Dawn (12 page)

It was he, Adrian Rubinski, who was the fifth ruler of this shrewd and cunning people.

It would mean trouble if either the empire or the alliance were to succeed in conquering the other. Both powers needed to exist, maintaining their balance; if one were to fall, Phezzan would need to have the other fall at the same time—and without dragging Phezzan down with it.

Phezzan charted the course of history, and without the exercise of military power; instead it used strategy and the power of its wealth. Building gigantic warships and huge cannons, through bloodshed ultimately inviting the exhaustion of national power and the ruin of society—that sort of foolishness they could leave to the two great powers. Lacking any means of protecting themselves save through slaughter and destruction, were not the Galactic Empire, with its absolute monarchy, and the Free Planets Alliance, with its democratic republic, both in essence imbeciles driven by hidebound custom? Then let them both dance in the palm of Phezzan’s hand, intoxicated by the legitimacy of their respective orthodoxies.

Even so, there was something about Count von Lohengramm and about Yang, about their respective ascents to the galactic stage, that seemed to augur the coming of a new age. Phezzan would need to watch both of them carefully from now on. Though he might be overestimating them, it was always best to keep one’s nose to the ground and one’s hand full of trumps.

Whether imperial territory or alliance, the revolving worlds could never escape the changing guard of night and day. Not even the great Emperor Rudolf, who had sought to dominate galactic space and all that was in it, could stop the revolution of heavenly bodies. Moreover, the motion of these heavenly bodies had no uniform periods; while one planet might rotate once every eighteen and a half hours, the rotational period of another might be forty hours, each asserting its own precious individuality.

On the other hand, even when humanity had dwelt on its original birthplace of Sol III, the internal body clocks of humans had been running on a twenty-five-hour cycle—one hour longer than that world’s rotational period. Each individual adjusted this for a life lived in twenty-four-hour increments. It was as a custom that the twenty-four-hour clock had been established. When humanity achieved interstellar flight, that had meant facing the difficult problem of adjusting psychologically to days and nights of widely varying length.

Inside spaceships, in cities in floating in space, on planets that for any number of reasons required an artificial environment, this was not much of a problem. They simply synchronized the environment to the twenty-four-hour lifestyle. Artificial lighting made the daytime bright and the night dark. In these kinds of places, they could adjust the temperature to be lowest just before dawn, and between summer and winter change not only the temperature, but also the length of the nights.

Furthermore, on worlds where the periods of rotation were extremely long or short, a twenty-four-hour day could be enforced by regulation. People would start to say, “It’ll be night all day today. I hear the sun comes up tomorrow,” or “On this planet, you can see sunsets twice a day.”

The trouble occurred rather on planets with near-Earthlike rotational periods of 21.5 hours or 27 hours, where after much trial and error, the population would divide into one faction in favor of splitting the orbital period into twenty-four equal divisions and using the planetary local time, and another in favor of enduring the various inconveniences of using the standard twenty-four-hour system. Whatever they settled on, there would be nothing else to do but steel one’s nerves and get used to it.

Twenty-four hours is a day, and 365 days is a year. This so-called standard calendar was used both in the empire and in the alliance. January 1 in the Galactic Empire was January 1 in the Free Planets Alliance as well.

“There’s no need to remain shackled by the bonds of Earth forever,” was a common refrain. “Humanity doesn’t revolve around Earth any longer, and the Space Era calendar is already in force. Shouldn’t we set up new standards for keeping time?”

There were those among the “old equals bad” set that made such arguments, but when asked what these new standards should be, there was never any answer that everyone could agree on. Ultimately, the age-old custom received the greatest—if not necessarily the most enthusiastic—amount of support, and continued even to this day.

The “bonds of Earth” extended to weights and measures as well. One gram was equal to one cubic centimeter of water, weighed under Earth’s gravity at 4 degrees centigrade. In like manner, one centimeter was roughly equal to one four-billionth the length of the Earth’s circumference. These units as well were in common use by the entire star-spanning society of humanity.

Emperor Rudolf had made an effort to change the units of weights and measurement. Seeking to standardize all the units, he had defined the height of his own body as one kaiser-faden and his own body weight as one kaiser-centner. However, this system was never put into action.

Not because it was altogether illogical, though. Kläfe, who was lord of the treasury at the time, was granted an audience with the emperor, at which time he respectfully submitted a single datum. It was a trial calculation of the expenditure that would be necessary to change the units of weights and measures, based on the assumption that doing so would necessitate swapping out every computer chip and measuring device throughout the whole of the settled galaxy. At that time, the unit of currency had only just been changed from credits to imperial marks, and the story goes that the number of zeros lined up on that paper had been sufficient to daunt even the ever-obstinate Rudolf.

In this way, the meter and the gram were suffered their continued existence, though the current prevailing theory was that Kläfe’s estimate had been an obviously inflated figure and that Kläfe, whose meekness had been considered his only saving grace, had in fact dared a subtle show of resistance to Rudolf’s boundless self-deification.

The stately Neue Sans Souci Palace, residence of the emperor of the Galactic Empire, revealed itself beneath the night sky.

Buildings large and small, freestanding and interconnected, innumerable fountains, natural and artificial forests, sunken rose gardens, sculptures, flower beds, gazebos, and an endless successions of lawns were enveloped in pale silver light by ingenious illumination effects designed with care not to irritate the optic nerve.

This palace was the political crossroads of a government that ruled more than a thousand star systems. Government offices were laid out around its perimeter, but there was not a tall building among them to be found. Their main offices were underground, for it was an unforgivable act of disrespect for a subject to look down from a high position upon the emperor’s palace. Even the many satellites that orbited Odin’s skies never, ever passed directly over the palace.

Over fifty thousand chamberlains and ladies-in-waiting worked at the palace. It was an age when the use of people to perform easily automated tasks proved the height of one’s position and the greatness of one’s authority. Cooking, cleaning, guiding visitors, maintaining the gardens, caring for the free-roaming deer—all of these were accomplished by human hands. This was the luxury of a king.

There were no beltways or escalators at the palace. You had to use your own legs to walk its corridors and ascend or descend its staircases. This was true even for the emperor himself.

“Rudolf the Great” had believed that physical strength, too, was a requisite of rulership. How could one shoulder the burden of this vast empire if he couldn’t even walk on his own two feet?

Within the palace were several audience chambers, and that evening the Black Pearl Room was packed with high officials beyond counting. A ceremony would be held tonight to bestow the scepter of an imperial marshal upon Count Reinhard von Lohengramm, who had smitten the brutish rebel forces at the Battle of Astarte and there caused the light of the emperor’s authority to shine gloriously.

An imperial marshal was not merely one rank above senior admiral, nor did the rank come only with a lifelong pension of 2.5 million imperial marks per year. An imperial marshal was also not punishable under criminal law for any offense save high treason and could establish an admiralität, or bureau, in which he was free to hire or dismiss staff at will.

At present, there were only four imperial marshals who enjoyed these privileges, though tonight they would become five when Count Reinhard von Lohengramm was added to their number. Moreover, it was going around that Count von Lohengramm would also be made vice commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada, placing half of its eighteen fleets under his command.

“Next he’ll be made one of the peerage. From count to marquis,” some were whispering thus to one other off in the recesses of the vast Black Pearl Room. Along with fire, humanity’s great friend down through the ages had been gossip. Those who adored this friend existed in every era under every circumstance, ceasing neither in luxurious palace nor in homely ghetto.

Positioned nearest the emperor’s throne, those who held the highest positions in the empire stood motionless—highborn aristocrats, high-ranking civilian and military officials, and those holding multiple titles. Separated by a red carpet six meters wide—two hundred craftsmen had woven it over the course of 450 years—they had formed two ranks. On one side was a row of civil officials, with Marquis Lichtenlade occupying the highest position.

Marquis Lichtenlade, the imperial government’s minister of state, was presiding over cabinet meetings as acting imperial prime minister. He was an old man of seventy-five, with a pointed nose and silver hair like newfallen snow, possessed of a glint in his eye more stern than penetrating.

Moving downstream from him were Minister of Finance Gerlach, Minister of the Interior Flegel, Minister of Justice Lump, Minister of Science Wilhelmj, Minister of the Palace Interior Neuköln, Chief Secretary of the Cabinet Kielmansek—they and others like them were sitting in rows.

On the opposite side were rows of military officials: Imperial Marshal Ehrenberg, who was minister of military affairs; Imperial Marshal Steinhof, the secretary-general of Imperial Military Command Headquarters; Imperial Marshal Krasen, the commissioner of staff; Imperial Marshal Mückenberger, commander in chief of the Imperial Space Armada; Senior Admiral Ofresser, commissioner of Armored Grenadier Corps; Senior Admiral Ramusdorf, commissioner of the Imperial Guard; Admiral Klammer, commissioner of military police; the commanding officers of the eighteen fleets …

At the clear, resounding blare of an old-fashioned trumpet, the whole assembly began to straighten their posture. There was a rustling as of leaves in the wind, and then it quieted. The coordinator of ceremonies’ voice pounded the attendees’ eardrums, announcing the entrance of the Highest Honored.

“Ruler of all humanity, sovereign of all the universe, defender of the order and laws that govern the heavenly realm, kaiser of the sacred and inviolable Galactic Empire, His Highness, Friedrich IV!”

The solemn melody of the empire’s national anthem swelled up on the heels of his last word. All present bowed their heads deeply, as though something were pressing down on their necks.

Perhaps some of them were counting under their breaths. When they slowly raised their heads, their emperor was sitting in his gilded, luxurious seat.

Friedrich IV, thirty-sixth emperor of the Galactic Empire. At age sixty-three, he was a man who gave an impression of being oddly worn out. Though he wasn’t quite elderly, there was something about him that made people want to call him “old.” He had almost no interest in the affairs of state. Nor did he seem to have the ability or will to actively use the absolute power that he had. Emperor Friedrich IV: a feeble man who bore the twilight gleam of his mighty ancestor Rudolf, his polar opposite.

The emperor had lost his empress ten years prior. It had not been some intractable disease—just a cold that had gotten worse and developed into pneumonia. Cancer had been conquered in distant antiquity, but driving the common cold from the list of maladies had, as one historian of the alliance so maliciously put it, been impossible “even for the glory and power of Rudolf the Great.”

Since then, the emperor had bestowed on one of his mistresses the title of Countess—or Gräfin—Grünewald, making her his de facto wife, although he refrained from making her empress. But because that mistress was not highborn, she refrained from attending official state functions and as usual did not show her lovely face before the court that night. Countess von Grünewald’s real name was Annerose.

In a sonorous voice, the coordinator of ceremonies called for the man of the hour to come forth.

“Lord Reinhard, Count von Lohengramm!”

This time there was no need to bow deeply, so all those assembled turned their eyes toward the young military officer walking across the carpet toward them.