II
Somewhere in Heinessenpolis, a tall, muscular, and feral beast wearing a splendid black and silver uniform howled at the moon in rage. Although under house arrest, Senior Admiral Fritz Josef Wittenfeld was “restrained” only in the strictest legal sense, employing the full breadth of his vocabulary and the full capacity of his lungs to denounce the hated von Oberstein. Beyond the high walls, three platoons of armed soldiers stood guard, and Wittenfeld’s vituperations were so florid and wide-ranging that it took several of these soldiers simply to keep track of them all.
The citizens of Heinessen had, of course, learned of the situation through leaks in the information controls. And so, in a certain hotel room, two men were discussing the situation privately.
“What a bizarre development. I doubt even the great Yang Wen-li ever foresaw a situation like this.”
The speaker was Boris Konev, who still took great pride in calling himself a Phezzanese free trader.
“In any case, conflict within the empire can only be good news for Iserlohn,” said Boris’s administrative officer Marinesk, running his fingers through hair grown thin with worry.
“I’m not sure it will be that simple. Perhaps if the minister resigned his post, but I doubt he will. Wahlen and Müller are both reasonable people, too, and they’ll surely do their best to avert catastrophe.”
In this Boris was entirely correct. Had Müller and Wahlen not been on Heinessen, order in the imperial military would have surely collapsed already.
It was easy to imagine what the results would be if the Black Lancers got out of control and clashed physically with von Oberstein’s forces. Fighting on land was not the Lancers’ main occupation, but von Oberstein’s troops would be no match for their ferocity and toughness—not to mention their numbers. They could free their commander by brute force alone.
However, if this came to pass—if the kaiser’s duly appointed representative were harmed—Wittenfeld and his staff officers would be doomed. The Reuentahl Revolt of the previous year had shown the suffering that internal strife could bring. Neither Müller nor Wahlen would be able to bury those unpleasant, painful memories for some time to come.
They had to find a way to rescue Wittenfeld and his Black Lancers from catastrophe. Unlike the genial Müller, the cautious and sober Wahlen had never been especially close to Wittenfeld, but now he did all he could to release him from his confinement and avert a standoff within the imperial military. Were their positions reversed, Wittenfeld seeking to rescue Wahlen would no doubt be interpreted as an attempt to thumb the nose at von Oberstein more than anything else. Each admiral’s habitual behavior dictated how they were seen by others.
Meanwhile, the Black Lancers were quite fond of their volatile, passionate commander, and their resentment and loathing of von Oberstein grew by the day. The recent transfers from the former Fahrenheit fleet had more nuanced feelings on the matter, but it can be safely said that not a single Lancer felt inclined to take von Oberstein’s side.
Admiral Halberstadt, deputy commander of the Black Lancers, and Admiral Gräbner, Wittenfeld’s chief of staff, sought meetings with the minister, but were coldly refused. Requests for permission to visit Wittenfeld himself met with the same response.
Rear Admiral Eugen came to Müller and Wahlen for help. Both Müller and Wahlen were willing, but neither of them knew what to actually do. Whenever they tried to meet with von Oberstein, Commodore Ferner—his chief secretary of the ministry of military affairs—simply repeated, “The minister will not see you.”
“Above all, make sure the Black Lancers don’t lose their temper” said Müller. “I’ll contact Kaiser Reinhard and Marshal Mittermeier and make sure they take action. You and the others keep the Lancers in line. Take whatever measures are necessary to ensure they don’t do anything hasty.”
“We’ll do what we can. But where our powers fall short, we’ll have no choice but to rely on you and Admiral Wahlen. Please help us.”
After Rear Admiral Eugen left, Wahlen turned a rueful smile on Müller.
“Wittenfeld doesn’t deserve him. Who would have thought that an officer so worthy could be nurtured under a raging bull?”
However, it seemed that Wittenfeld’s influence was stronger on his more highly-ranked subordinates. After Eugen left, Halberstadt appeared before Wahlen to vent his fury at the minister.
“If Commander Wittenfeld is treated unjustly, there will be no persuading the troops to meekly accept it. Please keep that in mind.”
“Watch what you say, Admiral Halberstadt,” Wahlen said sternly. “Do you mean to threaten us? Do you perhaps hope to see more strife between His Majesty’s troops this year?”
Halberstadt stiffened and apologized for his rudeness. He knew that if Wahlen gave up on Wittenfeld and the Black Lancers, their case would be hopeless.
Wahlen himself felt at a loss before von Oberstein’s wall of ice. “He won’t accept the hand of conciliation—not even a bionic one,” was how he put it.
Even as the senior admirals grappled with this problem, sparks of resentment and antagonism smoldered in the imperial military, and one was soon fanned so strongly that it caused an actual fire, though not a large one.
On April 6, the military police under von Oberstein’s direct command clashed with the Black Lancers in what became known as the Downding Street Riot.
Each side had its own story, but the disturbance began when the military police saw a group of junior officers from the Black Lancers emerging from a bar on Downding Street in defiance of a prohibition on drinking that van Oberstein had imposed. This infraction should have been minor enough to overlook, but the military police decided to throw the book at the group. This may have been because they were with women, and also possibly because they had written von Oberstein’s name on their empty liquor bottles and were kicking them down the street. They were questioned, an argument ensued, and within two minutes a brawl had broken out. When the fight began, a small squad’s worth of men was involved, but in thirty minutes the crowd had grown to the size of a regiment, and more than a hundred had been injured. Eventually, both sides drew their guns and began erecting barricades in the street.
News of the disturbance soon reached Wahlen and Müller, who, already tense over the prospect of intramilitary conflict, were forced to come up with immediate countermeasures.
“This idiocy could escalate into urban warfare. If that happens, we’ll be the laughingstock of not just the Imperial Navy but everyone on Heinessen—not to mention the republicans.”