IV
It was 2215. Feeling the storm ease, people glanced out of windows. The wind died off, the rain stopped, and stars glittered across the deep indigo span of the strangely clear sky. The center of the low pressure system was passing directly over the temporary palace.
With the weather momentarily improved and the terrorists eliminated, Evangeline Mittermeier finally arrived with her husband at the palace. Their landcar had been immobilized by flooding and, since the Gale Wolf was not willing to force his wife and child to trudge through the driving rain, they had all waited helplessly in the vehicle for a break in the storm.
“Thank you so much for coming, Frau Mittermeier. This way, please.”
Evangeline was shown into the kaiser’s room. Count von Mariendorf and various other officials and generals were there already, and motes of sorrow eddied about the grand, high-ceilinged room. Evangeline stood, Felix in her arms, until her husband took her by the hand and led her to the kaiser’s bedside.
“Thank you for coming, Frau Mittermeier,” Reinhard said, sitting up in bed. “I would like to introduce my son, Alexander Siegfried, to his first friend—your son. An empire needs a strong ruler, but I want to leave my boy one friend to be his equal. May I ask you to indulge me in this whim?”
The blond infant in Kaiserin Hilda’s arms squirmed. Instead of crying, however, he opened his blue eyes wide and stared at the Mittermeier family.
“Felix,” Mittermeier said quietly, “pledge your fealty to Prinz Alec—I mean, to His Majesty Kaiser Alec.”
A peculiar scene, perhaps, but no one laughed. The fourteen-month-old toddler and the two-month-old infant stared at each other as if in wonderment. Then Felix reached out with one tiny hand and took the even tinier hand of Alexander Siegfried.
Friendship comes in many forms. It begins in many ways, is sustained in many ways, and ends in many ways. What manner of friendship would arise between Alexander Siegfried von Lohengramm and Felix Mittermeier? Would they become like Reinhard and Siegfried, or perhaps like von Reuentahl and Mittermeier? Mittermeier could not help wondering.
Felix held the infant prince’s hand tightly. He smiled, perhaps pleased with his new toy. When his father, fearing discourtesy, tried to pull him away, Felix frowned and began to cry, and the young prince followed his example.
The lively commotion lasted only twenty seconds, after which Reinhard summoned all his strength to smile.
“You are a good boy, Felix. I hope you will always remain a good friend to the prince.”
At times like this, a parent’s words become generic, and Reinhard’s were no exception. He let his head settle back onto his pillow and surveyed the assembled crowd. A hint of suspicion crossed his face.
“I do not see Marshal von Oberstein. Where is he?”
The officers and admirals exchanged troubled glances, but Hilda calmly mopped her husband’s brow as she answered, “The minister is absent on business that could not be postponed, Your Majesty.”
“I see. That man always has a valid reason for what he does.”
The response was somewhere between acceptance and sarcasm. Reinhard raised his hand and placed his hand over Hilda’s own, still holding the towel.
“Kaiserin, you will rule the galaxy more wisely than I ever could. If you wish to move to a constitutional system, so be it. So long as the galaxy is always ruled by the mightiest and wisest among the living, all will be well. If Alexander Siegfried lacks that might, there is no need to maintain the Lohengramm Dynasty. Manage everything as you see fit—that is all I ask of you…”
It took Reinhard some time to finish this speech through high fever and labored breathing. When he did, he lowered his hand as if with exhaustion, closed his eyes, and slipped into unconsciousness. At 2310, his lips moved as if thirsty, and Hilda pressed a sponge soaked in water and white wine to them. He drank the liquid, and eventually opened his eyes slightly and whispered to her. Unless, perhaps, he mistook her for someone else.
“When the galaxy is mine…we shall all…”
He trailed off. His eyelids fell once more. Hilda waited. But his eyes did not open again, and his lips did not move.
It was 2329, July 26, SE 801, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar. Reinhard von Lohengramm died aged 25. His brief reign had lasted less than two years.
The silence was so total that the air itself seemed to have thrown aside its function of transmitting sound. This silence was finally broken by the soft crying of Alexander Siegfried, second Kaiser of the Lohengramm Dynasty. Of the two women at the deceased’s bedside, one rose to her feet. Hilda von Lohengramm now stood at the pinnacle of the Galactic Empire as dowager empress and regent. Count von Mariendorf, Mittermeier, and the others stood silently as her quiet voice filled the room.
“The kaiser did not die of illness. He passed away having fully used his allotted span. He was not felled by malady. Remember this, please, all of you.”
Hilda bowed her head deeply, and the first tear rolled down her fair cheek. The remaining woman at the bedside of the deceased let out a low sob.
…Thus did Welsede become a sacred tomb.
—Ernest Mecklinger