IV
News of “Von Oberstein’s Scythe” reached Iserlohn rapidly and in rich detail. In an obvious ploy to rattle the Iserlohn Republic and its Revolutionary Army with the facts, the imperial military had refrained from censoring information on this topic. No doubt they also hoped that the republic might be torn apart by internal debate over whether to surrender.
These calculations by the Imperial Navy—or, more accurately, by von Oberstein himself—proved accurate, at least at first. Iserlohn erupted with concern, and representatives of the government and military, from Frederica and Julian down, gathered in a conference room to debate their response—although little was recorded in the first thirty minutes except several hundred colorful vituperations directed at von Oberstein.
However, once they had traversed the road of indignation, they found themselves at the gate of deep vexation. The problem von Oberstein presented them was not of a sort that that could be dismissed in toto with a single word like “despicable.”
Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein, minister of military affairs for the Galactic Empire, was known as a capable, severe official and a schemer with ice in his veins. Julian and the other members of the former Free Planets Alliance did not view him in a flattering light. It was no small shock for Julian to realize that, this time, von Oberstein had posed a question that cut very deep: would it be a greater contribution to history for them to stand and fight, spilling the blood of a million, or achieve peace and unity while keeping the sacrifices to a minimum?
It was more than clear what von Oberstein’s values were. Was that what Julian was going to have to oppose?
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Julian,” said von Schönkopf, in a voice that combined irony and concern. “It is the Galactic Empire that will be blamed for this, particularly Marshal von Oberstein, who executed this plan, and Kaiser Reinhard, who approved it after the fact. Not you.”
“I know that. But I still can’t accept it. If we abandon the people who were captured on Heinessen…”
It would leave a very bad taste in our mouths, thought Julian.
Von Schönkopf spoke again, this time with more or less undiluted irony.
“Isn’t it every democratic republican’s dream to be imprisoned by an autocratic ruler as a political criminal, though? Particularly those who held high office in the alliance, and beat the drum among the citizens and soldiers for a just war in the name of democracy?”
Similar thoughts had momentarily occurred to Julian, in fact. But the list of prisoners delivered by Boris Konev had left him incapable of such sanguinity.
“Vice Admiral Murai was among those arrested. We can’t just abandon him.”
This sent ripples through the conference room. Iserlohn’s young staff officers looked at the list again, eyes wide with fresh surprise.
“What?! They caught the walking reprimand? That must have taken some courage, I’ll give the imperials that.”
“I didn’t think anyone in the galaxy could stand up to that old grump. That puts the Empire’s minister of military affairs one up on Iserlohn’s chief of sstaff.”
“I’d rather keep my distance from both of them. Let’s just say it all happened in another world.”
The discussion began to head in a peculiar direction.
“Remember, if we save him, he’ll owe us one,” said Julian. He meant it as a joke, but the expression that crossed Attenborough and Poplin’s faces was between 16 and 72 percent serious.
“So, commander, what do you plan to do?” asked von Schönkopf.
Julian shook his head. This was not a question to rush his answer to. The fundamental spirit of democracy would not allow them to abandon people whose lives were in danger, no matter how few. But would they be forced to give up the galaxy’s sole remaining bastion of democracy in exchange? Would they have to surrender to the empire without even a fight?
Glancing at Julian, now deep in thought, the thirteenth commander of the Rosen Ritter spoke again.
“Our greatest ally in this matter may be on Phezzan.”
Von Schönkopf did not name this ally, but Julian understood at once who he meant: Reinhard himself. The kaiser’s pride would surely frown on any attempt to use hostages to force a surrender. That very pride could be what came to the defense of Iserlohn and the principles of democratic republican governance. If so, perhaps they should seek to negotiate with Reinhard himself. But who should their intermediary be?
According to Boris Konev’s information, the admirals who had arrived with von Oberstein were Müller and Wittenfeld. Julian had met Müller before. He had come to Iserlohn the previous June to convey the kaiser’s condolences when word of Yang Wen-li’s death had reached the empire. Could they rely on his goodwill and good faith again today? However trustworthy he was as an individual, he was still a senior imperial official, and surely required to put the empire’s interests first. Relying blindly on Müller might result in weakening his own position.
Julian’s thoughts careened in tangled spirals. Suppose they did go through Müller to reach the kaiser—was he truly the man they should seek to negotiate with?
When the Free Planets Alliance had collapsed, Reinhard—then still the Duke von Lohengramm—had not treated Yang Wen-li or Marshal Bucock as war criminals. They were his enemies, but he had been courteous with them. If that attitude of his had continued, perhaps there was hope.
But how was pinning their hopes on the kaiser’s pride any different from appealing to his magnanimity or mercy? This was what made Julian hesitate. To bend the knee to von Oberstein would be unbearable—was it all right, then, to bow his head before the kaiser? Was he not, perhaps, motivated only by fear of harm to his own wretched ego? Would he achieve anything more than a temporary gesture toward resolving the situation?
It might give him some small satisfaction to ensure that Reinhard rather than von Oberstein received the credit, but the result would be the same: submission to the empire. He had to keep that in mind, lest he fall into strange illusions and bring about a bizarre finale in which he surrendered to the kaiser gladly.
Perhaps Marshal von Oberstein had calculated all of this when he sharpened his scythe. If so, Julian was no match for him. He felt his limits keenly. What would Marshal Yang do? How would he deal with von Oberstein’s breathtakingly cynical gambit?
Yang Wen-li had not been a superman, and there were many problems he had been unable to resolve. Julian knew this, of course, but impatience at his own failings always seemed to exaggerate his admiration for Yang. While this psychological tendency did ensure that Julian never grew overconfident in his own abilities, it may also have narrowed the possibilities for his inborn talents. He had just turned nineteen, and his self-control was still imperfect. But his awareness of that, and the way his fundamental posture never wavered as he used his guardian and teacher as mirror, was why people thought him exceptional.
Human lives, and the human history woven from the accumulation of countless such lives: an antinomous helix reaching into the twin eternities of past and future. What value to place on peace, and how to situate it in its historical context? Such were the questions to which this endless spiral extended in search of answers.
Were methods like von Oberstein’s the only way to achieve peace and unity and order? The thought was difficult for Julian to bear. If that were so, then what need had there been for Kaiser Reinhard and Yang Wen-li to shed so much blood? Yang Wen-li in particular had despised war, and agonized over the question of whether bloodshed could turn history in a constructive direction—even as he himself saw his hands stained red again and again. Was von Oberstein’s approach the way to overcome the anguish and doubt Yang had felt? Surely not. That could not be. Julian could never concede such a thing.
If the methods that felt the most unworthy were also the most effective at minimizing bloodshed, how could humans suffer in search of the righteous path? Even if von Oberstein’s scheme succeeded, the people would never accept it—at least, not the citizens of the former alliance.
And that, exactly, was the problem. Suppose that von Oberstein’s designs were successful and republicanism was extinguished as an independent force. What would be left in the galaxy? Peace and unity? On the surface, certainly, but currents of hate and enmity would still flow underneath. It would be like a chain of volcanoes, groaning under the pressure of the bedrock, sure one day to erupt and scour the surface with lava. The greater the pressure, the more calamitous the eventual eruption. Such a result could not be allowed to occur, and that was why von Oberstein’s intrigue had to be rejected.
Was Julian simply naive? Perhaps he was. But he had no desire to accept the harshness of von Oberstein’s approach.
Julian’s thinking may at this time have been heading in a rather dangerous direction. Rather than musing on morality, he should have been searching for ways to fight von Oberstein by political means.
Then, on April 10, a message arrived at Iserlohn.
It was a formal communique from the Galactic Empire’s minister of military affairs, Marshal Paul von Oberstein. If Iserlohn desired the release of the five thousand and more political prisoners being held on Heinessen, the message said, they should send representatives of both the Iserlohn Republic and the Revolutionary Army to meet with the empire on-planet.