II
“Flottillenadmiral von Tischendorf?”
With a start, Cutler looked up from the flag-draped coffin resting beneath the soft lighting. To his surprise, he saw that he was the only one still sitting in the room.
A young ensign stood at the side door, her face and body language radiating discomfort for interrupting a senior officer at a time like this.
“Yes, Kadett?” Cutler kept his voice calm and civil. What had happened wasn’t her fault, after all.
“Your pardon, Herr Flottillenadmiral. His Excellency has called for you. He requests your presence at the Palace at your earliest convenience.”
In other words, immediately. “Understood,” Cutler said, standing up. He gave his mother’s casket one final, lingering look, then headed toward the ensign. “You have a car?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said. “If you’ll come this way, please?”
She headed down the hallway at a brisk walk. Cutler followed, his heart starting to pick up its pace. Maybe, just maybe, Uncle Gustav had finally made his decision.
The military funeral home was only a few blocks from Sorgenfrei Palace. Probably set up that way on purpose, Cutler had often thought, given the Emperor’s long association with warfare and violent death. The car covered the distance in less than a minute, the ensign dropping him in the courtyard with instructions to meet the Emperor in the audience room. Cutler climbed the wide steps, passed between the pair of two-meter-tall Totenkopf Hussars standing their silent watch on either side of the door, and went inside. He walked through the Marble Hall, pausing along the way to briefly pat three of the greyhounds who bounded over to greet him, then passed into the audience room.
Cutler had wondered if Uncle Gustav would be alone. He wasn’t. There was another uniformed man in the room, his back to the door as he talked quietly to the Emperor. Gustav looked past him as Cutler walked in and beckoned the newcomer forward. “Guten abend, Herr Flottillenadmiral,” Gustav boomed out a greeting. “May I once again offer my condolences on the passing of your mother.”
“Vielen dank, ihre Exzellenz,” Cutler replied politely as he walked forward. The other man half turned—
Cutler felt a stirring of cautious excitement. It was Vizeadmiral Gottlieb Riefenstahl, commander of the battlecruiser Faust.
And it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he was here.
There were quiet reports that Gustav was forming a new military unit, Wehrkreis II, which would focus on the slowly expanding Andermani Empire with the battleship Liegnitz as its flagship. The rumors—and, really, basic logic—also suggested that Riefenstahl was going to be promoted to admiral and put in command of the force. What the rumors didn’t say was who was in line to be his flag captain.
Riefenstahl was here, talking to Gustav. Cutler had been summoned into their presence.
It was always risky to connect speculative dots. But in this case . . .
“She was an excellent officer,” Gustav continued as Cutler reached the proper place in front of the Emperor and bowed to the proper angle. “And an even more excellent friend.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Cutler said, fighting against the reflex to say Uncle Gustav instead. He’d been twelve when Gustav told him not to call him that in public anymore, but the reflex remained.
He straightened up from his bow, giving his Emperor a quick once-over. Most visitors, even those who should be more discerning, saw mainly the archaic King Frederick the Great garb and powdered wig that Gustav had been outfitting himself with for the past thirty-three T-years. Most of the visitors who got past the clothing stopped again at the Emperor’s piercing gaze. Only a few could see past both of those to the face of the man itself.
And only a very few, like Cutler himself, could see how that face had changed over the past few years.
Years, hell—he could see how Gustav’s face had changed over the past few months. The Emperor had been shaken by Tomlinson’s unexpected and unprovoked attack. Shaken and furious both. The whole reason he’d settled down on Potsdam in the first place was that he was tired of the constant battles of a mercenary’s life. He’d come here hoping all of that had been put behind him, and that he would finally find peace.
It hadn’t worked out that way. And people like Cutler, who’d grown up with the man, could see how rapidly he was aging.
Of course, Gustav was eighty-six T-years old. Even someone who’d held off old age as well as he had couldn’t hold it off forever.
Which wasn’t to say that there wasn’t still a good deal of fire behind that lined face. McIntyre had found that out the hard way. The Second Battle of Tomlinson had followed the first by only a few T-months, with the Andermani forces this time under the direct command of Gustav himself. In the intervening months McIntyre had received three more of the fancy corporate corvettes that had caused Bayern’s force such grief, reinforcements that had been of exactly zero use against Gustav’s force of twin battleships plus much of the rest of the Andermani fleet.
The results had been quick, inevitable, and thoroughly decisive. The Tomlinson Security Force had been utterly demolished, the sole survivor being a frigate that was undergoing maintenance at the time. The victors had plucked a few survivors from their ships, subsequently trading them for the handful of Bayern crew that the TSF had rescued.
And, of course, for the bodies that had been recovered.
Gustav had made arrangements to tow Bayern back to New Berlin, but there was little hope that she could be repaired.
“I’ve been studying your tactics at First Tomlinson, Flottillenadmiral von Tischendorf,” Gustav continued. “I’ve also been considering your requests.” He raised his eyebrows, those piercing eyes flicking from Cutler to Riefenstahl and back again.
Cutler nodded, again trying to suppress his growing excitement. If Riefenstahl was promoted and given Liegnitz, that would also leave Faust in need of a new commander. The only question was which of the two possible positions Cutler was about to be offered.
Both had their advantages. Serving as flag captain of the Leignitz under Riefenstahl would probably let him see more action than sitting on a battlecruiser whose sole job was to orbit Potsdam and keep the capital safe. On the other hand, there was a lot to be said for the prestige of having his own battlecruiser.
Besides, given the current trend of political rumbling in neighboring star nations, there was every chance that even the Home Fleet ships would get out for some exercise every now and then. No, he would be content with whichever post Gustav offered.
And the Emperor would offer one of them. Because Cutler deserved it.
Not just because he was ready. Not even because Gustav had been promising him a major command for at least five years. He deserved it because Großadmiral Jennifer von Tischendorf had been one of Gustav’s absolute best officers since before Cutler was even born. Legacy alone—honor and gratitude alone—dictated that Cutler get one of those positions.
And if Emperor Gustav was anything, he was a man of honor.
“Before I address that, though,” Gustav said, “I want to speak to you about the maneuver that saved Bayern and the last remnant of her force from total destruction.”
Cutler felt himself grow a little taller. Legacy, honor, and gratitude were all well and good. But ultimately, it was ability and ingenuity that Gustav prized above all else. Gustav’s own genius was why Liegnitz, Ltd., had been the best mercenary group the galaxy had ever known, and why the Andermani Empire would last forever.
“It was, and I say this with all respect and deliberation—”
Cutler suppressed a smile. Gloating was unprofessional, especially in front of his Emperor and a senior officer.
“—possibly the most foolhardy maneuver I’ve ever seen.”
The rosy glow vanished. Had Cutler heard him correctly? “Your Excellency?” he asked carefully.
“Not only did it endanger both Schreien and Bayern, but also the other ships of the task force,” Gustav continued. “If Bayern’s impellers hadn’t collapsed, you would have instantly destroyed both ships. Furthermore, the loss of Schreien would likely have strained the task force’s remaining resources to the point where none of the ships would have survived.”
“But, Your Excellency,” Cutler protested. “It worked. It worked.”
“That it did,” Gustav acknowledged. “But the fact that it succeeded does not alter the fact that it was untested, untried, and extremely dangerous.”
“Your Excellency—” Cutler broke off. Gustav’s mind was clearly made up. And if there was one thing his mother had hammered into him, it was the fact that once Gustav Anderman made up his mind, the decision might as well be cast in battle steel.
“Having said that,” Gustav continued, ignoring the choked-off protest, “the situation you found yourself in has highlighted a possible flaw in our battle doctrine. Vizeadmiral Riefenstahl has formed a group from the Academy to study the issue, including experts from both engineering and tactics, particularly as regards the positioning of EW warships within a formation. I would like you to lead that group.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Cutler managed.
So there it was. No Faust, no flag captain of Liegnitz, and a kick downstairs to the Academy.
Was Schreien also being taken away from him? “About my current command . . . ?”
“For the moment, this study group will be your only concern,” the Emperor said. “Officially, you’re still Schreien’s CO, but your XO will oversee her repairs. Once your report is in and Schreien is ready to return to duty, we’ll discuss your future assignment.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” So much for honor and gratitude and loyalty. “Will there be anything more?”
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if wondering whether Cutler’s brusqueness constituted an insult. “No, Herr Flottillenadmiral, I believe we are finished,” he said. “You’ll report to Konteradmiral Chun Kao-ni at the Academy tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred. He’ll assist you in assembling your study team.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Cutler said. He gave the proper bow, to the proper angle, because someone ought to show proper respect today. Then, turning his back on his Emperor, he strode through the door.
Trying very hard not to let his anguish and simmering rage show. There were, after all, Totenkopf guards at the door. No doubt watching him closely.
* * *
The guards closed the door behind von Tischendorf, and Riefenstahl suppressed a sigh.
The man didn’t get it. In fact, as near as Riefenstahl could tell, he’d missed the point completely.
Yes, his maneuver had been foolhardy. Yes, it had risked the entire mission. By all logic and probability the outcome should have been a completely destroyed task force, whereas if von Tischendorf had simply accepted the loss of Bayern and the other ships and broken off after that first devastating salvo, he might have saved more than just Schreien and two of the other ships. And yes, it was the Emperor’s right as sovereign, as well as his duty as overall Navy commander, to point that out.
But the fact that the Emperor had recognized that von Tischendorf had found a flaw in standard combat tactics and wanted him to take the lead in building new doctrine was an incredible compliment.
Von Tischendorf didn’t see it that way. He’d come in here fresh off his mother’s memorial service, fixated on claiming Faust as if it was his by divine right. That wasn’t how the Navy did things.
But his mother had been one of the Emperor’s closest friends and confidantes, and von Tischendorf himself had grown up calling their sovereign Uncle Gustav. He clearly felt like the universe owed him.
Which wasn’t how the universe did things, either.
“Have you seen the latest report on the corvettes’ missile control package?” the Emperor asked.
Quickly, Riefenstahl shifted his mind from spoiled military brats to the more immediate problem at hand. “I skimmed it, Your Excellency, but haven’t had a chance to give it a proper study,” he said. “The approach seemed unorthodox but intriguing. Probably Solarian League, but it’s possible some researchers at PFT came up with it. Either way, we’ll want to follow up on it.”
“Agreed,” the Emperor said. “I’ve sent out enquiries. We shall see what they uncover. A question, Vizeadmiral: Clearly, the first use of this telemetry system should be on our warships. But it occurs to me that a scaled-down version could perhaps be added to our freighters.”
“An interesting suggestion, Your Excellency,” Riefenstahl said, running the possibilities through his mind. Six T-years ago, in the wake of the Nimbalkar annexation, the Emperor had decreed that all Andermani freighters would henceforth be armed. Two of those freighters were already in service, with Lenz nearly completed. “I doubt we’ll want to load that many missiles on a single freighter, but the system would certainly allow control of two missiles at a time and likely give the captain better and longer control of them.”
“My thoughts exactly,” the Emperor agreed. “I’ll call Konteradmiral Popovich and have him suspend Lenz’s final construction work until the telemetry group has finished their analysis.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. Would you like me to handle that?”
“Thank you, Herr Vizeadmiral, but I’ll see to it,” Gustav said. “I haven’t spoken to Yuri for a long time, and it would be good to renew acquaintances.” The Emperor’s lips creased in an almost melancholy smile. “So few of my old friends still remain.”
He lifted a hand, and the reflective mood lifted. “At any rate, you already have enough work to do. I’ll let you get to it.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Riefenstahl said again. Bowing, he turned and headed out of the audience room.
Four of the palace greyhounds were milling around the Marble Hall as he entered, and he paused for a moment to make sure each of them got a pat and chin scritch. He could understand the Emperor’s melancholy and sense of loss—Cutler’s mother had been just the most recent of many, many of his old friends who had passed on.
But where others might look at that increasingly empty glass and yield to sadness or despair, Gustav Anderman instead turned those memories into a determination to make sure that the men and women under his command would never unnecessarily lose their own friends and colleagues. And when they did, that those losses would not be useless or in vain.
Tomlinson had learned about that determination the hard way. Maybe the Andermani Empire’s other neighbors would take the hint.
But he doubted it.