III
On June 10, Julian Mintz arrived on Heinessen along with the imperial fleet. It was the first time he had returned to his home planet since departing for Terra on Yang’s wedding night.
Was it because he looked at the scenery through sentimental sunglasses that he thought Heinessen had changed? Two years ago, the planet was the center of an apparatus of state extending across half the galaxy. It was a focal point in human society, concentrating both people and resources. Today, its aura was fading as it became just another frontier world. Above all, there was neither life nor pride in the faces of the people who lived here and filled its streets. It was as if the entire planet had sat itself down on the slope of uncritically accepting its current situation, made peace with its position on the empire’s frontier, and was now sliding into the abyss of history.
Self-determination, self-governance, self-control, self-respect: where had the democratic republican values promulgated by Ahle Heinessen gone? Pondering this question deeply, Julian’s first visit was to Vice Admiral Murai.
Murai was still in the hospital. During his recovery from the injuries sustained at Ragpur, he had come down with peritonitis. His situation had been quite serious at one point. That danger now past, he had progressed steadily from a stable condition to recovery, and expected to be discharged at the end of June. He welcomed Julian to his hospital ward, seizing his hand and eagerly asking for all kinds of news.
“You’ll be abandoning Iserlohn, then?”
“I think we will. I haven’t discussed things with the kaiser yet, but I don’t see what other bargaining chips we have.”
“It’ll be the end of an era. Brief as it was, it was one you and I and the others shared: the Iserlohn Era. For me, it was my final posting, but for you and the rest, I hope it will prove the first step toward a new age.”
As usual, Murai’s tone gave Julian the impression that he was being scolded, but he did not find it unpleasant. The older man’s unfailing preference for order had allowed the Yang Fleet’s talent and individuality to shine. He had been an irreplaceable ingredient, a kind of unblended malt whiskey in the cocktail known as “Yang Wen-li and His Gang of Outlaws.”
It never hurt to have someone like Vice Admiral Murai around, Julian thought. Though less warrior than consummate military professional, he had given his all for Iserlohn. Julian did not intend to ask him to return to active-duty service again.
On the same day, Julian met with Senior Admiral Wahlen of the Imperial Navy to discuss the treatment of the Iserlohn troops “stationed” on Heinessen.
Wahlen studied Julian’s face with interest. “I believe we met on Terra,” he said. “Unless I misremember.”
“No, your memory is quite correct.”
“Ah, now I remember!” Wahlen nodded. “It was in the Church of Terra’s headquarters.” Two years ago, Julian had traveled to Terra in the guise of an independent trader from Phezzan. There he had met Wahlen, who had been sent to eradicate the Church.
“I apologize for deceiving you on that occasion,” Julian said.
“Nothing to apologize for,” Wahlen said. “Everyone has his own situation.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. It was his left hand—the one he had lost while carrying out his mission to Terra.
“Still,” he continued, “I cannot help but think on how many companions we have both lost.”
These words put Julian in a sober mood which further deepened when he spoke to Neidhart Müller.
“I wonder, Herr Mintz, which of us is the more fortunate. You did not realize that you would lose Marshal Yang Wen-li until he was already gone. We have been given time to prepare ourselves for the loss of His Majesty. But while your sadness began from the starting line, we must first reach our goal, and then set out once more in order to fill our starved hearts. For us, the survivors…”
Müller pointedly left out the rest of the sentence, but Julian’s heart resonated in sympathy with his. Yes—for the survivors, the journey continues. It continues until the day we join our departed companions in death. Forbidden to fly, we must walk on until that day.
Julian was happy to have forged these personal connections with Müller and the other admirals of the Imperial Navy. He was aware, however, that future generations might view his actions less charitably. “A bloody handshake over tens of millions of corpses—a shameless embrace between mass murderers,” some might say.
Others might go further. “If this was how it would end, why not simply make friends from the beginning? What of the millions who died? Were they nothing but disposable tools used by their leaders to enact an entente that had been planned from the beginning?”
Criticism along these lines would simply have to be accepted. In particular, whatever abuse he received from the families of the war dead would be justified.
For Julian, however, fighting had been the only way to bring about their current situation. Had they simply accepted the authority of the Galactic Empire immediately after the fall of the Free Planets Alliance, Yang Wen-li would have been murdered, and republican democracy would have been extinguished without a trace. So Julian thought, but of course those were Julian’s values; others approached life with different ones.
One of those others was currently in his hotel room, feverishly doing sums of some sort before his reunion with Julian. Seeing this, one of his employees could not resist a curious inquiry:
“What are you doing, Captain Konev?”
“Calculating compound interest.”
Boris Konev‘s lucid answer only intrigued Marinesk, the other man, further.
“Compound interest on what?”
“The fee for all the information I’ve provided those Iserlohn fellows.”
“You’re charging a fee?!”
“Of course I am. After all, they wouldn’t feel right receiving unpaid service.”
“I wonder.”
“At the very least, I don’t feel comfortable rendering it. Unlike Dusty Attenborough, I didn’t risk my life out of ‘foppery and whim.’ ”
“I wonder.”
In order to avoid a protracted argument, Konev’s loyal and reliable administrative officer stopped just short of disagreement.
Once Konev finished his calculations, he nodded, as if he had caught a glimpse of his own future. “I’ve made up my mind, Marinesk,” he said. “If Iserlohn comes out on top in this cruel game, I’m going to go into the intelligence business. A new kind of trade for a new age.”
“Well, in any case, selling high-quality product to gain trust and expand your business never hurts,” said Marinesk, keeping his response carefully general in nature.
Konev set out for the cheap hotel where Iserlohn’s military leadership was lodged. Julian and Attenborough had gone to see Admiral Wahlen of the Imperial Navy about procedures for sending the troops who had “returned alive” back home to Heinessen, while Olivier Poplin and Kasper Rinz were playing a listless game of 3-D chess in the parlor. As soon as Poplin saw Konev’s face, he hurled some sarcasm his way.
“Well, if it isn’t the smartest man on Phezzan. How’s your compatriot Rubinsky?”
“Oh, he’s all but dead.”
“What?”
“I heard it from a source at the hospital. Rubinsky has a brain tumor. He had less than a year to live in the first place, but since the kaiser’s return to Heinessen he’s been refusing to eat. Only a matter of time now.”
“A hunger strike? That doesn’t sound like the Black Fox I know. He’d have stolen food right off his neighbor’s plate to keep himself alive.”
This was indeed the general view of Rubinsky. Whether this was just or not was a question to which they would soon receive at least a partial answer. What is certain is that on that day, Konev won two games of 3-D chess and lost two more without managing to find another opportunity to bring up the fee for the information he had provided.