When Julian returned to the senior officers’ salon, Attenborough greeted him, saying, “You’ve got some lipstick on the corner of your mouth.”
Julian hurriedly put a hand to his lips, and Attenborough burst out laughing.
“You completed the ritual, then. Excellent, excellent.”
“You’re a terrible person, Admiral.”
“Didn’t you even realize that your sweetheart wasn’t wearing lipstick anymore?”
“I will in the future.”
Attenborough laughed again at Julian’s reply, then indicated a truce. “By the way,” he said. “Have you formalized your plans to meet with the kaiser yet?”
“Not yet. The kaiser himself still needs to recover a little more first.”
“Is there any guarantee that he will recover? I hear it’s terminal.”
Attenborough lowered his voice, and sincerity cast its shadow across his features. Julian understood this both rationally and emotionally. Reinhard von Lohengramm was too great a presence to simply despise and reject. Just imagining the sense of loss when he passed made Julian shudder, even though he was their enemy—or perhaps because he was.
“Just make sure you don’t leave anything unsaid,” Attenborough continued.
“I will.”
“What is it with people, anyway? Well, groups of people. How many billion liters of blood must be spilled just to settle something that can be resolved by talking?”
“It seems foolish to you?”
“Maybe, but I’m not qualified to criticize. I’ve shed blood myself—and in the name of foppery and whim, at that.”
Perhaps it was foolish. But could humanity evolve if that foolishness were lost? Julian did not want Attenborough to think it that far through. He would rather the vice admiral retain his cheerful rebelliousness and pluck.
“Thank you, young man. But, as they say, summer songs for summer, and winter songs for winter. If I stayed in my summer clothes forever, I’d only catch cold when winter comes. Better to make sure your clothes match the season.”
Iserlohn’s army commemorated the spirits of its dead with a range of expressions and attitudes. Meanwhile, on the imperial side, things were slightly different. The admirals at the top of the fleet had escaped death, but at far too great and awful a price. The grand marshal at the head of the entire imperial military, Kaiser Reinhard, had been diagnosed with an incurable disease. Learning this after the end of hostilities, von Eisenach kept his silence, only wiping his face with a slightly trembling hand.
Ferocious Wittenfeld, on the other hand, exploded with emotion. When he came to his senses, he bellowed with rage.
“Why? Why must von Oberstein live and the kaiser die?! Are justice and truth completely absent from the galaxy? Damn that worthless Odin, who devours our offerings and gives nothing in return!”
“Quiet, Wittenfeld,” said Mittermeier.
“How can I be quiet at a time like this?”
“I will offer two reasons. First, although His Majesty is certainly ill, his death is not certain. For a senior admiral to take the lead in bewailing the situation sets a bad example for the troops.”
Mittermeier’s voice was sorrowful and stern, and strong enough to quiet the raging passions of his colleague.
“Second, think of Her Majesty the kaiserin and Prinz Alec. They have far more right to grieve than you. You would do well to keep that in mind.”
“When you put it that way, I have no reply. I was thoughtless.”
Acknowledging his misstep, Wittenfeld sealed his raging emotions within. Mittermeier envied his directness; he, too, longed to curse the injustice of the gods. He had been in anguish ever since that cursed June 1. He had not fallen asleep once since the Battle of Shiva without taking a drink, despite his fatigue. Tilting his glass, he spoke to his friends who had already passed on.
“Kircheis, Lennenkamp, Fahrenheit, Steinmetz, Lutz…I beg you. I beg you, do not take the kaiser to Valhalla with you yet. We still need him in this world.”
One night, Mittermeier was gripped by a peculiar fantasy. It was something he would never normally have imagined. What would happen if Kaiser Reinhard entered the gates of Valhalla full of his usual vigor and spirit? What if he gathered his friends and subordinates from life and launched a war to conquer Valhalla itself? Now that would be a suitable role for the dazzling golden griffin who led the empire! An eternal conqueror, unbowed before the infinite, knowing neither fear nor stagnation. Was that not who Reinhard von Lohengramm truly was?
“Ridiculous,” Mittermeier snorted, but a part of him longed to see this vision made real. It was difficult to bear the idea that the mightiest emperor in human history, ruler of the largest empire ever imagined, might be toppled by mere illness. Mittermeier knew that no man was immortal, but it had always seemed that Reinhard might be an exception. And the six years Mittermeier had spent in Reinhard’s service had been the high point of his life, as he now keenly realized, with each day resplendent in crimson and gold.