
opponents. Above all, the alliance government objected to
any obvious movements on the part of the Imperial Navy. In
the chairman’s absence, Secretary of State Shannon
became his representative.
“This is a problem that should be resolved within the
alliance. The Imperial Navy had better not stick its nose
into this one.”
The Imperial Navy’s response was high-handed.
“But the alliance government can’t seem to maintain its
own public order. It’s therefore in the empire’s interest to
defend the council’s well-being by mobilizing our own
forces. I can assure you that anyone who interferes will be
treated as an enemy of the empire, no questions asked.”
“If the situation does get out of hand, we’ll ask for your
assistance. I hope you’ll wait until then.”
“Then I’d like to negotiate directly with the highest person
in charge of the alliance government: His Excellency the
council chairman. And just where is the chairman?”
There was no point in dignifying such mockery with an
answer.
Under provision of the Bharat Treaty, viz the “Insurrection
Law,” government surveillance had kept Yang in check for
allegedly disturbing the amity between the alliance and the
empire. But no provision in the treaty stated that any
criminals who violated the Insurrection Law had to be
handed over to the empire. So long as no harm came to the
empire and those affiliated with the high commissioner’s
office, there was no reason for them to interfere. The
defeated alliance government had never abused this treaty,
which had been forced upon them, and had necessarily, yet
with utmost courtesy, rejected the Imperial Navy’s offer to
help. Lennenkamp, too, had forcibly ignored the treaty to
the point where his hands were tied.
In any event, the view on both sides was extremely narrow,
and their myopia was only worsening. From where Yang
sat, he’d all but succeeded. If the chaos and confusion
escalated any further, both the alliance government’s ability
to maintain public order and the imperial high
commissioner’s office’s ability to cope with crisis would be
called into question. Another solution was to call a draw
before the situation escalated beyond Heinessen, clap their
hands, and be done with it. But both Lebello and
Lennenkamp had no such audacity, and so they swam
desperately on, tumbling down a waterfall into catastrophe.
Yang couldn’t help but sympathize, at the same time
discerning one contributing factor in all of this: namely, that
von Schönkopf was fanning the flames.
“Some people just can’t leave well enough alone,” Yang
said to himself, ruffling his dark hair in his holding cell at
the Public Prosecutor’s
Office.
The steel door opened, and in walked a man that had
“military poster child” written all over him. Crew cut, sharp
gaze, stubborn mouth. The lieutenant was slightly younger
than Yang.
“It’s time, Admiral Yang.”
The officer’s voice and expression were more gloomy than
pensive. Yang felt his heart do an unskilled dance. His worst
fear had dressed itself up and manifested, ready to lead
Yang to the coldest place imaginable.
“I’m still not hungry.”
“It’s not time to eat. From this point, you’ll never have to
worry about food or nourishment ever again.”
Seeing that the officer had pulled out a blaster, Yang took a
breath. This was one prediction he was most unhappy to
see come true.
“Do you have any last requests, Your Excellency?”
“I do, actually. I’ve always wanted to try a vintage white
wine from SE 870 before I die.”
The lieutenant took a full five seconds trying to process the
meaning of Yang’s words. When at last he understood, his
expression grew angry. It was only the year 799.
“I cannot grant any impossible requests.”
Yang changed tactics by voicing a fundamental doubt.
“Why do I have to die in the first place?”
The lieutenant straightened his posture.
“So long as you’re still alive, you’ll always be the alliance’s
Achilles’ heel. Please, give up your life for your country. It’s
a death worthy of the hero that you are.”
“But the Achilles’ heel is an indispensable part of the
human body. There’s no point in singling it out.”
“Save it for the afterlife, Admiral Yang. Just take it like a
man. I can assure you that dying like this will not bring
shame to your renown. I know I’m unworthy, but I’m here to
help you.”
The one saying those words trembled with extreme
narcissism, while the one being forced into an undesirable
death felt neither joy nor deep emotion. As he looked at the
muzzle with a feeling more transparent than fear, he told
himself he was ready. The lieutenant posed for effect, took a
deep breath, and stretched out his right arm. He aimed at
the center of Yang’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
But the beam of light shot through empty space, exploding
off the opposite wall and scattering in particles of light.
Shocked at his failure, the lieutenant’s gaze tore up the
room in search of a prey that should’ve been cornered.
Yang had, one fraction of a second before being killed,
fallen to the floor, chair and all, as he evaded the blaster
ray.
As those in the know would later say, even Yang was
impressed with his own performance. But he’d only run into
a blind alley. Once he fell to the floor, he made no attempt to
move. Seeing the cruelty flickering across his executioner’s
face, it seemed he’d only succeeded in moving the spot
where he was going to die a meter downward.
“You’re pathetic, Your Excellency. And they have the nerve
to call you ‘Miracle Yang’?”
Looking down into the abyss of death, Yang was furious.
And just when he was about to say something back to his
assassin, the glint of the steel door as it opened behind the
lieutenant caught his eye. A moment later, a ray of light
sprouted from the man’s thick chest. The lieutenant’s
scream hit the ceiling as he threw his head back, his hefty
body doing a half turn and falling headfirst onto the floor.
Yang pulled himself onto the shore of life to see golden-
brown hair, hazel eyes brimming with tears, and lips
repeatedly calling out his name. Yang stretched out his
arms and embraced the slender body of the one who saved
him.
“I owe you my life. Thank you,” he said at last.
Frederica just nodded, barely able to comprehend her
husband’s words. A veritable explosion of emotions had
liquefied into tears. He wiped away her tears, but she went
on crying like that child he had briefly met eleven years
ago.
“Wait, you’ll spoil that beautiful face of yours. Hey, don’t
cry…”
Yang stroked his wife’s face, feeling even more bewildered
than when he was being attacked by a fleet of ten thousand
ships from the rear, when a boorish intruder appeared to
take control of the situation.
“Our dearest marshal, we have come for you.”
With refined boldness, the former Rosen Ritter regimental
commander saluted. Yang held Frederica with his right
arm, only now saluting back unabashedly.
“My apologies for all the overtime I’ve put you through.”
“It was my pleasure. Even a long life has little meaning if
one doesn’t live it fully. That’s why I’m here to save you.”
Von Schönkopf had taken his tactical actions to the
extreme. He’d informed the military he’d taken the
chairman hostage and given them some time to answer, all
the while rescuing Yang by force. Rockwell had been duped.
By stalling, he’d accommodated von Schönkopf’s actions to
fruition. But not even von Schönkopf could have predicted
that Rockwell would go so far as he did to seize this rare
opportunity to “deal with” Yang. In theory, he’d had more
than enough time to quietly rescue Yang, when in reality
he’d gotten there in the nick of time.
“Well, maybe it won’t be of much use to you, but please,
take this blaster just in case,” said Commander Reiner
Blumhardt, handing over his weapon.
Technically speaking, Commander Blumhardt was now
official
commander of the Rosen Ritter. While it was only natural
that a thirteenth-generation regimental commander like
von Schönkopf should ascend to admiral, he was unable to
become a commander of one regiment. Fourteenth-
generation regimental commander Kasper Rinz had led half
of his troops and thrown himself into Merkatz’s fleet,
officially MIA during the war. Upon returning to the capital,
Blumhardt had received notice that he was to be acting
regimental commander, but since the alliance had
surrendered to the empire, the chances of keeping an
organization composed of young refugees going were slim.
It was probably better to just dissolve the regiment
altogether than to be targets of vengeful punishment. In the
same way that Yang was liable for Merkatz and the others,
von Schönkopf was responsible for his men, and on this day
he’d bound his future to theirs. There was no turning
back now.
Outside the door, there were signs of guards on the move.
“We are the Rosen Ritter regiment,” said Blumhardt
proudly through a megaphone. “If you still wish to fight us,
then write your wills and come at us. Or we can write your
wills for you, in your own blood.”
It was a bluff, but the formidable track record of von
Schönkopf and the Rosen Ritter was enough to strike fear
in the Central Public Prosecutor Office’s guards. Their
belligerence quickly went extinct, as short-lived as their
bravery and audacity. Although the alliance government
used to exaggerate the ferocity of von Schönkopf and his
gang to strike fear into enemy nations, now it was their
former allies who’d grown afraid of the thorns.

The moment Yang changed into his military uniform in the

back seat of a landcar rushing through the night, his short
stint as a pensioner ended. He reverted to the man he once
had been on Iserlohn Fortress. Frederica looked happily
upon the gallant figure of her husband.
“Mind telling me what tonight’s ‘volunteer work’ was all
about, Vice Admiral von Schönkpopf?” asked Yang of the
principal offender as his wife adjusted his black beret.
“I’ve always had a great interest in how order-following,
law-abiding men such as yourself think and act when they
escape the kind of bondage you were under. Isn’t that
reason enough?”
Without answering, Yang fiddled with the shortwave
emission device that was disguised as a cufflink, a little
something Frederica had attached to the safari jacket she’d
given him when he was arrested. It had alerted his wife to
his location and saved his life. As he put this accessory to
which he was so indebted into his pocket, Yang’s mind was
elsewhere. He asked an unrelated question instead.
“You’ve always supported me, telling me I should grab
power by the reins. But what happens when I take power
into my own hands and my character changes?”
“If you do change, you’ll be no different than anyone who
came before you. History would repeat itself, and you’d be
just another character in textbooks who will trouble future
middle schoolers for centuries to come. Anyway, why not try
a bite before you go criticizing the flavor?”
Yang folded his arms and groaned quietly.
Even his Officers’ Academy junior Dusty Attenborough
nodded with a grimace.
“Vice Admiral von Schönkopf is right. Admiral Yang, at the
very least you have a responsibility to fight for those who
fought for you. You don’t owe the alliance government
anything anymore. It’s time you went all-in.”
“Sounds like a threat to me,” grumbled Yang, only half-
serious.
From the moment his life was saved, Yang had ceased to
be his own property.
“You’re being too optimistic,” Yang continued. “Anyone who
thinks he can survive with both the empire and the alliance
as his enemies is beyond mad. Tomorrow, I might very well
be part of a funeral procession.”
 “Well, I suppose that could happen. You’re not immortal. If
I had to die, I wouldn’t mind going out that way myself. I’d
rather die as a staff officer for Admiral Yang the famous
rebel than as the slave of a slave of the empire. At least my
descendants will remember me fondly.”
At this point, it was Yang’s stomach, not his mouth, that
protested. He hadn’t eaten in more than half a day. With a
knowing look, Frederica took out a basket.
“I brought some sandwiches. Here you go, dear.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“Of course. I’ve got black tea, too.”
“With brandy?”
“Of course.”
“Are we having a picnic now?” muttered Attenborough,
stroking his chin.
Von Schönkopf responded with a bitter smile.
“Not even. A picnic would be a lot more involved.”

When Yang Wen-li’s figure seized the center of his vision,

João Lebello reflexively did a double take. It was because of
him that the alliance’s prime minister had necessarily
upheld dignity and advocated for justice. Seeing Lebello’s
elated figure puffed up with pride, it was Yang who couldn’t
suppress a sigh. While he respected Lebello as a public
figure, he just couldn’t abide by him as a man.
Their secure hideout was a room in a building the Rosen
Ritter had boldly set up not one kilometer away from the
Hotel Shangri-La, which housed the imperial high
commissioner’s office. Its owner had gone bankrupt before
it had even been finished, and the building had been
abandoned ever since. Its bare inner concrete walls were
soundproofed. As a welcome space for a prime minister, it
left much to be desired.
The prisoner in question was the first to speak.
“Admiral Yang, you do have some sense of the crimes
you’ve committed, right? Breaking the law with force,
wounding our national sanctity, showing contempt for
public order. Need I go on?”
“And just how have I broken the law?”
“Are you really going to cajole me into pardoning you after
you’ve unlawfully imprisoned me like this?”
“Ah, I see.”
A bitter smile crossed Yang’s face, like that of an assistant
professor who’d just pointed out a grammatical error in a
student’s essay. Attenborough laughed at Lebello. That’s
when Lebello understood. He went pale with humiliation.
“If you don’t want to add to your crimes, I suggest you
release me at once!”
Yang took off his black beret and ruffled his hair, taking on
the expression of a drama teacher scrutinizing his protégé’s
performance. Daunted, Lebello relaxed his shoulders.
“Do you have any demands? If so, then just tell me.”
“The truth.”
Lebello said nothing.
“Just kidding. I would never ask for something so pointless.
I only ask that you guarantee our safety. Not indefinitely,
but within a given period of time.”
“You are public enemies of the state. I cannot make any
deals that would defy justice.”
“Are you saying that so long as the Free Planets Alliance
government exists, my friends and I will never know
peace?”
Lebello gave no immediate reply, having sensed something
akin to danger in Yang’s tone.
“If that’s the case, I must also become a disciple of egoism.
If necessary, I might even sell my own nation to the empire
for next to nothing.”
 “Do you think I’d allow you to do something like that?! As
an admiral, you also held an important position in the state.
Does your conscience harbor no shame?”
“Now there’s a fine piece of logic,” von Schönkopf
interjected, fixing his gaze on Lebello. “It’s okay for a nation
to sell individuals, but not vice versa?”
Yang cleared his throat slightly.
“So, will you at least consider my proposal?”
“Proposal?”
“We take Commissioner Lennenkamp hostage, then leave
planet Heinessen. The alliance government will go through
the motions of pursuing us without actually doing so. I will
take full responsibility for any conflict with the empire.
Should the alliance bow to the empire and ask them to rat
out and arrest Yang Wen-li, you’ll end up saving face.”
Lebello mulled over Yang’s proposal in silence. His self-
interest was running around a maze in his heart, looking for
a safe exit.
“I have one more condition. I should hope you won’t punish
anyone who has remained in the alliance government.
Those who served under me—Caselnes, Fischer, Murai,
Patrichev, and many others besides—had absolutely nothing
to do with this whole ordeal. If you can swear to me, by all
the dignity invested in you by the alliance government and
democracy, that no harm will come to them, then I will leave
Heinessen. Of course, we will release you, Chairman, and
bother the people no longer. Does that sound reasonable?”
It wasn’t the government but the part about “the people”
that spoke for Yang’s sentiments. Lebello heaved a sigh. It
seemed he’d found an exit after all.
“Admiral Yang, I have no intention of apologizing to you.
I’ve been entrusted with the heaviest of responsibilities in
the most difficult of times. For the sake of ensuring the
survival of the Free Planets Alliance and the generations to
come, I will resort to any method, no matter how
underhanded. I am, of course, resigned to any censure that
arises from my actions.”
“In other words, you agree to my proposal to take
Lennenkamp hostage,” was the ever-prosaic Yang’s
response. “Then that’s that. Vice Admiral
von Schönkopf, I leave you in command.”
“You can count on me.”
Von Schönkopf nodded happily. Lebello wanted nothing
more than to call them warmongers, but instead asked
when he could expect to regain his freedom.
“When His Most Unfortunate Excellency Lennenkamp
loses his.”
A member of the group, Captain Bagdash, who’d been
observing from the sidelines, walked up to von Schönkopf
and whispered in his ear.
“It’s not my place to say so, but I don’t think you should
trust them. Not only Chairman Lebello, but all those
powerful men he surrounds himself with. They bow only to
the highest bidder.”
“Does that mean they’ll deny Admiral Yang’s proposal?”
“They’ll say ‘yes,’ if only because they failed to conceal the
incident itself and they want to strong-arm Admiral Yang
and everyone responsible. But who knows how the situation
might change? If it’s to their advantage, I wouldn’t put it
past them to erase Lennenkamp and all of us with him.”
Bagdash was an expert in intel and subversive activities,
and had once belonged to the camp that antagonized Yang,
so even after having his name entered as Yang’s staff
officer, he was constantly being frowned upon. In this
instance, however, he’d been instrumental in the gathering
and analysis of information, and in planning the attack on
Lebello, and by those services rendered had established a
foothold and trust within the group. Maybe they’d missed
their chance after all.
“What worries me is Admiral Yang’s lingering affection for
the alliance’s democratic government. I’d be concerned if
he thought his punishment would have any positive effect
on the alliance.”
“I think everything will work out. Even if he regrets it now
and goes back, he can kiss his pension goodbye. He’ll have
to give it up and become self-reliant.”
“And you? Have you given it up?”
“Giving up is one of my redeeming qualities. It was the
same when Your
Excellency von Schönkopf saw through my plans two years
ago.”
“The sun will be out any second now.”
From the thick summer clouds, Bharat’s sun cast its first
beams. The night was quickly retreating, but left behind
chaos in its wake, making no attempt to dispel the deep
black shadows. Traffic was intercepted throughout the city
as alliance troops and police ran wild under a broken chain
of command.
“All right, then, shall we begin our assault at dawn?”
Von Schönkopf picked up his helmet.
“The Hotel Shangri-La it is.”
Commander Blumhardt tore up the pavement of his
memory, on the underside of which was recorded some
beneficial information. He smiled knowingly, confident of
their success, gathering his company commanders and
doling out his tactical commands.

The Hotel Shangri-La had become a bastion of sorts,

surrounded as it now was by a sea of fully armed imperial
soldiers. At Lennenkamp’s instructions, they’d gained
control of key locations in the city streets of the alliance
capital of Heinessen and assumed battle formation, easily
declaring martial law. Since the alliance capital had become
prisoner of war to a supposed group of rebel soldiers, any
nonsense such as esteem for sovereignty had been thrown
down the garbage chute.
The alliance, naturally unaware of the situation brewing in
the imperial mainland, had stormed its own capital.
At around midnight, the alliance government had been
desperately trying to keep knowledge of these
developments from reaching the Imperial Navy. After
midnight, the Imperial Navy’s occupying forces in
Heinessen were anxious about leaking information to their
allies.
Lennenkamp, who’d taken up position on the hotel’s
fifteenth floor, intended to deal with the situation using
Heinessen’s ground forces—in other words, the sixteen
regiments of soldiers under his command. And if that wasn’t
enough to staunch the flames, then those flames would
jump through the abyss of the universe and alight
themselves on the torch of Admiral Steinmetz stationed in
the Gandharva star system.
In that case, the task of subjugation would revert to
Steinmetz, and Lennenkamp’s ineffective handling would
be denounced. If Lennenkamp, after suppressing Yang’s
clique and enslaving the alliance government, couldn’t gain
a new position and power befitting of his achievement, then
the mayhem of the previous night would be rendered
meaningless.
The group of rebel soldiers, even with the formidable
Rosen Ritter regiment at its core, numbered little more
than a thousand. Alliance government officials had let rage
get the better of them when they tried to rush Yang’s
execution, only to be beaten at their own game. Even
Lennenkamp couldn’t fully grasp their movements,
unaware that he’d already been sold by Lebello to the Yang
camp.
At 5:40 a.m., the thick carpet beneath Lennenkamp’s feet
undulated for a moment, followed by the sounds of muffled
explosions. If not for the early-morning cityscape outside his
window, he might’ve been deluded into thinking he’d
sustained a direct hit from an enemy warship cannon. Just
as he was considering the possibility of an earthquake, an
officer pale with shock burst into his office and announced
that the fourteenth floor directly beneath them had been
occupied by unidentified soldiers. Lennenkamp jumped to
his feet.
Almost like magic, von Schönkopf and his men had gone
through the underground communications conduits, then
the elevator repair shaft, which ran vertically throughout
the entire building, to reach the fourteenth floor. They blew
up two elevators and three stairways, but were confronted
by imperial forces at the top of the eastern stairway, which
they’d barely managed to obstruct. An imperial officer with
a captain’s insignia shouted at them.
“Stop your useless resistance! If you don’t come out, I’ll
have you swimming in a sea of your own blood.”
“Too bad I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”
The officer’s blood pressure shot up at having been
ridiculed.
“I’ll let that one slide. Now surrender. If you refuse, I can
assure you we’ll hold nothing back.”
“Then show us what you’ve got.”
“Very well. Be prepared to put your scraps where your
mouth is, sewer rats.”
“Same goes for you. You should’ve thought twice before
blowing things up without listening to everything your
opponent has to say.”
The captain’s open mouth was plugged up by an invisible
fist. A subordinate’s announcement barely stopped him
before he screamed in retaliation.
“Not so fast, we can’t use firearms. The concentration of
Seffl particles has reached critical mass.”
The captain gritted his teeth over the enemy’s craftiness,
and immediately went to Plan B. Five of his company’s
armed grenadiers were called into the hotel. They would
need to fight their way in using hand-to-hand combat and
rescue the high commissioner from his confinement.

Von Schönkopf calmly watched through his helmet as a

crowd of shining silver-gray battle suits gathered at the foot
of the stairs. These figures, who appeared to have left their
fear back in the womb, were the living definition of bravery.
Even Blumhardt thought as much, and the callousness and
pride of the imperial soldiers as they drew near made his
entire body grow red hot. When the command to charge
was given, the imperial soldiers stampeded up the stairs.
The soldier at the front held a carbon-crystal tomahawk
which glinted in the light. Von Schönkopf leapt at him, thus
setting off what would come to be known by diehard
romantics as the “red cascade.” The first blood was to be
scattered from this unhappy soldier’s body. Von Schönkopf
ducked under the tomahawk as it cleaved the air. In the
following moment, he swung his own tomahawk obliquely,
slicing through the helmet and seams of the soldier’s
uniform to meet the jugular underneath. As blood spewed
everywhere, the soldier fell, and a voice filled with anger
and hatred spouted from below.
“Vice Admiral,” Blumhardt shouted, “it’s dangerous for you
to be commanding from the front line.”
“No need to worry. I plan on living to a hundred and fifty. I
still have a hundred and fifteen years to go. I’m not going to
die here.”
“There aren’t any women here, either.”
Blumhardt, well aware of the glorious achievements of von
Schönkopf off the battlefield, knew his words wouldn’t be
taken as a joke. There was no time for von Schönkopf to
object, anyway. The dreadful sound of many footsteps came
rushing up the stairs.
Von Schönkopf and Blumhardt immediately entered a
cyclone of bellows and shrieks, metallic impacts, blood and
mingling sparks. As carbon-crystal tomahawks drew arcs in
the air, fatally wounded imperial soldiers fell down the
stairs, covered in blood.
Von Schönkopf wasn’t about to make the mistake of taking
on several enemies at the same time. His four limbs and five
senses were all under the perfect control of his central
nervous system, orchestrating short yet severe slashing
attacks into every opponent, staving off battle fatigue at
every turn.
Dodging one attack with a twist of his tall body, he
countered with another to the neck. As each fatally
wounded enemy fell to the floor, von Schönkopf was already
moving on to the next one.
A tomahawk kicked up wind, while another cleaved that
wind. Clashing blades sent sparks and carbon-crystal
fragments flying, while spurting blood painted a morbid
jigsaw puzzle across the floor and walls. Massive amounts
of pain ensued, interrupted only by death. Von Schönkopf at
first avoided the spurts of blood from his victims, but
eventually could no longer favor aesthetics over perfect
defense. His silver-gray battle suit, which reminded one of
medieval armor, was covered in several different blood
types, fresh from his defeated enemies. Unable to endure
their losses, the imperial troops retreated downstairs, even
as they ground their teeth with regret. Von Schönkopf
clapped Blumhardt on the shoulder.
“Lennenkamp is all yours. Take only ten men with you.”
“But, Your Excellency…”
“Do it now! The sand in the hourglass is far more precious
than any diamond.”
“Understood.”
After Blumhardt disappeared with ten soldiers, von
Schönkopf led the twenty left behind. Von Schönkopf posed
at the top of the stairs, provocatively swinging a tomahawk
polished in human blood.
“What’s wrong? Is there no one who will stand before
Walter von Schönkopf?”
Von Schönkopf was putting on this little performance in
the hope it would buy them some time.
A young soldier, full of determination yet obviously lacking
in experience, came running up the stairs. Although he
brandished his tomahawk with plenty of vigor, von
Schönkopf could see how futile the attack was.
Their tomahawks clashed, flashing with sparks. The
outcome was decided in a moment as one of the tomahawks
clattered across the floor. The soldier with a tomahawk
poised at his throat experienced von Schönkopf’s laugh as if
it were the devil’s.
“Do you have a girlfriend, young man?”
The soldier was silent.
“Well, do you?”
“Y-yes.”
“I see. Then take my advice: Don’t throw away your life so
easily.”
Von Schönkopf thrust the handle of his tomahawk into the
young soldier’s chest, sending him tumbling down the
stairs, leaving his short scream hanging in the air above the
landing. Fresh grunts of anger arose from the bottom of the
stairs. As von Schönkopf and his men were delving into that
moat, Blumhardt and his were storming into Lennenkamp’s
room. They surrounded the door and made to pass through
a much shallower moat of human blood.
The imperial soldiers’ brave yet futile resistance reached
its final movement in a matter of seconds. Eight corpses
tumbled onto the floor, leaving only the high commissioner.
Light surged out from the blaster in Lennenkamp’s right
hand. It was not a single flash, but a continuous rapid fire
with perfect aim. He had, after all, started out as a soldier.
 One of the Rosen Ritter members was hit in the center of
his helmet and toppled sideways. He’d been too close to
evade the shot. Blumhardt nimbly went around and cut in
on Lennenkamp’s right flank, sending his blaster to the
floor with a single attack, then drove the butt of his blaster
into the commissioner’s chin.
Lennenkamp stopped himself from falling by putting both
hands on his desk, his voice bellowing from a bloody mouth.
“Just kill me already!”
“I’m not going to kill you. You’re my prisoner.”
“Do you think a low-ranking officer, let alone a senior
admiral, would be resigned to becoming a disgraceful
prisoner?”
“I’m hoping you will be. I’ve no interest in your aesthetics
or your pride. Your life is all that matters to me. We need
you alive.”
Blumhardt’s words triggered something in Lennenkamp.
The commissioner groaned.
“I see. Do you plan on taking me hostage in exchange for
Admiral Yang?”
While that wasn’t an entirely accurate insight, neither was
Blumhardt incorrect.
“I would hope you’d be honored that we recognize you on
equal terms with Yang Wen-li.”
The one saying those words had no idea how much they’d
offended Lennenkamp. It was not because of fear but
humiliation that Lennenkamp went pale to the very tips of
his splendid mustache.
“Don’t go thinking I’d value my life so much as to negotiate
with the likes of you.”
“That’s not what I had in mind, but you aren’t the one
who’ll be doing the negotiating. It will be your
subordinates.”
“You look like a Rosen Ritter offer, so does that mean you
were originally a man of the empire? Aren’t you betraying
your motherland?”
 Blumhardt stared at Lennenkamp, but not because those
words made a deep impression on him.
“My grandfather was a republican thinker, and for that
was captured by the imperial ministry of the interior,
tortured, and finally killed. If my grandfather was a true
republican, then I guess he died an honorable death. But
my grandfather was just a major complainer.”
Blumhardt cocked a half smile.
“The only way I can repay that ‘kindness’ is with
resistance. Anyway, time is more precious than emeralds.
Come with me,” urged the commander.
The metaphor was accurate. He could already hear the
rhapsody of hand-to-hand combat wafting from the floor
below. Von Schönkopf and his men had run up from the
fourteenth floor, clearing away more enemies.
Three minutes later, the imperial soldiers—soaked in
blood, sweat, and vengeance—stormed Lennenkamp’s
office, only to find it empty. The whole purpose behind their
rescue had disappeared along with the one they were
trying to kill. Von Schönkopf and his men used the same
route by which they’d come and made their successful, if
not as quiet, escape. Immediately after, there was an
explosion in the elevator repair shaft, and the only route by
which the imperial forces might have pursued them was
closed off before their very eyes.

IV
Lennenkamp was staring at an empty room. Ceiling above,
floor below, walls in front. In that space, despair wore a
black robe, gloomily singing a song of ruin. Lennenkamp
was still in the rebel force’s hideout. The bare concrete
walls and floor were all soundproof. Compared to his
magnificent office in the Hotel Shangri-La, the differences
were staggering.
The imprisoned imperial high commissioner thought this
was the end. When he was dragged here, everything made
sense. He’d lost not only to Yang’s clique, but had also been
sold out by Lebello, who supposedly represented the
interests of the alliance government.
By what honor could he ever hope to look his emperor in
the face again? The emperor had tolerated his failure
against Yang Wen-li and given him a high commissioner’s
post. Lebello strove to meet the expectations of such
magnanimity and trust. For the sake of the new dynasty’s
1,000-year plan, he’d eliminated obstacles and cleared a
path for the empire to subjugate all alliance territory. Until
he was taken here, he’d seen a path opening to a superior
position. But after being in the same room as both Yang and
Lebello, Lennenkamp realized he’d been had. The chairman
had been half-averting his eyes behind Yang’s back,
perhaps out of guilt, but Lennenkamp had lost the will to
reprimand him at that moment. It was the only way to avoid
the scorn of enemy and ally alike.
His originally narrow view had become even narrower.
With eyes devoid of sanity and widened only by a twisted
desire for prestige, Lennenkamp looked up at the ceiling.
The soldier who’d brought Lennenkamp lunch found him
hanging in the air twenty minutes later. He’d stopped
breathing, swaying slowly left and right in his military
uniform. Seeing this, the soldier put his ceramic tray warily
in a corner of the room and sounded an alarm with his
voice. The body, dead by suicide, was taken down by
Commander Blumhardt and the men who’d rushed to his
aid.
A soldier qualified to be a medic straddled the torso of a
man more than ten ranks above him, reaching the limits of
what his textbooks and experience told him could be done
with an artificial respirator.
“I’m sorry, I can’t revive him.”
“Out of my way, I’ll do it.”
Blumhardt did his own inspection of the body, but the
result was the same. Against all their efforts, Lennenkamp
had shut the door permanently on life. When at last the
commander stood up, his complexion as pale as the
deceased’s, the door opened and spit out von Schönkopf,
who’d just returned from releasing Lebello, hands and feet
still bound, in a public park. A slight nick appeared in the
blade of his usual fearlessness, and his expression became
grave. He regretted having to hold off on fulfilling his
promise, but at this point it was unnecessary.
“Lennenkamp’s death must be kept under wraps. Those
alliance government bastards would capitalize on this
unique opportunity to mobilize an all-out attack in a
heartbeat. Do whatever it takes to make him alive again.”
Without a hostage, the Imperial Navy would have no
reason not to attack the “rebels.” But with Lennenkamp
dead, the truth would be buried along with him. As for the
alliance government, it wanted to set fire to every reality
and rumor alike.
When he heard of Lennenkamp’s death, Yang thought it
over and at last came to a decision with the face of one
swallowing a bitter medicine.
“Officially, Admiral Lennenkamp must be kept alive.
Profane as it might be, there’s no other way.”
This one incident guaranteed him, Yang thought, a special
seat in hell. Frederica came up with a suggestion. If they
applied a little makeup to the deceased’s face, it might
convince people that he’d only fainted. It didn’t seem like a
bad idea.
But who was going to do that sickening job?
“I can do the makeup,” chimed Frederica. “After all, I was
the one who suggested it, and as a woman I’m suited for the
task.”
The men exchanged glances, but as it was clear they were
out of their league when it came to makeup, despite their
courage. And so, somewhat inarticulately, they left it to the
lone woman of the group to get started.
 “This is my first—and last, I hope—experience putting
makeup on a corpse. If only he were a little more
handsome,” Frederica muttered, “then I might not feel so
bad wasting it.”
It wasn’t like Frederica to poke fun at the dead, but it was
the only way she could endure the morbidity of this task,
despite being the one to propose it herself. As she opened
her makeup kit and set to work, the door opened and Yang
caught an awkward glimpse of the face.
“Frederica…I, uh…I didn’t mean for you to…”
“If that’s an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”
Frederica beat her husband to the punch as her hands
worked without rest.
“I don’t have any regrets, nor am I angry with you. Not
even two months have gone by since we got married, and
they’ve been nothing if not entertaining. So long as I’m with
you, I’ll never lead a boring life again. Please don’t let me
down, darling.”
“So, married life is entertaining for you?”
Yang had taken off his black beret and ruffled his unruly
black hair. The beautiful young woman who was now his
wife never ceased to amaze him. Their life together never
seemed all that boring in the first place.
“Be that as it may,” Yang muttered indiscreetly, “this
doesn’t strike me as the right time for such a conversation.”
It was the same emotion Frederica had felt before. A third
party had been casting a deep, murky shadow across their
exchange of courtesies.
Even as Senior Admiral Helmut Lennenkamp, the Galactic
Empire’s high commissioner, stood on the same planet as
Yang Wen-li, his heart was hundreds of thousands of light
years away in death. When Yang thought of Lennenkamp’s
bereaved family, he couldn’t suppress a bad aftertaste. The
number of people seeking revenge on him had increased
yet again.
Yang shook his head and closed the door on his wife’s
unpleasant responsibility. He thought to himself: To be
forced into an unwilling death or an unwilling life: which is
closer to happiness?
I
ON JULY 30 OF THIS YEAR—SE 799 and year one of the
New Imperial Calendar—on the imperial capital of Odin,
two reports came in, one bad and one good.
The first was from the punitive Earth force’s commanding
officer, August Samuel Wahlen.
“We were imperially commanded to go to Earth, suppress
the main headquarters of the terrorist organization known
as the Church of Terra, and arrest its founders and leaders.
But as we breached the Church of Terra stronghold, those
same founders and leaders blew up their own headquarters
and buried themselves, making capture impossible. I
humbly regret to inform you that I was unable to completely
carry out my duty.”
Two recon battalions under Commander Konrad Rinser,
going on Wahlen’s intel regarding entry and exit points,
managed to infiltrate the stronghold and commence their
all-out attack. One of their tasks was to pursue a group of
independent Phezzanese merchants representing a “flaxen-
haired boy.”
The black-clad pilgrims came at the fully armed imperial
soldiers with knives and small firearms. Dumbfounded by
their recklessness, the imperial soldiers nevertheless
immediately returned fire, mowing down the religious
fanatics and their primitive weapons, trudging over their
corpses as they went deeper into the compound.
Normally, such unilateral slaughter would have intoxicated
soldiers who lived for the taste of blood and flames. But
their emotional stomachs were tested to their limits. While
the believers, who’d been infected mind and body with
fanaticism and thyoxin, were firmly in death’s pocket, the
soldiers vomited, laughing hysterically, and even burst into
tears.
Upon reaching the eighth stratum below the surface, the
imperial forces knew they’d stepped into the deepest part
of this underground maze.
Even here, believers resisted with everything they had,
and any warnings on the part of imperial forces to
surrender were met with gunfire. After a failed third
attempt, the imperial forces gave up on arresting the old
founders, starting with the Grand Bishop, and chose to
exterminate them all.
Despite their overwhelming firepower, manpower, and
battle tactics, the imperial forces had just faced one of the
toughest fights they’d ever waged, if only because the
Church of Terra had home field advantage, and because
none of the believers feared death. They filled the passages
with water, drowning their own and enemy soldiers alive
and even martyred themselves with nerve gas grenades,
taking as many down with them as they could.
“Are they complete idiots?” screamed the imperial officers
about these church believers who lacked any concept of
death.
They weren’t even killing each other. Rained upon by
imperial gunfire, the church believers were committing
suicide, burying themselves in the earth by blowing up the
deepest parts of their sanctum.
 “Did we really get them all?”
“Who knows…”
Such were the whispered exchanges among the soldiers
afterward, feeling anything but proud of their victory. Every
face was pale, overcome by shades of weariness.
The Grand Bishop, of course, didn’t see the corpses of
most of his followers, buried as they were beneath trillions
of tons of earth. But nothing could bury all of their lust and
malice. All terrain within a ten-meter radius of the
stronghold caved in, crumbling the holy mountain from
within.

When Julian first met this admiral called Wahlen, his

complexion looked weak. Julian knew it was because of a
serious wound, but seeing that his courageous countenance
was undisturbed, he couldn’t help but admire him deep
down. And while, of course, Julian adored nothing so much
as Yang Wen-li’s “utterly unheroic” side, he felt a certain
attraction to the different effect of an iron-tough fortitude
such as Wahlen’s.
“According to Commander Rinser, you helped out
considerably in our capture of the Church of Terra’s
headquarters.”
“Yes, absurdly enough, we were caught by Church of Terra
followers, and while we partly had our own reasons, we
were more than happy to be of assistance.”
Because Julian deemed this Admiral Wahlen a man worthy
of respect, it pained him somewhat to be hiding his true
character.
“I’d like to give you a token of my appreciation. Is there
anything you desire to have?”
“Only for us to get safely back to Phezzan.”
 “I’ll be more than happy to compensate you for any
damages you suffered from all this nasty business. There’s
no need to be modest.”
If he refused, he might raise suspicion for being too frugal.
Julian was careful in shamelessly receiving the
commander’s good favor, calculating the exact amount of
damages and presenting it to Admiral Wahlen the next day.
He also said they should reward Captain Boris Konev. A
single optical disc was all the recompense he needed.
Everything was recorded on there. The history of Earth, a
planet which had lost its hegemony over humankind by
vindictively stitching its desire and malice into a veritable
Gobelins tapestry of power spanning nine centuries.
This had been passed on to Admiral Yang’s hands, and had
been useful in Julian’s long journey all the way to Earth.
Julian had led the imperial forces, clearing away human and
material obstacles, and that had led them to finally discover
the “reference room” he’d been searching for. Knocking
down knife-wielding fanatics left and right, they made it to
the unexpectedly modern data room, where it took five
minutes to gather the required information. Although they
managed to wipe the remaining records so they would not
fall into imperial hands, the data room got buried anyway,
which meant they’d ended up doing twice the work for
nothing.
As Julian stepped back from Wahlen, standing at the edge
of the cliff and looking down on the caved-in terrain, Boris
Konev stood next to him.
“Underneath all that lies the bodies of believers.”
“To a religious cult, nothing’s cheaper than the lives of its
followers. It’s the same with leaders and their citizens,
tacticians and their soldiers. Worth getting angry over,
maybe, but not being surprised about.”
Julian found it increasingly difficult to condone Boris
Konev’s harsh words. Then again, Boris was in a foul mood,
having lost an important crew member in the melee.
 “You once said Admiral Yang was different.”
The captain shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s fine to like Yang as a human being. I do, too. It’s only
natural to respect him as a tactician as well. But the
tactician leads a cursed existence. Yang himself knows this,
I’m sure, so it’s nothing for you to get worked up about. You
know it, too, so I forgive you for criticizing soldiers.”
Olivier Poplin was watching them from a short distance.
“That Julian’s a mystery to me,” muttered the ace pilot
under his breath, leaning his head to one side.
Even he, and elders concerned with Julian, seemed
compelled to appoint themselves as the boy’s guardian.
“It’s his virtue,” responded Machungo, with an expression
that was clichéd yet persuasive. “You don’t usually find it in
one so young.”
His body was wrapped in several places with geliderm, an
ultra-thin plastic membrane used as a bandage, which gave
him the appearance of a hulking zebra. Although no one
within the Church of Terra surpassed his strength and
fighting abilities, his body’s surface area was broad enough
to have sustained an unenviable amount of shrapnel.
“Virtue? Hmm, he’s got a lot to learn.”
Poplin shrugged his shoulders. He was quick-witted and
agile, even on land, and had emerged unscathed from the
battle with hardly a tear in his clothing. Fighting with his
feet on the ground was extremely undesirable to him, but
his style had earned even Machungo’s respect.
“How can he have come of age without having at least ten
or twenty affairs under his belt?”
Their voices didn’t reach Julian’s ears, and so the boy’s
flaxen hair blew in earthly winds at the top of the cliff.
Julian had come to Earth with one goal in mind. But not
once thereafter did he ever desire to return to Earth.
Wherever it was he needed to return, live, and die, Earth
was most certainly not it.
Julian wasn’t alone in thinking that way. To most people,
Earth belonged to the past. It was fine to regard it as a
museum. But reviving it as a center of power politics and
military affairs did humanity not one sliver of good. As Yang
Wen-li had once quipped, “Our limbs have grown too much
for us to return to our cradle.” Although humanity’s past
was on Earth, its future was destined to unfold elsewhere.
On August 1, the Wahlen fleet’s first wave left Earth and
charted a course for the imperial capital of Odin. Unfaithful
cut a gallant, if modest, figure in tow. Both Julian and Poplin
were of the same mind that they might as well have a look
at the enemy’s home base, seeing as it was on the way.

II
At around the time of Wahlen’s report, the intel coming in
from the Free Planets Alliance capital of Heinessen was
exceedingly ominous.
Commissioner Lennenkamp had been abducted, and many
related incidents shocked the empire’s senior statesmen.
Even after escaping the grip of death on more than one
occasion and conquering many fixed-star worlds, the
empire’s bravest generals were by no means accustomed to
being surprised.
Along with the official report, an urgent addendum came
from Admiral Lennenkamp’s subordinate Captain Ratzel to
his old friend Neidhart Müller.
Müller’s sandy eyes filled with deep color.
“Are you claiming that Admiral Lennenkamp acted unfairly
as commissioner?”
“Whether for the nation’s senior statesmen or for a
superior to whom he was obliged, he overstepped his
bounds. By his misguided actions, Admiral Lennenkamp
tipped the scales when they were already balanced.”
According to what Ratzel had said, Lennenkamp had put
his faith in an anonymous tip, despite having no evidence to
back it up, and coerced the alliance government into
arresting Yang Wen-li. If true, then he’d crossed the line
both publicly and privately.
“Would you be willing to testify before an official
assembly?”
“Whether by court-martial or trial.”
Müller nodded at Ratzel’s confidence, and with that
information in hand, appeared before an assembly of top
military leaders.
In the hallway leading to the conference room, he ran into
Wolfgang Mittermeier. Ratzel spoke of his testimony as they
walked side by side.
“I see. There was something shady going on behind the
scenes after all.”
Mittermeier clicked his tongue, lamenting the shallowness
of Lennenkamp’s heart.
Lennenkamp himself, of course, had only done what he did
out of loyalty to Emperor Reinhard. But from where
Mittermeier and the others stood, the impatience of his step
and the myopia of his vision were troubling.
Wolfgang Mittermeier, also known as the “Gale Wolf,” was
a true military man. It had been his long-cherished desire to
battle heroic enemies on an equal footing, but he was
fundamentally opposed to torture.
At the council meeting, only those officials ranking higher
than senior admiral could attend, with one exception.
Emperor Reinhard had a slight fever and abstained from
the meeting, but expected a full report on the results of
their free debate when it was over.
Müller, who always demanded to speak first, presented
Captain Ratzel’s complaints.
“This concerns the dignity of the empire, particularly the
impartiality of its stance. Without fixating on the empire or
the alliance, we would prefer it if you could come up with
something that the public can agree with. If I may give my
own opinion on the matter, I think the first thing we need to
do is determine the whereabouts of those who seeded the
situation with their anonymous tip.”
Commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada
Mittermeier backed up Müller’s sentiments.
“It would seem that Captain Ratzel is correct. We must
protect His Majesty the Emperor’s dignity, first and
foremost, by punishing these shameless informants. If we
can prove that Yang Wen-li’s actions were out of legitimate
self-defense against an injustice being forced upon him, that
might just give us enough to piece together the rest.”
Without revealing one iota of his own strategy, von
Oberstein interjected.
“He was only trying to eliminate Yang Wen-li as a danger to
the future security of our great nation. Maybe he couldn’t
help but resort to subterfuge.”
“Was our nation founded on subterfuge?!” yelled
Mittermeier with every fiber of his being. “No, it was
founded on fidelity. If we don’t aim for that much at least,
then how are we to explain to our soldiers and citizens the
significance of this new dynasty? Yang Wen-li might be our
enemy, but he’s also universally renowned. How do you plan
on justifying to future generations that we eliminated him
not with honor, but through betrayal?”
“A splendid speech, Marshal Mittermeier. Need I remind
you of your involvement in the plot to purge Duke
Lichtenlade two years ago? Does it still pain your
conscience?”
An uncontrollable rage burned in Mittermeier’s eyes.
Where did the very ringleader of Duke Lichtenlade’s purge
get off bringing that up? Before he could say as much, the
man sitting next to him raised a hand lightly and restrained
his colleague.
It was secretary-general of Supreme Command
Headquarters, Marshal Oskar von Reuentahl. A keen light
emitted from his mismatched eyes, clashing head-on with
the light shooting out from the secretary of defense’s
artificial ones.
“The purge of Duke Lichtenlade was an even contest. One
step behind, and we’d have been the sacrificial lambs. We
shouldn’t be ashamed just because we attacked first. But is
that what happened this time around? Aren’t we trying to
charge a retired soldier living a comfortable civilian life
with a nonexistent crime? Why should we involve ourselves
with the shameless criminals of a self-interested alliance?
With all due respect, Defense Secretary, is this the kind of
disgraceful behavior by which we must abide, regardless of
the philosophy it’s based on?”
Von Reuentahl’s eloquence was not only keen, but also
consistent with the sentiments of most of the men in the
room, and so he was met with murmurs of agreement all
around.
Artist-Admiral Mecklinger spoke up.
“If the relationship between Yang Wen-li and the alliance
government is irreparable, might it not behoove the
Imperial Navy to extend a welcoming hand? We should
appeal to him against further mischief, and dispatch
investigators right away to deal with the situation. I’d be
happy to leave for the alliance capital of Heinessen under
those auspices.”
“It seems you’ve failed to grasp something here.”
Secretary of Defense von Oberstein showed no signs of
being uncomfortable in the hot seat. “My problem with
Yang Wen-li’s crime has nothing to do with the anonymous
intel, but rather with the fact that he and his men managed
to abduct Lennenkamp, His Majesty the Emperor’s official
representative, and get away with it. If that crime goes
unpunished, how do you expect to maintain the dignity of
the empire and His Majesty? I’d like you to bear that in
mind.”
Mittermeier opened his mouth again.
“It pains me to say this, but Lennenkamp must at least be
held accountable for carelessly trusting an anonymous tip
and taking it upon himself to try and execute an innocent
man without a shred of evidence. If we’re going to come out
of this with our dignity intact, shouldn’t we disclose the
truth and make up for any mistakes we may have made?”
Chief of the Domestic Safety Security Bureau, Heidrich
Lang, was against this.
“Senior Admiral Lennenkamp was graciously appointed by
His Majesty the Emperor. Your Excellency Commander in
Chief, to punish His Excellency Lennenkamp would harm
the reputation of His Sacred and Inviolable Majesty the
Emperor. I would advise you to take that into
consideration.”
“Silence, you pathetic boor!” The reprimand came not
from the lash of Mittermeier’s tongue, but von Reuentahl’s.
“So now you’re going to block the commander in chief’s
sound argument not by your own opinions but by His
Majesty the Emperor’s good name? Don’t try to be more
than you are! Why should the chief of domestic safety be
allowed into a meeting restricted to senior admirals and
above in the first place? Not only that, but you have the gall
to interrupt a debate among marshals? Know your place.
Get out of my sight this instant! Or would you like to ride
my boot on the way out?”
Lang turned into a fluorescent-colored sculpture. Had he
been entitled, he would have been disgraced, but he was
lacking in the grace department, thought Mecklinger. Lang
at last looked to von Oberstein for support, trembling
slightly and not getting what he was asking for.
“Leave until this meeting is adjourned.”
At the secretary of defense’s words, Lang coldly and
mechanically bowed. Then, with a gait as deflated as he
was, he left the conference room, a wave of derisive
laughter nipping at his heels. In his pale heart, he decided
it was von Reuentahl, when in fact it was Kessler and
Wittenfeld.
 Lang waited in a separate room until the conference was
over. When von Oberstein showed up an hour later, he’d
abandoned his usual composure. Lang’s face was covered in
a flop sweat, and he couldn’t stop the handkerchief in his
hand from trembling.
“Well, I have never been so humiliated. Actually, if it was
only me I wouldn’t even care, but to drag Your Excellency’s
name through the mud as well…It’s like they were
showering us with abuse.”
“Von Reuentahl wasn’t the only one who didn’t care for
your line of reasoning. I didn’t, either.” Von Oberstein was
indifferent. He had no intention of going along with Lang’s
treacherous sedition. “I was careless in allowing you to
attend without the others’ consent. It seems neither the
secretary of the interior nor the military police
commissioner approve of you being close to me.”
“It’s not like you to be concerned about such things.”
“I don’t mind being despised. But I do mind standing in the
way of others.”
Lang turned his handkerchief inside out and wiped his
sweat again, narrowing his eyes.
“As do I. Even so, given the aggressiveness of Marshal von
Reuentahl’s conduct, shouldn’t we slap him with a demerit,
just in case?”
Von Oberstein’s expression was completely blank. Lang
didn’t know what lay behind it until von Oberstein’s clear
speech broke the silence.
“Von Reuentahl was indispensable in the founding of this
nation. Lennenkamp cannot hold a candle to His Majesty
the Emperor’s trust in von Reuentahl. Surely you know
better than to follow Lennenkamp’s bad example and
disavow others without evidence.”
Lang’s eyes filled with oily light as he bared a few teeth
from his twisted mouth.
“Understood. Then allow me to seek out that evidence.
Incontrovertible evidence…”
 Since the previous dynasty, Lang had shown exceptional
ability in two areas. Punishing the guilty, and pinning crimes
on the innocent. But he’d carried these out as official
duties, and never out of a personal desire for revenge. Or,
at least he shouldn’t have.
But now, for the sake of his severely wounded reputation,
Lang was seized by an improper and useless determination
to seek out the young heterochromatic admiral’s weakest
point and bring him down.

III
A slightly feverish Emperor Reinhard was laid flat in bed,
his attendant Emil seeing to his every need.
Reinhard thought it might be due to bad genes, but
according to Emil, with all the wars and government affairs
demanding his attention, it would be strange if he didn’t
feel under the weather from time to time.
“If it were me,” said the emperor’s future physician, “I’d be
at death’s door.”
“Either way, I’ve been feeling rather fatigued these days.”
“It’s because you work too hard.”
Reinhard smiled gently at the boy.
“Oh? Are you saying I should neglect my duties?”
Even the smallest jest made Emil turn bright red, and so
the emperor always sported with him as he would a small
bird. Only, this small bird sung in human speech,
occasionally voicing wise things.
“Please forgive my impudence, Your Majesty, but as my late
father used to say, a strong flame burns out quicker. So
please, try to take it a bit easier. I mean that.”
Reinhard made no immediate reply. What frightened him
wasn’t burning out, but the thought of smoldering away in
vain. A distinction Emil was probably too young to
understand.
“In any case, right now you should be focusing on taking
an empress and having a family.”
The boy was obviously relating something he’d heard
secondhand.
“It’s hard enough protecting me. I wouldn’t want to
burden my guards further with an empress and crown
prince to think of.”
That was generally about the extent of Reinhard’s sense of
humor. As a joke, it was as flat as he was, and a shallow
expression of his true feelings. Emil didn’t care for it.
Reinhard’s grand chamberlain entered to announce the
arrival of Defense Secretary von Oberstein. Now that the
council of the military’s highest leaders had reached
something of a conclusion, he’d come seeking Reinhard’s
approval. Because the emperor was still sluggish from
fever, he welcomed his guest in the lounge adjacent to his
bedroom.
Von Oberstein briefed him on the details of the council. The
backlash against Lennenkamp’s rash actions was
unexpectedly severe, and many insisted on an investigation
into the truth of the matter. But because the alliance clearly
lacked the ability to maintain its own order, they motioned
to prepare their troops to be mobilized at a moment’s
notice. Von Reuentahl said nothing about banishing Lang
from the conference room.
“It’s my fault for appointing Lennenkamp in the first
place,” Reinhard muttered. “To think he couldn’t hold down
his station for even a hundred days. I suppose there are
those who will only be able to demonstrate their abilities
when I have them on a short leash.”
Several faces, both living and dead, lined up in his mind.
Von Oberstein ignored the sentiment.
“But this gives us carte blanche to completely subjugate
the alliance, does it not?”
“Don’t overstep your bounds!”
The violence in Reinhard’s voice was as intense as his good
looks. He was suddenly furious. Von Oberstein bowed, less
out of fear than out of a desire not to get a sick person riled
up. Reinhard caught his breath and commanded that, out of
consideration for Lennenkamp, Admiral Steinmetz would
act as proxy for the high commissioner and that they
negotiate with Yang Wen-li.
“We must hear Lennenkamp’s testimony. Only then will we
know how best to deal with Yang. Keep close watch on the
alliance government’s movements, and if any disturbance
should arise, Steinmetz is to employ whatever
countermeasure he deems necessary.”
With this, he dismissed his secretary of defense.
Reinhard’s state of mind was never simple. While he
couldn’t suppress a loathsome anger toward Lennenkamp’s
disgraceful behavior, Reinhard was the one who’d placed
him in an important office unbefitting of a mere military
man. Although von Reuentahl was the first to enter him as
candidate for that seat, Reinhard had also voted for him in
the end. The final responsibility therefore lay with Reinhard
alone.
Or maybe I expected Lennenkamp to fail all along,
Reinhard thought to himself. When he learned of the rioting
brought on by Lennenkamp’s tragic failure, Reinhard had
to admit that every cell in his body throbbed with
excitement. After sitting on the throne for only a few days,
he’d already begun to feel the suffocation of a solemn
equilibrium. In the end, his throne was nothing more than a
golden cage, and it seemed his wings were too big to fit.
As an architect, Reinhard was possessed of abundant
genius. Two years ago, he’d crushed the Coalition of Lords,
purged Duke Lichtenlade, and grabbed dictatorial power by
the reins. Since then, he’d brought about major political,
social, and economic reforms. The noble class, which had
monopolized privilege and wealth, lost five centuries’ worth
of undeserved glory, while the people enjoyed the benefits
of a tax system and due process. The mansions and castles
of nobility were converted into hospitals, schools, and
welfare institutions, becoming an integral part of the
metropolitan landscape.
Those reforms were ones he’d cultivated in his heart since
he was a boy. But while Reinhard was happy to see them
realized, none of it exhilarated him. Good government was
his duty and responsibility, not a privilege. He’d endeavored
to be one who doesn’t neglect the requirements of his
position, a great ruler who becomes such by acquiring
power rather than having it handed to him. But were
harmony and stability somehow incongruous with his
original intentions?
Reinhard had caught himself thinking that power was no
longer necessary. What was necessary to him was
something else entirely. But he was deflated by the fact that
he had yet to hold that something else with his own hands.
He knew it was something he’d never regain. He saw
nothing but war ahead, and for the first time felt renewed.
Only in the heat of battle could he believe that his own life
was replenished.
Reinhard would likely be remembered for all time as a
belligerent emperor. That thought fell lightly like first snow
in his heart, but there was no way to change who he’d been
born to be. He was never one for bloodshed, but for the
collision of grander purpose and ingenuity. He called his
chief private secretary, Hildegard von Mariendorf, who’d
returned to the imperial palace, to take down an edict.
While working on the edict, Hilda came to realize that
perhaps Reinhard needed a rival in his life. She felt a touch
of anxiety over this tragic thought. She wanted nothing
more than to point the compass of his vast life force in the
right direction, more for his own sake than for the empire’s.
Or maybe, she thought, he’d reached the top too quickly,
even if it was good for him to encounter an enemy who, like
Rudolf the Great, could become a great object of his denial.
She herself admired Yang Wen-li’s abilities, and couldn’t
bring herself to hate him.
 Reinhard read over the letter he’d dictated to her, but
suddenly flashed her a roguish smile.
“Fräulein, did your handwriting get stiffer while you were
under house arrest?”
Another questionable joke.
On August 8, Emperor Reinhard’s edict went out as
follows:
The imperial headquarters will relocate to Phezzan. Odin
is too far from alliance territory. Count von Mariendorf will
govern as my regent
on Odin.
Furthermore, Reinhard ordered that among his ten
cabinet ministers, his secretaries of defense and works
would follow him to Phezzan, where they would be
transferred to new offices. Among his highest-ranking
officers, Kessler (commissioner of military police and
commander of capital defenses), Mecklinger (who as the
newly instated “rear supreme commander” reserved the
right to inspect almost the entire former imperial territory),
and Wahlen (now en route back home after fulfilling his
duties on Earth) were the only ones staying behind on Odin.
The nucleus of the empire, in particular its military power,
was relocating to Phezzan—and not, he added, temporarily.
Marshals Mittermeier and von Reuentahl were the first to
learn that the young emperor intended to relocate the
capital to Phezzan.
The transfer was to be completed within a year, at which
time the emperor himself would move to the imperial
capital on September 17. Marshal Mittermeier was set to
leave before that, on August 30, while Marshal von
Reuentahl and the other admirals would be traveling with
the emperor.
After withdrawing from the emperor’s presence,
Mittermeier discussed these developments with his friend.
“Phezzan, huh? I see. He’s thinking on a whole other level.
Perfect for absorbing that land into the new territory and
ruling over it.”
Von Reuentahl nodded silently, mulling over a private
matter. Because he was a bachelor, he was fine with
departing from Odin at any time, given the proper battle
formation. But then there was Elfriede von Kohlrausch, that
violent young woman who’d become a fixture in his house.
Would she follow the man she supposedly hated all the way
to Phezzan, or would she steal his valuables and go into
hiding? Either way was fine with him. It was up to her.
“Even so,” Mittermeier spat out, “His Majesty’s error
wasn’t using Lennenkamp but von Oberstein. That bastard
may fancy himself a loyal retainer, but at this rate, he’ll
eliminate those he doesn’t get along with, one by one. And
in the end, he’ll bring about a rift in the dynasty.”
Von Reuentahl moved his mismatched eyes in his friend’s
direction.
“I’m with you on that one. What worries me is the fissure I
see between His Majesty the Emperor and von Oberstein.
Who knows what might happen when they don’t get
along…”
Von Reuentahl couldn’t suppress a bitter smile, as this
level of concern was strange even for him. Didn’t he himself
at one time desire a supreme position with many
subordinates under him? But there was surely a method
behind such madness. There was something disconcerting
about watching a man he valued so highly be degraded as a
puppet, not unlike von Oberstein.

IV
When Julian thought of Yang on Earth, did a butterfly effect
cause Yang to sneeze in rapid succession? No official record
could confirm that.
Yang, who’d let João Lebello go free and taken the late
Helmut Lennenkamp hostage, boarded a cruiser dubbed
Leda II and left the planet Heinessen. Joining him were
Frederica, von Schönkopf, Attenborough, and his former
subordinates, now released from house arrest. It was July
25. Attenborough served as the cruiser’s captain, but using
Lennenkamp as an excuse, he’d succeeded in obtaining a
large amount of weapons and provisions from the alliance
government. Leaving plans for what was to follow up to
Yang, he whistled, every bit the good-humored space pirate.
Frederica G. Yang switched out her floral-patterned apron
for a black beret and military uniform, standing valiantly by
her husband as his assistant.
At the time of their departure from Heinessen, Yang
thought of paying respects to Admiral Bucock, but gave up
on the idea.
The retired, convalescent commander in chief of the space
armada had also earned the suspicion of the alliance
government. Even a one-on-one meeting was too risky, as it
might compromise the old admiral’s already-frail position.
In any case, the day would come when they would meet
again, and so Yang suppressed this desire.
Yang did, however, get in touch with Vice Admiral Alex
Caselnes. He was a man whose affiliations had always been
clear, and if Yang didn’t contact him, he might arouse
suspicion of some pre-existing secret pact between them.
Once Caselnes, who until then had been nominally banished
to rear services headquarters, knew of the situation, he
contacted his family. He tore off his insignia and placed it on
his desk, throwing himself under Yang’s command.
“Without me there,” he said, “that blasted Yang will never
make it.”
Admiral Rockwell, knowing he’d be left behind as acting
general manager of rear services, tried to dissuade him
from leaving, but Caselnes looked at the admiral over his
shoulder, only snorting through his nose.
Former chief of staff Murai, Vice Commander Fischer, and
Deputy Chief of Staff Patrichev were no longer on
Heinessen, but attached to their respective frontier posts,
making it impossible to contact them.

In the summer of that year, the Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz

fleet had secured 464 warships and 80 flagships. What the
fleet lacked in organizational balance, it made up for in its
advanced firepower and strength.
And while it was diminutive in manpower, many highly
experienced soldiers with actual combat experience joined
the battlefront. They were, of course, too proud to swear
allegiance to the Galactic Empire, but as Lieutenant
Commander Hamdi Ashur, who held highest rank among
them and was known for his superiority as a fleet tactical
operator, was led along the bridge of the Merkatz’s warship
Shiva, he deferred completely to Merkatz’s right to
command.
“While I don’t disagree with you about flying the flag of
revolt against the empire, under what pretense does this
fleet operate? Is it democracy? Another dynastic
dictatorship like the Lohengramm Dynasty’s? Militarism,
even?”
As Commander Bernhard von Schneider looked back at
Merkatz, the exiled guest admiral signaled for Ashur to
continue.
“I know it’s rude of me to say, Your Excellency Merkatz, but
you once held high rank yourself in the Imperial Navy.
Furthermore, while I was banished to another country, you
served as secretary of defense for the legitimate imperial
galactic government. The purpose of the legitimate
government should’ve been to restore the inherent
authority of the Goldenbaum line, but I cannot be a part of
such a goal.”
 The newly recruited soldiers stirred uneasily behind him.
Not only because Ashur was their commanding officer, but
also because he’d proven himself to be a charismatic
character.
“Allow me to be clear on that point. The purpose of this
army is not to restore the Goldenbaum Dynasty.”
“I hear that you never go back on what you say, Admiral. I
believe you. But, while it may not be my place to say so,
when it comes to rallying soldiers dedicated to democracy,
your good name, Admiral Merkatz, lacks a certain
attraction.”
“Then who would you recognize to lead this anti-imperial
volunteer army?” responded von Schneider.
Ashur slightly tilted his swarthy, virile face.
“Admiral Bucock has the requisite accomplishments and
popularity for soldiers of democracy, but at his age it’s hard
to imagine him as a flag-bearer of the future. Successive
former directors of Joint Operational Headquarters, Sitolet
and Lobos, are men of the past. And so, I would hope for a
younger man with his own charisma and dignity.”
“Admiral Yang Wen-li?”
“Don’t jinx his name. In any case, this isn’t something we’ll
see realized today or tomorrow. I will follow your command
for now, Admiral Merkatz. You can count on me.”
Because they lacked the requisite number of men for the
number of ships they had, Ashur consented when asked to
assist in operating the fleet and readied his men for the
task. Von Schneider muttered as he watched them go.
“That one certainly has a lot to say. Seems reliable enough,
at any rate.”
Merkatz gave a rare bitter smile.
“He’s right, you know. I’m not qualified to be a flag-bearer
of democracy. About two or three years ago, I was battling
democratic forces as a soldier of a despotic nation. If I were
to take up democracy as my flag this late in the game, then
future generations would regard me as a man without
integrity.”
“Your Excellency, aren’t you reading too much into this?
Everyone knows your hand was forced by the
circumstances, and that you always tried to make the best
of things regardless.”
“However posterity chooses to me, the truth of the matter
is no one but Yang is capable of uniting the soldiers of
democracy. That’s why even his own ally, the alliance
government, is afraid of him.”
Their actions sourced rumors of irresponsibility. They
never imagined that Yang and his clique would escape
Heinessen.
Merkatz quickly changed the subject.
“And His Majesty’s whereabouts are still unknown?”
By “His Majesty,” Merkatz wasn’t referring to the young
golden-haired sovereign Reinhard von Lohengramm, but
the Goldenbaum line’s thirty-seventh emperor, Erwin Josef,
enthroned at five years of age and kidnapped at seven. Von
Schneider ashamedly hid his gaze.
“That is correct, I’m sorry to say. I know it’s hard to hear,
but under the circumstances any investigation is next to
impossible.”
Merkatz knew this. If they’d managed to repeatedly escape
the Imperial Navy’s detection, then there wasn’t much
point in launching an official investigation or search. The
powerless Alliance Armed Forces couldn’t make light of
Steinmetz’s ability to rat out an enemy.
Nevertheless, that Merkatz was fixated at all on searching
for the former child emperor was because he knew there’d
been a fault line in the boy’s mind before his disappearance.
His ego had frequently erupted, even drawing blood from
those tasked with caring for him. With every such drop of
blood shed, the human spirit had faded away from the
Goldenbaum crest. Although such erratic violence was in
his nature, it was a crime of circumstance that it wasn’t
corrected, and that had been the responsibility of the adults
around him.
Restoration of the Goldenbaum royal line was hopeless. To
begin with, the human spirit didn’t desire it. What Merkatz
did wish for was that Erwin Josef would grow soundly in
body and mind, and that he’d live out a peaceful life as an
anonymous citizen under whatever political system he
found himself in. But this would probably be even more
difficult than the pipe dream of restoring the royal line. And
yet, he wanted to make it a reality. This, and to give Yang
Wen-li the essential military resources he needed to make
his grand reappearance on stage. These are the last two
jobs I need to finish before I die, Merkatz thought.

On the bridge of the cruiser Leda II, the Yang fleet’s three
vice admirals—Caselnes, von Schönkopf, and Attenborough
—handled their commander with sharp tongues, as they
had even at his recent wedding.
“I can only hope that Yang Wen-li’s star power will stretch
its own limits,” said von Schönkopf. “Not that he’s even
aware of it himself. It’s hard enough just getting him to
stand on the other side of the curtain.”
“You speak like a teacher worrying over a bad student,
Vice Admiral von Schönkopf.”
“Actually, I once thought about becoming a teacher. But I
hated being given homework.”
“But I assume you like giving it?” chided Caselnes with a
laugh.
Here was a man who, despite having an honorable post as
director of rear services on a distant planet, had rejected it
with a snort and come along for the ride. Losing his
superior administrative skills would be a seed of regret for
the Alliance Armed Forces after losing Yang Wen-li.
“Even so, Vice Admiral von Schönkopf, you were able to
see through the government’s vicious trick under the
intense pressure of having next-to-no intel.”
In response to Caselnes’s praise, von Schönkopf attempted
an unbecoming expression.
“Well, maybe the government just didn’t think that far
ahead. Or maybe it was just my wild imagination.”
“Oh, now you tell us.”
“That’s right, Vice Admiral Attenborough. And at this point,
it doesn’t matter whether it was true or not. I’m as sure
now as I was then that the alliance government was
involved in a malicious conspiracy. It’s not like I lied to you
or anything.”
“Even if you did fan the flames.”
Despite his sarcastic retort, Attenborough suddenly grew
anxious as he rewound the film of reminiscence.
“Are you sad that things turned out the way they did?”
“Far from it, Vice Admiral Caselnes,” said the youngest of
the three, shaking his head.
“I’m only a greenhorn, not yet thirty, and yet people are
already calling me ‘Your Excellency.’ That’s the blessing and
the curse of being under Admiral Yang. We’d better hold
him accountable for that.”
Alex Caselnes took off his black beret and looked up.
“People call us a ‘rebel force,’ but from where I stand,
we’re nothing but a bunch of runaways.”
The other two made no objection.

Whether one called him a marshal, leader of a rebel force,

or a runaway, Yang Wen-li was Yang Wen-li. Bridging the
gap between his commander’s chair and desk with his
outstretched legs, a black beret covering his face, he hadn’t
stirred in over two hours.
Sitting not five meters away from her husband, Frederica
G. Yang was demonstrating contrastive diligence by
compiling data on the cruiser Leda II, the Merkatz fleet,
and Yang’s “rebel force,” so that they would have a tactical
plan ready at a moment’s notice.
Since rescuing her husband, Frederica hadn’t thought
about the future. All she knew was that whatever path Yang
Wen-li chose, she would walk it as his better half. Yang, on
the other hand, still had no clear idea about what to do
after escaping from Heinessen. He hadn’t been the one to
instigate all this mayhem in the first place.
“Yang and his wife know how to defend themselves,”
concluded Dusty Attenborough, “and yet they haven’t
thought about the consequences. If only we could give their
ambition a shot in the arm.”
Attenborough had grasped a part of the truth, but from
where Yang sat, there was no reason to be criticized by one
of the ringleaders who’d led him around by the nose.
And while the resistance had remained on the planet
Heinessen, taken hostage by the alliance government and
occupying imperial forces, they too would be swallowed up
into Heinessen’s billion citizens. In the end, Yang had been
pushed aside by the government he was supposed to serve,
his only option now to run away.
The existence of Lennenkamp, dead and stored inside a
body preservation capsule, was the only thing standing
between them and total annihilation. When Lennenkamp’s
death was made public and he handed over the body to the
Imperial Navy, a new danger was sure to befall them.
Nevertheless, many renowned generals before him had
passed through the doors of purge and exile by the very
motherlands to which they returned safely from the
battlefield. One significant achievement was enough to
make a million people jealous. The stairs got narrower the
higher one climbed them, and led to more serious injuries
when one fell.
In a certain ancient empire, when a general was arrested
for treason, he asked his emperor about the nature of his
crime. The emperor averted his eyes.
“My courtiers all say you orchestrated a rebellion against
me.”
“That’s not true at all. Where’s the evidence?”
“But surely, you’ve at least thought about rebelling against
me?”
“It never crossed my mind.”
“I see. But you could rebel if you wanted to. That’s crime
enough.”
Those carrying bigger swords had to be careful about
getting cut from the other direction. In the end, the sword
itself was a third force to be reckoned with.
Just because one built a third force didn’t mean one could
maintain it. As in Yang’s fundamental vision, if political and
economic power didn’t go hand in hand, then the candle of
rebellion would quickly burn out. Where should they put
their base? How was he ever going to stand up to the
Alliance Armed Forces, let alone the Imperial Navy? When
should he officially announce Lennenkamp’s death? And
what about supplies? Organization? Diplomatic
negotiations…?
He needed more time. Not to die in obscurity, but for
ripening and fermentation. Time that Yang couldn’t have. It
was more indispensable to him than power and authority.
Yang had many short-term goals. Linking up with Merkatz
to establish a chain of command with a unified republican
army. Welcoming Julian back from Earth and obtaining
information about the Church of Terra. And after that?
Although he’d taken João Lebello hostage and forced
Helmut Lennenkamp to take his own life for the sake of
avoiding an undeserved death, how should he exercise that
right?
These vague imaginings appeared as translucent figures in
Yang’s consciousness. He accepted that universal hegemony
was Emperor Reinhard’s alone. To make up for it, he would
establish his republican autonomy on a frontier planet in
preparation for the inevitable erosion and collapse of the
Lohengramm Dynasty. There he would nurture the sprout
of a pan-humanist democracy. The time needed for growth
and qualitative advancement of such democratic ideals was
much longer than any he needed for himself.
Once humanity was intoxicated by the drug of a sovereign
nation, no social system would exist in which the nation
didn’t sacrifice individuals. But social systems in which the
sacrifice of individuals by nations was difficult to achieve
seemed to live up to their intended value. Not everything
would be accomplished in Yang’s lifetime. But he could sow
the seeds. He was no match for Ahle Heinessen and his ten
thousand–light-year march.
Even so, Yang was more aware than ever of his own
unavoidable omnipotence. If he had any ability to predict
the future, it was in his ability to make the tactically
impregnable Iserlohn Fortress a base of democratic
government, despite having to abandon it in order to save
the Free Planets Alliance, and to guarantee his freedom of
movement.
But there was no use in regretting it now. For starters,
during the Vermillion War that followed, he’d ignored the
government’s order yet was unable to finish off Reinhard
von Lohengramm. In the end, Yang acted to the best of his
abilities. He, too, wanted the intelligence and resources of
the Phezzanese.
“Phezzan, huh?”
Yang was unaware that Emperor Reinhard had designs to
relocate the capital to Phezzan and make it the center of
the universe. Neither did he know that Phezzan was
intimately connected to the Church of Terra, and had, in
fact, acted as its puppet. But it was an indispensable
element in his long-term plans. Ideally, he thought, he could
use Boris Konev as an intermediary to borrow the power of
independent merchants. But that, too, would have to wait
until Julian returned. Yang interrupted his walk through a
maze of speculation as he took the beret off his face.
“Frederica, a cup of black tea.”
He then put the beret back on his face. No one could hear
the words he muttered under it.
“Two months, just two months! If things had gone as
planned, I wouldn’t have had to work for another five
years…”

After being set free by the “rebel force,” João Lebello

naturally wanted to negotiate with an enraged Imperial
Navy, but before that gave the following instructions to the
national defense committee.
“I want a letter reinstating Admiral Bucock to his former
position. We might just need him if we’re going to mop up
Yang and his gang.”
Although Lebello was anxious about plowing a one-way
course to villainy, his sense of duty to protect the alliance’s
independence and sovereignty from the empire’s coercion
had only grown stronger. Future historians would likewise
recognize that he drew a line between the elites who tried
to deceive Yang Wen-li. Ultimately, Lebello believed in his
country, whereas Yang didn’t. Perhaps the wall had grown
too thick between these two who would ideally have worked
together. But Lebello was truly reluctant to have his
accomplishments remembered by posterity only in relation
to Yang Wen-li.
As the reflected stars twinkled in her indigo eyes, Katerose
von Kreutzer, called Karin, stood on the observation deck of
the warship Ulysses. Her cheeks were flushed from having
just finished her training, her pulse slightly elevated above
normal. With one leg stretched out straight and the other
slightly bent, her back was barely touching the wall—just
like her father, as her mother used to say. She thought it
was annoying. Who didn’t strike this pose at some point? If
she were a man it wouldn’t matter, but as a woman, she
didn’t take kindly to being likened to a man she’d never
met.
Karin crushed the paper cup that had contained her
protein-enriched alkali drink. She tried to shake off her
father’s imagined face, only to replace it with another.
Having only just met that flaxen-haired boy two years her
senior, she was reluctant to remember him.
“What’s so special about that weakling anyway?”
Muttering an insult she didn’t necessarily believe, Karin
returned her attention to the vast ocean of stars, as yet
unaware that, somewhere along those waves, her father’s
cruiser was making its approach.

The year SE 799 had already proved traumatic for

humanity, and it still had a third left to go. No single year in
history, it seemed, had ever been so greedy about giving
time to breathe. Whatever it was that had been set in
motion, people had no way of knowing if the cards were in
their favor. They were all sick of war, but not yet used to
peace.
On August 13, an autonomous entity in a star system near
the Iserlohn Corridor declared its secession from the
empire-ruled alliance.
El Facil.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Yoshiki Tanaka was born in 1952 in Kumamoto Prefecture and completed a
doctorate in literature at Gakushuin University. Tanaka won the Gen’eijo (a
mystery magazine) New Writer Award with his debut story “Midori no Sogen
ni…” (On the green field…) in 1978, then started his career as a science
fiction and fantasy writer. Legend of the Galactic Heroes, which translates the
European wars of the nineteenth century to an interstellar setting, won the
Seiun Award for best science fiction novel in 1987. Tanaka’s other works
include the fantasy series The Heroic Legend of Arslan and many other
science fiction, fantasy, historical, and mystery novels and stories.
 HAIKASORU
THE FUTURE IS JAPANESE

TRAVEL SPACE AND TIME WITH HAIKASORU!

USURPER OF THE SUN—HOUSUKE NOJIRI
Aki Shiraishi is a high school student working in the
astronomy club and one of the few witnesses to an amazing
event—someone is building a tower on the planet Mercury.
Soon, the Builders have constructed a ring around the sun,
threatening the ecology of Earth with an immense shadow.
Aki is inspired to pursue a career in science, and the truth.
She must determine the purpose of the ring and the plans
of its creators, as the survival of both species—humanity
and the alien Builders—hangs in the balance.
THE OUROBOROS WAVE—JYOUJI HAYASHI
Ninety years from now, a satellite detects a nearby black
hole scientists dub Kali for the Hindu goddess of
destruction. Humanity embarks on a generations-long
project to tap the energy of the black hole and establish
colonies on planets across the solar system. Earth and Mars
and the moons Europa (Jupiter) and Titania (Uranus)
develop radically different societies, with only Kali, that
swirling vortex of destruction and creation, and the hated
but crucial Artificial Accretion Disk Development
association (AADD) in common.
TEN BILLION DAYS AND ONE HUNDRED BILLION
NIGHTS—RYU MITSUSE
Ten billion days—that is how long it will take the
philosopher Plato to determine the true systems of the
world. One hundred billion nights—that is how far into the
future Jesus of Nazareth, Siddhartha, and the demigod
Asura will travel to witness the end of all worlds. Named the
greatest Japanese science fiction novel of all time, Ten
Billion Days and One Hundred Billion Nights is an epic eons
in the making. Originally published in 1967, the novel was
revised by the author in later years and republished in
1973.

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