When word of Merkatz’s death reached Dusty Attenborough, the vice admiral doffed his black beret and offered up a short, silent prayer. Merkatz had died on the same date as Yang Wen-li, who had greeted him as an honored guest. Attenborough could only hope that they would find each other in the afterlife, and discuss military history and tactics over drinks.
Pulling himself together with some effort, Attenborough put his beret back on his head. He glanced toward the screen and noticed a young female pilot staring up at Brünhild’s suffering.
“Worried, Corporal von Kreutzer?”
He did not specify what she might be worried about, as no fewer than three individuals closely connected to her were in the boarding party: Poplin, her superior and teacher in the art of fighter combat; von Schönkopf, her biological father; and Julian Mintz, who was not quite her lover.
Karin responded with a hard smile, but said nothing aloud. The young revolutionary did not press her further.
✦ ✦ ✦
Aboard Brünhild, Iserlohn’s infiltrators had established what might be called a bridgehead. The boarding party, which had the Rosen Ritter regiment as its core, advanced toward Reinhard’s chambers and the bridge, efficiently mowing down enemy soldiers as they went, but presently they came up against a tougher defensive formation.
“Looks like the imperial guard have turned up!”
“You mean ‘graced us with their august presence.’ Don’t forget, this is the personal guard of His Majesty the Kaiser.”
“They’re just mannequins in fancy dress from Neue Sans Souci.”
This ungenerous assessment found supporters among the speaker’s colleagues, but the reference was unfortunately dated, as Kaiser Reinhard did not, of course, reside in Neue Sans Souci Palace.
“Hey, you [unprintable] Neue Sans Souci trash! Don’t you have a ballroom to guard or something? You should’ve stuck to what you’re good at—flipping up the skirts of society ladies with those bayonets of yours!”
The reply was a torrent of beam fire. Shafts of light came in by the dozen, exploding against the walls and floor and bouncing off mirror-coated shields to turn the world into a whirl of madly dancing gemstones. Naturally, the Rosen Ritter returned fire, and the shootout ended in around 100 seconds. As they slowly recovered their vision, they saw imperial troops approaching with tomahawks and bayonets at the ready.
In moments, a violent melee was underway.
The air filled with screams and the clang of metal on metal. Blood sprayed from sliced-open arteries, painting abstract crimson canvases that stretched from wall to floor.
The imperial troops were hardly mannequins, but neither were they any match for the ferocity of the Rosen Ritter. The “Knights of the Rose” were descended from refugees who had fled the old imperial society, and they deployed every brutal technique at their disposal, swinging tomahawks, thrusting with combat knives, slamming elbows into weak spots, and stabbing with bayonets.
Tomahawks clashed in showers of sparks. The gleam of combat knives gave way to the luster of spurting blood. The combat was primitive—rending, slashing, punching, kicking, splitting, and finally ending in a retreat on the defensive side. Iserlohn’s boarding party advanced over bodies and blood, but the imperial side quickly regrouped and sought its next chance at slaughter.
Von Schönkopf turned to Julian, who stood beside him. “We’ll hold them off,” he said. “You go see the kaiser. Talk to him, or respectfully send his head flying—make history as you see fit.”
Julian hesitated. How could he sacrifice von Schönkopf and his men in exchange for an audience with the kaiser? He knew he was being sentimental, but he was still reluctant to accept von Schönkopf’s proposal.
“Don’t misunderstand what matters here, Julian,” von Schönkopf said. “Finding the kaiser and negotiating as equals is your duty. Our job is to arrange things to make that possible.”
Von Schönkopf suddenly seized Julian by the shoulders and leaned close enough for their helmets to touch.
“Do you know the one thing I’m still mad at Yang Wen-li for? Not getting away alive last year, after Blumhardt gave his life to protect him. ‘Miracle Yang’ or not, he shouldn’t have fumbled that one.”
It seemed to Julian that the weight of von Schönkopf’s sorrow was palpable even through their two helmets.
Von Schönkopf straightened up. “Poplin, Machungo, you go with Julian. The three of you together should add up to one decent fighting man, after all.”
“Hear, hear,” said Captain Kasper Rinz. “This is Rosen Ritter-occupied territory. We don’t need weaklings like you dragging us down.”
“You see how it is,” said von Schönkopf with a smirk. “The Rosen Ritter are an exclusive group. They’d prefer it if outsiders sought their fortune elsewhere.”
Julian made up his mind. He could not let von Schönkopf and Rinz’s gesture be in vain, and above all he did not want to waste time.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll see you later. Just make sure you survive.”
“Oh, I intend to,” von Schönkopf said. “I have something new to look forward to now—turning into a stubborn dad and crashing my daughter’s wedding. Now get going. There’s no time.”
“Thank you,” Julian said. Shaking off all sentimentality, he broke into a run, fast as a young unicorn, with Poplin and Machungo close behind. Von Schönkopf watched them leave, then shifted his gaze. He saw a figure reflected in a subordinate’s helmet, leveling his beam rifle at Julian’s back. Without even turning, von Schönkopf drew the blaster at his hip.
What happened next could only be described as magic. Without even turning, von Schönkopf fired the blaster behind him from under his other arm. The imperial soldier was dead before he hit the ground. Cries of rage and astonishment rose from the imperial army, while the Rosen Ritter whistled in admiration.
“Excellent shot, Admiral von Schönkopf.”
“I’ve always wanted to do that. One of my childhood dreams.”
As von Schönkopf laughed, a beam of light grazed his nose and plunged into the floor. He leapt back and adjusted his grip on his tomahawk, ready for the next bloody battle.
✦ ✦ ✦
IV
Von Schönkopf’s tomahawk sliced through air and flesh in silver arcs. Blood spurted upward, and shrieks and bellows reverberated off the ceiling. He seemed less an emissary of death than death itself—and the kind of death idealized by supporters of military rule, at that: the glorious demise recorded in human blood.
It was the first time von Schönkopf had wielded his tomahawk inside an enemy ship since meeting Marshal Oskar von Reuentahl in single combat three years earlier.
“Bah!” he muttered. “If I’d fought three minutes longer then, von Reuentahl’s head would’ve been mine. Then I could have set those heterochromatic eyes in my shield like jewels.”
Sounding like a bronze-age warrior, von Schönkopf shook the blood off his tomahawk. Too much, however, had already dried fast to the blade; it did not recover the same silver gleam as his armor. He knew that the weapon’s dark red coating was the color of sin, but this did not sap his destructive power. He hacked his way through the enemy, cutting them down, sweeping them aside, sending countless men to a hell he would soon follow them to.
The imperial soldiers were far from cowardly, but even they recoiled before von Schönkopf’s overwhelming martial valor. Half-tumbling backward, they aimed their weapons at him, but von Schönkopf did not allow them to fall back from melee to firefight. He charged forward twice as fast as they could retreat, swinging his tomahawk left and right. Gouts of blood flew. The imperial side’s encircling net began to crumble. Von Schönkopf spun; his tomahawk flashed again; fresh war dead collapsed beneath the spray of blood. Who could ever have imagined that such a gorgeous, monstrous scene would be painted in Brünhild’s corridors?
“Enemy though he is, he is a remarkable man,” Mittermeier said, gray eyes fixed on von Schönkopf’s figure on the monitor. “Meanwhile, our own side achieves nothing. Perhaps I should take charge of the interception.”
Had Mittermeier followed through on this, von Schönkopf might have had the honor of single combat against both of the Imperial Navy’s “Twin Ramparts.” But Mecklinger and Müller shook their heads. Mittermeier was to stay with the kaiser. After a brief exchange in low voices, Mecklinger set off for the bridge as a representative of headquarters, while the other two remained with Reinhard.
Behind the standing screen, the kaiser spoke. There were faint sounds that seemed to indicate he was sitting up in bed.
“Emil,” he said. “Help me change into my uniform.”
“That will not do, Your Majesty, not with your fever,” said the young attendant, clearly torn. “You must rest.”
“The kaiser of the Galactic Empire cannot receive guests improperly dressed. Uninvited guests though they be.”
Emil glanced at the admirals’ faces from around the screen. Stop His Majesty! He is too unwell for this! his eyes pleaded, but Mittermeier’s response betrayed his expectations.
“Do as His Majesty says, Emil von Salle.”
Beneath Mittermeier’s mask of calm lay naked sorrow. Along with Mecklinger and Müller, he had been forced to recognize that it would not be right to prevent the kaiser from using his remaining time as he saw fit. Reinhard himself well understood what the acquiescence of his staff officers implied.
Feet that had trampled the very galaxy now struggled to support the kaiser’s own weight. The decline in his vitality and strength could no longer be hidden. He had borne on his shoulders a vast interstellar empire containing tens of billions of people, but now, even his customary uniform seemed a heavy burden.