IV
“Iserlohn’s ships appear to be preparing to withdraw toward the corridor. I propose we cut off their retreat, and then encircle and destroy them. Do I have His Majesty’s permission to proceed?”
The transmission arrived from Wittenfeld at 0240 on May 31. Reinhard rose from a shallow slumber and, with the help of his attendant Emil von Salle, donned his uniform. He would have preferred to have showered as well, but that would have been unwise in his condition.
Steeped in fever, he dragged himself from his quarters to the bridge. The sensation reminded him of his first experience of low gravity in elementary school. A slowly growing, queasy feeling, like being drunk on cheap liquor, also infiltrated his consciousness.
Finally, the bridge appeared before him. He saw his staff officers straighten and salute. But then his vision swayed and rapidly darkened. It seemed to Reinhard that he cried out, but it did not register in his hearing.
“Your Majesty!”
Emil’s scream sent shivers down the spine of every staff officer attached to Imperial Headquarters. Before their very eyes, the invincible young conqueror had crumpled to the ground. Formally, Reinhard had never bowed his head before anyone but the kaiser of the Goldenbaum Dynasty; now, his golden mane had been forced into an unwelcome kiss with the bridge’s floor. His eyes were closed; the blood that showed through the inorganic white of his cheeks burned with an unhealthy crimson light. Commodore Kissling and Lieutenant Commander von Rücke ran to his side, lifting him off the floor between them. Angry cries and orders flew back and forth across the room, and medics and nurses rushed in as a tension very close to terror electrified the air. The unconscious kaiser was placed on a stretcher and carried back the way he had come, with Kissling, von Rücke, and Emil by his side.
Senior Admiral Mecklinger’s face was somewhat pale, but he appeared to have maintained his composure. He turned to a nearby doctor.
“Medic,” he said.
“Y-yes, sir?”
“Do not think that ‘unknown causes’ will suffice this time. Determine what ails the kaiser and administer the best treatment possible.”
Privately, the medic gave thanks that the gentlemanly Mecklinger was the kaiser’s chief advisor rather than Wittenfeld. But his gratitude was premature, as he realized when Mecklinger reached out and seized him by the collar.
The “Artist-Admiral’s” eyes flickered with a blue flame, burning at absolute zero. “Understand, medic, that your position brings with it certain responsibilities. If you cannot help the patient, you are no better than a village doctor. You will live up to my expectations, I trust?”
Deathly pale, the medic nodded, and Mecklinger released his grip on the man’s collar. He smiled out of one side of his mouth.
“My apologies, medic. It seems I got somewhat overexcited.”
Speechless, the medic could only rub his throat.
✦ ✦ ✦
“The kaiser is unconscious.”
The report that reached Marshal Mittermeier was awash with shock and fear. The Gale Wolf felt witch breath freeze the inner walls of his stomach and heart. His gray eyes, so rich in vitality, showed icy cracks. Nevertheless, confining his shock to his own body, he turned to his staff officers, whose faces were drained of color, and offered a sharp reprimand.
“Calm yourselves. The kaiser has not left our mortal plane. Those who lose their composure today will face His Majesty’s wrath tomorrow.”
Although Mittermeier was relatively slight of build, his presence at times like this overwhelmed even the tallest of his officers. They straightened up without realizing they did so. The warrior they served under was without equal, not just in the Imperial Navy, but in the entire galaxy.
“More importantly,” Mittermeier continued, “this information must not reach the enemy. I want a partial shutdown of the comm network. Report only that to headquarters.”
Mittermeier knew that Mecklinger was aboard Brünhild, and trusted him to take care of matters as necessary to prevent unrest at headquarters. This might mean throwing away the possibility of victory in the battle now unfolding, but under the circumstances this bitter pill would simply have to be swallowed.
Was the Lohengramm Dynasty’s history fated to end before it had even spanned three full years? This horrifying prospect shot sideways through Mittermeier’s neurons. On the periphery of the consciousness of the commander hailed as the greatest treasure of the Imperial Navy, the twins known as Terror and Despair raised their abhorrent birthing cry.
“Well, von Reuentahl, what do you think I should do? A lot of nerve you’ve got, leaving me to deal with this while you watch from Valhalla with drinking horn in hand.”
Mittermeier’s complaint to his deceased friend was more than half serious. Even with the Gale Wolf’s daring and quick thinking, this situation would be difficult to control. He even found himself wondering what von Oberstein would do if he were there—proof of just how serious his state of mind was.
And so the Imperial Navy was trapped in a snare of its own devising. By closing off part of the communications network and ordering strict radio silence on the subject of the kaiser’s condition, they prevented the Iserlohn fleet from learning of it, but at the same time cut vital links in their own chain of command.
Mittermeier and Mecklinger had established a sort of wordless coordination with one another. It was working very near perfectly, but those who did not know of the kaiser’s illness could not enjoy its benefits. The question of when and how to convey the facts to Eisenach and Wittenfeld, still commanding the fleet’s wings, posed a new challenge for Mecklinger and von Streit.
Particularly problematic was Wittenfeld. He had unleashed a wave of violence at the Iserlohn forces, charging farther ahead than any other imperial unit. At 0515, however, his advance was halted by a cannon formation constructed by Admiral Merkatz.
Merkatz’s artfully constructed wall of fire and light prevented Wittenfeld’s ferocious charge. This could not hold the Black Lancers at bay forever, but it did buy Attenborough enough time to regroup his fleet, which he did by 0600.
In his flagship Königs Tiger, Wittenfeld kicked against the floor of the bridge in frustration. Then he contacted Brünhild, the fleet’s mobile headquarters, to request mobilization of reserve forces for a second attack.
The reply from headquarters, however, instructed him to refrain from dangerous aggression and fall back.
“You oaf!” the orange-haired commander screamed at Mecklinger’s image on-screen, shaking his fist. “Put the kaiser on. Put him on, or I will fly to Brünhild myself by shuttle to petition His Majesty in person!”
He was quite serious, and the Artist-Admiral could not help an internal tsk of frustration.
“Admiral Wittenfeld, I am chief advisor to Imperial Headquarters by His Majesty’s direct appointment. Issuing battlefield movement orders to you and the other admirals is within the authority delegated to me by the kaiser. If you object to my instructions, we can debate the matter in His Majesty’s presence at a later date. For now, however, you have been given orders to retreat and I expect you to obey them.”
Mecklinger felt that he had no choice but to put things in those terms, but this only provoked Wittenfeld to even greater rage. Furious, Wittenfeld offered an impolite and inartistic counterargument.
“You doggerel-spewing cur! Since when do you play von Oberstein’s tunes on that piano of yours?”
“A song by a jackal is more than sufficient to serenade a boar,” said Mecklinger, who was also an accomplished pianist.
Meanwhile, during this severe but unconstructive exchange between headquarters and the fleet’s right wing, the left wing maintained its distance from the Iserlohn fleet.
Ignoring the urgings of his staff officers, von Eisenach thought for some time before eventually raising his left hand and moving its upraised thumb back and forth. His chief of staff Admiral Grießenbeck, interpreting the wordless order, had the von Eisenach fleet begin a swift, temporary withdrawal from the close fighting on the front lines. When Iserlohn’s ships gave pursuit, the von Eisenach fleet rebuffed them with three rounds of concentrated cannon fire, then got back into formation with perfect precision. With this, von Eisenach had positioned the fleet to respond immediately to any orders from the kaiser, whatever they might be. But the silent admiral would have to wait a surprisingly long time before any such orders were received.