I
The tension that accompanied our excitement was sometimes mixed with trace amounts of terror or optimism. Our psychological state was perhaps like that of a troupe of actors when the curtain is set to rise on their premiere performance. We knew the stage to be a cruel one. Those who left it could never return, and the playwright and director were nowhere to be seen, making no attempt to answer the questions of the players. And yet our incorrigible state of mind unendingly invited us to ascend the stage. One thing was certain: we had made no friendship with pessimism. In the end, we supported democratic republicanism of our own free will. Her unadorned face was lovely, we thought; with a wash and some makeup, she would be a breathtaking beauty. After all, for the past fifty years, she had had nothing but worthless men by her side, fixated solely on her faults…
—Dusty Attenborough, A History of the Revolutionary War
VON OBERSTEIN’S FORMAL ORDER that Iserlohn’s leaders present themselves was met with anger and derision by the staff officers of Iserlohn. However, flat refusal was impossible. They would have to obey, or at least give the appearance of doing so.
When Frederica Greenhill Yang’s staff urged her to stay behind, she said, with a slight smile, “I appreciate your kindness, but to be excused because I am a woman is not what I wish. I was made the leader of the Iserlohn Republic, and Minister von Oberstein will not be satisfied unless I go to Heinessen myself.”
There were no further arguments. What Frederica said was correct, and those present were more than familiar with her implacable firmness once she had made up her mind.
Caselnes brought up a different problem.
“We all know what happened when Yang Wen-li did this. What if you are attacked by terrorists on the way to Heinessen or Phezzan, Julian?”
“I think we’re within our rights to demand an imperial escort this time,” Julian said. “We’ll communicate that request to Heinessen once we’re out of the corridor.”
Attenborough raised his eyebrows.
“An imperial escort? You’re going to put our fate in the hands of von Oberstein?”
“Not everyone in the empire is a von Oberstein-brand product,” said Julian wryly. Attenborough had a momentary vision of the entire imperial military with photographs of von Oberstein’s face pasted over their own, and clutched at his stomach with one hand.
“Yes, we might be able to trust Müller,” von Schönkopf said, correctly inferring Julian’s meaning. “I’m sure they won’t like us availing ourselves of their aid, but it’s better than grasping at straws.”
With that, he poured himself another whiskey. He had a knack for committing what amounted to indiscretions with such refinement that none could object to them. It was a special talent possessed by this thirty-seven-year-old former member of the imperial military.
“Admirals and above are all we need for this one,” von Schönkopf added. “You field officers can stay home to watch the fort.”
Olivier Poplin, Kasper Rinz, Soon Soul, and the other officers below admiral rank immediately raised their voices in protest.
“I don’t agree with that. This is the perfect chance to realize our ‘Die, Kaiser!’ battle cry. We want tickets to this show too.”
“I may not be an admiral in rank, but I certainly qualify in terms of talent and popularity. Even if that wasn’t the case, I don’t want to see a new separation between admirals and field officers created at this late stage.”
There was a 50 percent chance that those who went to Heinessen would not return alive. Immediate arrest and execution might await them. Even so, the field officers insisted on their right to go. Von Schönkopf watched with some amusement this expression of the “incorrigible state of mind” that Attenborough would later describe.
“You can’t have everything your way,” he said. “Some of the admirals will be staying too. Admiral Caselnes, for example.”
Caselnes would be needed to command and manage the troops left behind at Iserlohn. Even if they surrendered to the empire without a fight, someone had to be responsible for executing that surrender in an orderly fashion. Furthermore, everyone had a tacit understanding that Caselnes was a family man.
“This is a party for bachelors only,” von Schönkopf said. “We can’t allow married men to get involved.” He chuckled and raised his whiskey glass to eye level as he glanced around for any objections to Caselnes’ assignment. There were none.
“Majority rules,” he said. “By the most democratic means available, you have been selected to remain behind. Congratulations.”
Caselnes started to protest, but then fell silent. He understood what made him valuable to the republic and, as the oldest member of the group, he had a responsibility to set an example by obeying its decisions.
A youth for whom no example needed to be set broke the silence with visible alarm. “There’s two things I never want people to say about me: ‘Olivier Poplin hit on an ugly woman’ and ‘Olivier Poplin ran from danger.’ I’d never live either down, and that means I’m going too.”
A very Poplin way to put it, thought Julian.
Danger, thy name is Poplin, thought Attenborough.
He could have just quietly come along, but he had to open his mouth and show everybody how immature he is, thought von Schönkopf.
As for Admiral Wiliabard Joachim Merkatz, at Julian’s request, he stayed on Iserlohn as a fleet commander.
Dividing Iserlohn’s leadership between those who would go and those who would remain was a necessary precaution. If the entire leadership was eliminated in one stroke, the flame of republican governance would be snuffed out as well. It was Dusty Attenborough who explained this to the others slated to remain, with only Poplin remaining unconvinced. On reflection, the only people Julian had been friendly with longer than Attenborough were Yang and Caselnes.
Julian sometimes thought back on his first encounter with Attenborough. It was his first summer as a member of Yang’s household, and his new guardian took a week off for a vacation in the Heinessen highlands. Carrying a picnic basket prepared by the lady that ran their guesthouse, the two of them had strolled into the green hills, where the early summer breeze seemed to come laden with grains of pure light. With the approach of noon, Yang had sat down at the base of a great tree and opened a book. As Julian remembered it, the book had been the memoirs of Admiral Rosas, respected aide to Marshal Bruce Ashby. As his guardian had immersed himself in his reading, Julian had spread out a blanket. He had just begun arranging the sandwiches and roast chicken for lunch when he saw a young man climbing the hill toward them with a jacket slung over his left shoulder. This had been his first glimpse of Dusty Attenborough. Attenborough was supposed to have come on vacation with them, but some urgent matter or other had forced him to delay his departure by one day.
After they had all exchanged pleasantries, Attenborough had gotten down to business.
“They’ve made me a lieutenant commander this time,” he had said.
“Congratulations are in order, then,” Yang had replied.
“Are they, I wonder? With you a captain and me a lieutenant commander, it seems to me like the Alliance Navy is heading straight to hell—on a unicycle, at full speed.” Attenborough had sat down beside Julian, snagged a piece of roast chicken without so much as a pretense of hesitation, and began to munch. “To be honest, Captain Yang, I thought Lappe would be promoted even faster than you. But now here I am at the same rank as him. It’s a strange feeling.”
“If Jean Robert hadn’t been sidelined by illness, he’d be an admiral by now,” Yang had said. “How is he doing?”
“Miss Edwards said that all he needs now is time.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Yang’s reply had come after a split-second’s hesitation. Julian understood what that meant now, but at the time he had been unable to imagine or deduce its import.
Julian shook his head and looked at the group gathered in the conference room. In the future, he did not want to reminisce about them. He wanted to reminisce with them. It was bad enough that Yang, Bucock, and so many others now existed only in memory.
All people, all things must eventually stand motionless in the gloom of the past. Perhaps it was a turning point in history that Julian sensed, like a feeling a change in the temperature or wind direction through the skin. Up until now, he had been wearing the coat named Yang Wen-li, and it had protected him from sudden and intense changes. It had been a magical coat—one that could also teach him about the historical, political, or military circumstances that surrounded him. But that coat was now lost forever, leaving Julian at the mercy of the roaring wind and searing sun. What was more, it was now up to Julian to become a coat for others.