III
February, SE 801, year 3 of the New Galactic Calendar. History had become a titanic and rapidly spinning wheel that spanned the cosmos and threatened to crush any unfortunates who lost their balance and tumbled off.
According to that subset of historians who make biting observations their business, the ability of each planet to govern itself was never tested as severely as it was at that historic moment when the administration of the Free Planets Alliance was no more and the New Galactic Empire’s Neue Land governorate had been dismantled. However, we cannot assume that everyone alive at the time recognized this. They found themselves in a raging torrent, struggling desperately simply to keep from drowning. As Dusty Attenborough might have put it, to die tomorrow they first had to survive today.
Under the circumstances, some confusion in the values of Heinessen’s citizens was to be expected, but it was not until the last third of February that they all shared the same enthusiasm.
Word that Iserlohn’s navy had achieved a victory over the Imperial Space Armada had found its way through the Galactic Empire’s network of censors and reached the citizens of Heinessen. It was received like oil on a flame, spreading rapidly and sparking celebrations in every quarter.
“Three cheers for freedom, democracy, and Yang Wen-li!”
Had Yang himself heard this, he would have shrugged helplessly, but the citizens of Heinessen were sincere. The idea of Yang Wen-li as a masterful commander who had fought undefeated until his premature death had quickly crystallized into legend, and it is estimated that over forty underground resistance movements were active at that moment that invoked Yang in their names. Under these circumstances, Wahlen, following his retreat from Iserlohn Corridor, elected to wait in the Gandharva system for the fleet dispatched from Phezzan rather than returning to Heinessen and risking a confrontation with its excited citizenry.
In Iserlohn Fortress, the intoxication of the republic’s temporary victory had already worn off. Their circumstances were not so easy that they could gloat forever over the result of one localized battle. The blazing light of Kaiser Reinhard’s ice-blue gaze had surely turned in their direction.
Even so, being put in a tight spot only heightened the cheerful mood. Such was the nature of Iserlohn.
One day, Yang’s widow Frederica approached Karin. “Congratulations on the other day, Karin,” she said. “Not on the results of the battle—on coming back alive.”
“Thank you, Frederica.”
Karin studied the expression on Frederica’s face. She was ten years older than Karin, which meant that she would be twenty-seven this year. She had become Yang’s aide at the age of twenty-two, married him at twenty-five, and parted from him forever at twenty-six. Considering only these superficial facts, she seemed a tragic widow. But Karin knew that to offer Frederica sympathy was to insult her. Her support for Frederica was meant as a contribution to her happiness, not compensation for her tragedy.
“You know,” Frederica said, “When I was seventeen, I was a junior student at officer school. I was completely engrossed in my studies. I had no battle experience at all—I was really just a child compared to you.”
“I’m a child too,” said Karin, flushing. “I know that. It just irritates me when others point it out.”
Karin wished she could be as unguarded with certain others as she was with Frederica. She had never thought this way before coming to Iserlohn. Whether this change represented maturity or compromise was unclear even to her.
As it happened, Hortense Caselnes had spoken about Frederica to her husband Alex that very day—specifically about the fact that she had stored Yang’s body in a cryocapsule rather than burying him in space.
“Frederica wants to bury her husband on Heinessen,” Mrs. Caselnes said. They were in their living room, and their younger daughter was sitting on Alex’s knee. Their older daughter Charlotte Phyllis was in the room that served as both library and parlor, quietly reading a book.
“On Heinessen?” Alex repeated.
“I suppose she doesn’t think of Iserlohn as the right place to lay him to rest, even if it was where he came to sleep in his lifetime. Not an unreasonable position.”
“I suppose I understand how she feels, but she may have to wait a long time before she gets the chance to bury him on Heinessen.”
“Really?”
Alex stared. “Hortense, this isn’t another of your prophetic pronouncements, is it?” His voice was guarded—armored, even. He had reason to be wary, given his past experience with his wife’s oracular talents.
“Daddy, what’s a prophetic pronouncement?”
“Well, uh…” The man who had been one of the highest-ranking military officers in the former alliance cast about for an explanation until his wife stepped mercifully in.
“When you grow up, dear,” she said to their daughter, “Try saying this sentence to a man: ‘I heard the whole story, you know.’ When you say that, they’ll jump every time. That is a prophecy from your mother.”
“Hey now, come on…” Caselnes called out, though his voice was lacking in authority. Hortense headed for the kitchen with the look of a master homemaker. “Tonight’s dinner will be cheese fondue,” she said. “Garlic bread and onion salad will also be served. Will you have beer or wine, dear?”
“Wine, please,” said Alex, already losing himself in thought once more with his daughter still on his knee. Something about what Hortense had said nagged at him.
Iserlohn Fortress was impregnable, but was it the right place for a permanent, independent political entity? Its demographics were unbalanced, with men severely outnumbering women. Above all, being located right at the midpoint of the corridor that linked the empire’s core systems with the former alliance territories meant that it attracted an excess of both aspiration and suspicion. As Yang Wen-li himself had once said, too much attachment to Iserlohn itself would turn it into a chain around the necks of both the republic and the Revolutionary Army. How did Julian intend to thread this needle? Caselnes was still struggling to come up with a solution when the smell of melting cheese drifted into his nostrils.