Ambition (31 page)

“My men came and let me out.” The commodore bowed deeply, making no mention of any grudge he might have had about being thrown into prison. “I can imagine the regret you must be feeling, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, I never dreamed things would turn out this way, but now that they have, there’s no longer any choice. We have to sue for peace.”

“For peace?” The commodore blinked.

“I’ll offer him most advantageous terms.”

“What terms?”

“I’ll recognize his authority. Beginning with myself, the aristocracy will support him fully. Those terms aren’t bad at all.”

“Excellency …”

“Oh yes, that’s right. I’ll give him my daughter, Elisabeth, too. That will make him the previous emperor’s grandson by marriage. Then he’ll have a just claim as successor to the imperial bloodline. That’s much better for him than being saddled with the notoriety of a usurper.”

Ansbach answered with a heavy sigh. “Your Excellency, that will do no good. There is no way Marquis von Lohengramm will accept such conditions. Maybe he would have six months ago, but now he has no need of your support. He’s acquired his position through his own abilities, and now there’s no one who can stand in his way.”

There was a shade of pity in the commodore’s eyes for his lord’s vain struggling. The duke shuddered, and beads of sweat broke out and covered his forehead.

“I am Duke Otto von Braunschweig, the head of a great house unequaled among the nobles of the empire. Are you saying that the golden brat means to kill me, despite all that?”

Ansbach groaned. “Do you still not understand, Excellency? That’s exactly why Marquis von Lohengramm will never leave you alive!”

The duke looked as if his veins had been pumped full of some heavy, viscous fluid. His skin color was changing by the moment, as though the flow of blood throughout his body were stopping and starting up again at irregular intervals.

“And also, because you’re an enemy of human decency,” the commodore appended, a bit mercilessly.

“What?!”

“I’m talking about Westerland. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Marshaling all his strength, von Braunschweig roared back, “You mean to tell me that killing that lowborn rabble was some sin against common decency? As an aristocrat, and as their ruler, I simply made use of rights that are naturally mine.
Didn’t I?
”

“The commoners don’t think so. Even Marquis von Lohengramm will side with them. Up until now, the Galactic Empire has operated according to the logic of the aristocracy, with Your Excellency foremost among them. But at the current juncture, half of the universe is going to be governed by a new logic. That’s likely another reason why Marquis von Lohengramm will not let Your Excellency live—to make that point clear to everyone. He has to kill you. If he doesn’t, then the cause that he stands for will not be achieved.”

A long, long sigh trailed out from the duke’s mouth.

“Very well, then. I will die. But I will not stand for that golden brat usurping the throne. He must go to hell with me.”

Ansbach didn’t know how to answer.

“Ansbach, somehow, I want you to stop him from usurping the throne. If you’ll swear to me that you will, I won’t begrudge my own life. Kill him for me, please.”

Ansbach gazed steadily at his leader as flames of obsession blazed up in his eyes, and at last he nodded with calm determination. “As you wish, milord. I swear I will do my best to take von Lohengramm’s life. No matter who may become the next emperor, it won’t be him.”

“You swear it … ? Well, good.”

The man who had been greatest among the nobles of the Galactic Empire licked his dry lips. Although his mind was made up, there was a shadow of fear that he hadn’t quite shaken.

“I want as easy … as easy a death as possible.”

“I understand very well. You should use poison. In fact, some has already been prepared.”

They all moved from there to the duke’s luxurious apartments. Although deserting soldiers had ransacked it fairly thoroughly, bottles of wine and cognac yet remained in the wine rack.

From his pocket, the commodore pulled out a tiny capsule no larger than the nail of his little finger. It was a compound of two types of drugs. One blocked brain cells from absorbing oxygen, inviting swift brain death. The other had the effect of paralyzing the nerves through which pain was transmitted.

“You’re going to get sleepy very quickly, and then you’ll die with no pain at all. Please stir it into some wine and drink.”

Ansbach selected a bottle from the wine rack, checked the label, and saw that it was a fine 410 vintage. He poured some into a glass, then broke open the capsule, exposing the granules inside.

Watching this from where he was seated in a high-backed chair, Duke von Braunschweig abruptly began to tremble all over. The light of sanity had vanished from his eyes.

“Ansbach, no. I don’t want to do this.” He spoke in a strangled voice. “I don’t want to die. I’ll surrender. I’ll give up my lands, my titles … everything but my life …”

The commodore took a deep breath and gave a sign to his men on the right and left. Two large, powerfully built men stepped forward and laid hands on Duke von Braunschweig to hold him down in the chair, even though one would have been enough.

“What are you doing! Unhand me, you impertinent—”

“As the final head of Braunschweig Duchy’s ruling family, please do this yourself with grace and dignity.”

Ansbach picked up the wineglass and brought it to the lips of the immobilized duke. Von Braunschweig clenched his teeth tightly, determined not to drink the poison. Ansbach pinched the duke’s nose. Unable to breathe, his face turned red, and in the instant he could hold his breath no longer, he opened his mouth, and the poisoned wine made a crimson waterfall as it poured deep into the boyar’s throat.

Great swells of terror rolled in the duke’s eyes, but they lasted for only a few seconds. As a stone-faced Ansbach stood watching, the duke’s eyelids drooped and his muscles began to go slack. When his head started nodding, the commodore gave orders that the duke be carried to the infirmary. His subordinates hesitated.

“But, sir, he’s already dead …”

“Which is why I want you to do so. Now do as you’re told.”

It was a strange answer the commodore had given. His eyes followed his subordinates as they followed his order, heads cocked sideways, uncomprehending. In a low voice, he muttered to himself, “The Golden Bough is now all but fallen. What comes next will be known as … what? The Green Forest?”

Gräfin von Grünewald—“Countess of Green Forests”—that was the title that Reinhard’s sister Annerose had received from the previous emperor, Friedrich IV …

The old soldier was carrying a tiny palm computer as he walked alone through the corridors, seemingly not knowing what to do with himself. A junior officer driving a hydrogen car pulled over and shouted at him:

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing at a time like this? How about you run for it or make a white flag? Von Lohengramm’s army’s gonna charge in here any minute now!”

The old soldier turned around with his whole body but didn’t move an inch. “What’s your rank?” he said.

“You’d know if you’d look at my insignia. It’s chief petty officer. What about it?”

“Chief petty officer? That would mean 2,840 imperial marks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, old-timer?”

“Look here—this is a Reichsbank transfer certificate. Walk into any branch on any planet, and if you’ve got one of these, you can trade it for cash.”

The chief petty officer groaned. “Listen, Grandpa, do you have any idea what’s happening right now? The world’s about to change today.”

“Today’s payday,” the old man said in an easygoing voice. “I’m in charge of payroll. You said the world’s changing, but all that means is they’re swapping out the folks at the top. Underlings like us still gotta eat, and you don’t get to eat unless you get paid. At least in that sense, nothing changes no matter who’s in charge.”

“All right, I get it already. Get in the car. I’ll drive you to where the ones who want to surrender are gathering.”

After the car carrying the junior officer and the old soldier has sped off down the corridor, a young nobleman with the rank of captain appeared in the passage, searching for heavy arms. He hadn’t given up on resistance quite yet.

“I think I remember this warehouse being empty,” he mumbled to himself, nevertheless pulling open the door in hopes that there might be something left there anyway. What he saw, however, made his eyes snap open wide in surprise.

Inside the warehouse was a mountain of military supplies. There were rations, medical products, clothing, blankets, and everything from small arms to ammunition. Five or six soldiers and junior officers stood frozen in midstep, staring in surprise at this unexpected intruder.

The captain started shouting. “What is the meaning of this? Where did this materiel come from?!”

The look on the captain’s face frightened the junior officers. Even so, they didn’t drop the portable ration boxes they were carrying in both arms, and this only incensed the captain further.

“Cat got your tongue? Then let me answer for you. You were hiding these supplies to keep for yourself, instead of sending them to the front lines. Weren’t you?”

The answer to the captain’s question was written eloquently all over the junior officers’ faces. The captain’s anger toward those “shrewd common folk” burst through the bounds of reason and boiled over.

“Shameless dogs, don’t you move from that spot. I’m going to teach you lot some discipline!”

Screams and shouts rang out back and forth, but finally a blanket was thrown over the captain’s head, and not ten seconds had elapsed before he was shot dead. As an aristocrat, the young captain had believed that, even under the shadow of total defeat, soldiers would not resist being punished by the officers.

The sporadic resistance drew to a close, and the first of the admirals to step into the fortress once it was completely secured were Mittermeier and von Reuentahl.

To their right and their left, captured nobles were lined up against the walls of a corridor leading to a large reception hall. Frightened by the guns Reinhard’s troops carried, the injured, filthy nobles had sunk to the floor.

Mittermeier shook his head slowly. “I never dreamed the day would come when I’d see boyar nobles looking this miserable. Can we really call this the start of a new era?”

“One thing’s for certain—it’s definitely the end of the old one,” said von Reuentahl. Nobles were looking up at them without a sliver of hostility in their eyes. Only fear and uncertainty were there, as well as a shade of hope to curry favor with the victors. When their eyes met, there were even some who constructed subservient smiles. Mittermeier and von Reuentahl were at first astonished, then disgusted. But when they thought about it, was not this itself clear proof of their victory?

“Their age is over. From now on, it’s our age.”

The two young admirals held their heads up proudly and continued walking, passing between the ranks of the defeated.

September 9. Gaiesburg Fortress.

In the entrance to the ballroom where the victory ceremony was being held, the guards were admonishing Siegfried Kircheis not to bring his weapon into the hall. The redheaded youth removed the blaster from his belt but then decided to ask, “I’m Senior Admiral Kircheis—are you sure I’m not allowed to carry my weapon?”

“We can’t make exceptions, not even for Admiral Kircheis. I’m terribly sorry, but those are our orders …”

“I see. Never mind, then. It’s all right.”

Kircheis held his blaster out to the guard. Up until now, Reinhard had always allowed Kircheis to carry his weapon, even at times when all the other admirals had to go unarmed. This had communicated to the admirals that Kircheis was second only to Reinhard himself. However, the usual custom seemed to have been changed today.

Kircheis went in and joined the ranks of the other admirals who had come in before him. They nodded politely to him when he arrived, and he nodded back. There were subtle gleams in the eyes of von Reuentahl and Mittermeier. No doubt they knew something had happened between Reinhard and Kircheis.

I can’t let myself start thinking I hold some privileged position
, Kircheis warned himself. Still, there was nothing he could do about the flashes of sadness that kept shooting through his heart.

Were he and Reinhard now nothing more than lord and subject?

That’s all we could ever be, though
, Kircheis thought, trying to shake loose the sadness clinging to him.
After all, those below shouldn’t seek equal relations with those above. I’ll wait awhile before saying anything else. Lord Reinhard might lose his way and make mistakes, but in the end I’m sure he’ll eventually understand. Up until now, hasn’t he always, through all these eleven years?

Up until now? Kircheis was starting to discover an unease in his own heart. Up until now, things certainly had always turned out that way, and he had believed that they always would. He might have been getting ahead of himself, though …

The coordinator of ceremonies announced Reinhard’s entrance with a cry so loud he seemed to be showing off his lung capacity.

“The commander in chief of the armed forces of the Galactic Empire, His Highness the Marquis Reinhard von Lohengramm!”

As Reinhard entered the hall and strode down its scarlet carpet, the officers arrayed on both sides bowed to him in unison.

In due time, they would bow lower and lower, until at last their bows would become the most reverent of all official obeisance—that which was made only to the one person in all the universe who received the imperial crown. Another two or three years, and this golden-haired youth, born to an impoverished family that was nobility in name only, would achieve all his ambitions.

Just as his gaze was about to connect with Kircheis’s, Reinhard averted his eyes unconsciously. He had taken von Oberstein’s advice about not letting Kircheis wear weapons at events where his colleagues could not. Reinhard was the conqueror. Reinhard was the lord. Kircheis was just one of his subordinates. Reinhard mustn’t give him special rights and the sense of privilege that came with them. Up until now, he had made too little distinction between his public and private selves. From this day forward, he would have Kircheis stop calling him “Reinhard.” Kircheis would have to call him “Marquis von Lohengramm” or “Your Excellency” or “Imperial Marshal,” just like all of the other admirals. Power and authority belonged only to the lord and master.

Reinhard began the victory ceremony by giving audience to high-ranking officers who had been taken prisoner. After several of these had filed through, Admiral Adalbert Fahrenheit, an old acquaintance of Reinhard’s, came before him.

“Fahrenheit … it’s been ages, hasn’t it? I last saw you at Astarte, I believe.”

“Yes, milord …”

There was no shame in the admiral’s pale-aqua eyes. By the same token, Reinhard did not look down on this defeated admiral, either—not when he had fought so valiantly.

“Joining with Duke von Braunschweig was a mistake most unlike you. Why not follow me instead and preserve your warrior’s life?”

“I am a soldier of the empire. As Your Excellency has taken the reins of military authority, I will humbly follow. I may have taken a roundabout way to get here, but I want to start making up for lost time right away.”

Reinhard nodded. Fahrenheit’s shackles were removed, and he took his place among the ranks of officers. In similar fashion, other talented officers thronged to Reinhard’s camp one after another as the ceremony progressed. He didn’t need to rely on Kircheis for everything after all, did he? Although he did regret having somehow let Merkatz slip through his fingers …

A stir of hushed voices rose up from the far end of the assembled ranks. The body of Duke von Braunschweig, sealed within a case of special glass, had just been carried into the room. Deeply moved, the people looked on at the lifeless form of the empire’s greatest aristocrat lying in the case, clad in his military dress uniform.

Commodore Ansbach accompanied the coffin.

Standing in the entrance to the great hall, Ansbach, said to have been the right hand of the late duke, directed a stone-faced bow toward the young conqueror and began walking toward him with slow footsteps.

Sounds of hushed but unmistakable laughter trickled out from among the attendees, a frank expression of the warriors’ hostility toward a sniveling little man who had come to beg mercy, bringing his master’s corpse as a gift.

Like lashes from an invisible scourge, that laughter beat against every inch of Ansbach’s body. That Reinhard did not put a stop to it was due to a youthful, mercilessly fastidious side of his personality.

Ansbach came before Reinhard, bowed reverently, and pressed a button. The lid of the glass case opened.

To let the victor inspect the corpse of his defeated master?

No, it wasn’t that.

In the moment that it happened, witnesses could not understand the meaning of the sight. Ansbach’s hands reached out for his master’s corpse, tore open his uniform, and from within pulled out a strange-looking object composed of parts resembling boxes and tubes. A jury-rigged hand cannon—a powerful, miniaturized particle-beam weapon created for use in infantry combat.

Courageous veteran admirals stood frozen in place, looking on, dumbstruck. And it wasn’t just them. Reinhard himself, while aware of everything that was happening, was unable to move so much as a muscle.

The barrel swung toward the golden-haired youth.

“Marquis von Lohengramm, I claim your life in the name of my lord and master, Duke von Braunschweig!” Ansbach’s voice rang out, overwhelming the silence, as the hand cannon roared and spat out tongues of flame.

The hand cannon had enough firepower to destroy an armored vehicle or a single-seat spacecraft in one shot. Reinhard’s body should have been blown apart, leaving nothing but scattered chunks of meat. But the shot missed. A wall about two meters to Reinhard’s left collapsed in an explosion of shattered masonry and white smoke. The shock wave struck Reinhard hard on the cheek.

A cry of regret burst from Ansbach’s lungs. In that infinitely long instant when everyone was paralyzed, there had been only one man who had managed to take action.

The man who had thrown himself at Ansbach and turned aside the hand cannon’s barrel was Siegfried Kircheis.

The hand cannon fell to the floor with a noisy clatter. The redheaded youth, superior to his opponent in speed and strength, grabbed one wrist of the failed assassin and twisted, trying to force him to the ground. A fierce expression flashed across Ansbach’s face, however, and with a sharp, graceful movement, he pressed the back of his free hand up against Kircheis’s chest.

A silvery-white beam exploded from the redheaded youth’s back. Ansbach had also worn a laser gun disguised as a ring.

Kircheis, impaled through the midst of his chest on that murderous beam of light, felt pain tearing through his body, but he would not let go of the assassin’s wrist. Again the ring shone with its ominous light, and this time the beam pierced his carotid artery.

There was a bizarre sound, like several harp strings snapping all at once, and then a fountain of bright-red blood burst from the back of Kircheis’s neck. The drops beat against the marble floor like the rain of a sudden squall.

Perhaps it was that sound that finally broke the shackles of astonishment that had held the others still for the past ten seconds. With boots pounding, the admirals ran forward and wrestled Ansbach to the floor. There was a dull crack as his wrist broke. In spite of two serious wounds and major blood loss, Kircheis had still kept his hold.

Kircheis had dropped to his knees, and Mittermeier pressed his handkerchief against the back of his neck. The white silk was stained crimson in no time.

“Call a medic! We need a medic over here!”

“It’s … too late.”

The young man was gasping. It wasn’t just his hair that was red now; his whole body was dyed crimson. The admirals were speechless. They knew from long experience that nothing could be done for wounds such as these.

Ansbach had been dragged down into the puddle of Kircheis’s blood, and Kempf, Wittenfeld, and the rest were holding him down. But another surprise was waiting for the admirals when Ansbach started laughing in a parched voice.

“Duke von Braunschweig, forgive this useless servant who couldn’t keep his oath. It looks like the golden brat won’t be joining you in hell for a few years yet!”

“Bloody scoundrel! How dare you!”

Kempf struck him with the flat of his hand. As Ansbach’s battered head lolled back against the floor, he spoke once more: “Though I was lacking in ability, I go to be with you now …”

Realizing what Ansbach intended, von Reuentahl shouted “
Stop him!
” and lunged toward the assassin’s body. Just before he could lay hands on the man, though, Ansbach’s lower jaw made a slight movement as he bit into a poison capsule that was hidden among his molars. Von Reuentahl grabbed him by the throat and tried to stop him from swallowing, but his persistence made no difference in the end.

Ansbach’s eyes opened wide and lost focus.

Reinhard stood in darkness.

His ice-blue eyes saw neither the admirals nor the man who had tried to kill him. All he could see was his friend—his redheaded best friend … who had just now saved his life.

He had saved his life—of course he had; no matter the time, no matter the place, Kircheis had always come running to save him. Ever since the day they met as children, Kircheis had always been his red-haired friend—protecting him from all the enemies he’d made, listening to his problems, putting up with his selfishness … His friend? No, he was more than a friend … more than a brother … He was
Siegfried Kircheis
! And he had tried to treat him like all the other admirals. If Kircheis had been carrying his gun, the assassin would have been shot dead the instant he grabbed the hand cannon. Not one drop of Kircheis’s blood would have been spilled.

It was all his fault. Kircheis was on the floor bleeding, and it was all his fault.

“Kircheis …”

“Lord Reinhard … thank heavens you’re safe …”

Oblivous to the blood that stained his dress uniform, the golden-haired youth fell to his knees and took his friend’s hand—though the sight of him was already becoming blurred in Kircheis’s field of view.
Was this what it was like to die?
Kircheis thought. Sensations from all five senses were fading as if with distance. The world was narrowing rapidly, and everything was growing darker. Things he wanted to see, he couldn’t see anymore; things he wanted to hear, he could hear no longer. Strangely, there was no fear. Perhaps his worst fear had been a possibility he had already been facing—that he was not going to be able to spend the rest of his life with Reinhard. More importantly, though, there was something he had to say. Something he had to tell Reinhard before the last of his strength flowed out.

“Lord Reinhard, I don’t think I can help you anymore … Please forgive me.”

“Idiot! Don’t talk that way!” Reinhard had meant to shout those words but had only barely managed to say them in a quavering whisper. The young man’s preternatural beauty exceeded all propriety, the dazzling elegance that came to him so naturally regularly overwhelmed those who met him … yet in that moment, Reinhard looked as helpless as a small child, one too young to walk without clinging to the wall.