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Paul von Oberstein is a mystery. An understatement, perhaps – one that Anton Ferner has no trouble with at all. He knows he is not the first person whose mind that thought has crossed, and he knows well that he will not be the last. At first, it is of no consequence to him how the mind of the man works – the fact he is the Seventh Battle of Iserlohn’s most notorious traitor is noteworthy enough. When Ferner hears about it, he chalks the so-called betrayal up to a desire to survive to fight another day. It’s a woefully rare predisposition in the Imperial military, to be sure, but one that Ferner is quietly thankful so few seem to share. Fewer people looking out for number one means more opportunity for him to eke out his unremarkable existence in the shadows of far more remarkable men.
One such man, apparently, being Paul von Oberstein. And that suits Ferner just fine. Thus, at first, he has no interest in Oberstein except as a footnote in the story of a shameful defeat. But that tide too, as all the ones crashing against the empire’s shores seem to, changes quickly.
His interest in Oberstein comes first by necessity. It comes the moment Ferner is assigned to work under him, both punishment and reward for his actions. Ferner had been interested in Duke Braunschweig, too, when he had first come under the man's order – an interest, like this one, born from an inclination toward self-preservation. Better to know one's options before selecting or discarding them – perhaps something he has in common with Oberstein.
He knows who Oberstein is, of course; there are few in the military who don't. His artificial eyes are as famous as his desertion and his apparent cowardice. In Ferner's less-than-humble opinion, most are completely wrong on that last count, but he knows that his thoughts and methods, too, follow more unconventional paths. It's why he's here in the first place: a plan gone wrong, executed behind the back of the man who had forbidden it; and so, after reflecting on his options, he had marched unflinchingly up to the consequences. It had been audacious, even for him, but it is for that audacity that he is both rewarded and punished with his new station and his new commanding officer.
But Ferner knows his place, and he had sensed it immediately: he is as much a remedy for Oberstein as Oberstein is for him, and he intends to play his part well.
As long as it continues to suit him.
His interest deepens after the seizure of Rentenberg Fortress. He’s there when word comes in of Mittermeyer’s and Reuenthal’s success in capturing the fortress and taking High Admiral Ofressor prisoner, and he catches what he thinks might be a glint in Oberstein’s artificial eye when he glances furtively at him later, but he dismisses that passing thought as wishful thinking. He doesn’t know then, at that moment, exactly what Oberstein has planned, but he knows there must be something. Ferner has not been working with him long, but he’s been there long enough to know there’s always something.
“Come,” Oberstein says, standing up from his desk in one fluid motion. Ferner rises, too, and falls into step behind him. He follows him through the Brunhild’s halls, right up to the bridge, and then he steps to the side to wait by the door for Oberstein’s return. He figures he should not presume to be welcome in Marquis Lohengramm’s presence for the time being; he’d only just earned favour from him, after all, even if that favour was small. If he has to be the gum stuck to the sole of His Excellency’s shoes, then that’s fine. At least he’s stuck.
To his surprise, though, Oberstein tells him to follow. Ferner can’t suppress how much of a shock that is, but he says nothing – just bows and does as he’s told. He assumes that whatever Oberstein wants him to see must be important if he’s not only being permitted entry, but asked to enter the room. Perhaps – hopefully, though he doesn’t dare admit it – that means there’s some semblance of trust being placed in him.
He doesn’t know what to make of that.
When they step onto the bridge, Ferner hangs back, remaining in the background: a shadow to a shadow. Mittermeyer and Reuenthal are already on the screen. Reuenthal’s eyes flick over to him briefly; Mittermeyer’s stay obstinately forward, but there’s a wrinkle to his nose that wasn’t there before, a newfound pinch between his brows. It’s almost comical how obvious his distaste for Oberstein is – or maybe it’s distaste for Ferner.
Either way, Oberstein tells them his intentions: “We will be sending High Admiral Ofressor back to the Lippstadt Coalition.”
Ferner’s eyes widen for a moment, but he remains stock still. It’s a death sentence, he knows it – but the moment the thought forms in his head, all the pieces click into place. That’s the point. That’s the point.
The sharp breath he takes in goes unheard over the sound of His Excellency’s clothes rustling as he whips around in the command chair. He asks, melodic voice sharp: “What?”
On the screen, Mittermeyer and Reuenthal frown. The furrow in Mittermeyer’s brow deepens, his lips peel back in anger; Reuenthal’s reaction is calmer, less obvious, but only to someone who isn’t looking for it. Ferner is: he sees the way Reuenthal’s eyes narrow, the way his jaw tenses. Both of them stay silent as Oberstein patiently explains his plan. It isn’t until he’s done that they speak, jumping in even before Marquis Lohengramm can.
“Do you know how many of my men he killed?!” Mittermeyer demands. “There’s no reason to let him live. He should be executed!”
“I agree,” Reuenthal says. Less emotional, but no less passionate. The anger in them both is palpable.
“I think I told you that I would find a way to make use of him,” Oberstein answers, even-keeled as always. There’s not an ounce of irritation in his tone, nor a trace of surprise. Maybe that’s why everyone backs down with no further argument – Ferner can’t see Lohengramm’s face, but his silence says more than any words ever could. He’s figured it out, too, then.
Whether he likes it or not, he knows Oberstein is right.
The wrinkle in Mittermeyer's nose softens from fury to disgust, lips turning down into a grimace from how they had pulled back like a hunting dog’s. Reuenthal's eyes narrow further, and he twists his expression into a knot of loathing, begrudging yet horribly understanding.
Ferner knows, then, that they have come to understand what he has known all along: that Paul von Oberstein is a cold and frigid genius.
At least on the surface.
The transmission ends, and Oberstein retreats. Ferner follows after him, silent, and together they exit the bridge. When they emerge into the hallway, Ferner realizes that there’s a subtle shift in Oberstein’s demeanor – one that’s so slight, so subtle, he isn’t entirely sure he’s picked up on it. There’s no change in his expression, of course, but there’s something different in his gait, like all his steps are a little faster or lighter, even though there’s no real tangible, detectable change in pace. He looks at Ferner with a turn of the head, then begins to lead him away again. Ferner recognizes the path as one to the shuttle port.
“You will be the one to deliver the news to Ofressor,” Oberstein says coolly.
Ferner frowns, but doesn’t object. “As you wish, Excellency,” he answers. He doesn’t have a problem with that – in fact, he’s almost glad. It will be interesting, seeing how this all plays out, and he doesn’t think he wants to see Oberstein’s spine snapped in twain by that mad giant’s fury just yet.
“As for the rest of them,” Oberstein continues, “they will all be put to death.”
“Sir?”
There’s something tight in Oberstein’s shoulders. “I assume there’s no need to tell you why.”
Ferner shakes his head. “No.” He understands quite well. What he doesn’t understand is what this strange feeling he’s getting has come from – what it is that seems to be troubling his superior officer.
He delivers the news to Ofressor with little emotion. Predictably, Ofressor doesn’t understand. He seems quite happy to be returning to his ungrateful master; eager, even, for the chance to fight Lohengramm another day. Ferner doesn’t tell him that he won’t get that chance, and that his death warrant is signed in the guise of release papers. It nearly makes him want to laugh, but he doesn’t. He just sends Ofressor on his merry way, biting back a scoff at the irony of it all.
It isn’t until he’s gone and Ferner is making his way back to Oberstein’s small office on the Brunhild that he realizes what had bothered him. The battle at Rentenberg had ended in the senseless loss of far too many lives, and the execution of the prisoners-of-war they had taken has added not just a few more drops of blood, but a whole deluge of it to the bucket. It’s true that the fall of High Admiral Ofressor is the desired outcome, because the death of one man could save countless others, but the price for it had been unwanted.
And that, Ferner realizes, is the crux of this entire situation. What he had been missing all along in his consideration of Paul von Oberstein.
It's not hard to see the pattern in Oberstein’s actions. Not really. Underneath that arctic exterior flows warm blood, pumped through him by a steadily-beating heart – the same as anyone else, even if it doesn’t seem so. His pragmatism is commendable, and his apparent disregard for others’ opinions or his own reputation intriguing, but there's a certain consistency underlying every one of his actions that had needled at Ferner's mind, sticking in his brain like the skin of an apple between his molars. A reason for his patterns, a madness behind the method. Now, though, he gets it.
He knows what Oberstein wants.
"Son of a bitch," Ferner says, and he throws his head back and laughs.
He’s proven right the day that Westerland dies. As with Rentenberg, Ferner is there when Oberstein makes his decision, when he coolly reads over the reports from their spy and sets the papers back down on the desk.
This time, there’s no need for Oberstein to ask. Ferner follows his commanding officer as he vacates the small office room, silent in his wake. He doesn’t need to ask where Oberstein is going. He already knows.
The halls of the Brunhild are long, and they feel all the longer for how quiet Oberstein is. As they walk, Ferner’s thoughts race: he wonders what Oberstein will say, how he will make his case. Whether or not Reinhard will agree. How difficult it will be to persuade him.
He waits outside while Oberstein goes in. Ferner keeps his hands behind his back and holds himself stiff and upright, though he laughs a little bit at himself for how unlike him it is. He’s never cared much for decorum before, but he supposes that if there was any time to start pretending he did, it’s now. Ironic that it’s come long after his stint serving the nobility.
It takes less time than he had expected for Oberstein to emerge from His Excellency’s office. When he does, his command is simple: “Send a reconnaissance probe to Planet Westerland. Secretly.”
The moment he says it, something stirs in Ferner. He bows, curt and quick, and nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Make sure it arrives within four hours.”
“Yes, sir. Four hours.”
He keeps his voice steady, but even he knows there’s still some emotion seeping into it. He can’t say exactly what it is, though – dread, pride, anticipation. Something else entirely. Whatever it is, though, it gives Oberstein pause; he glances at Ferner out of the corner of his eye, then sets off in the direction of the control room. A silent order to follow.
"Do you have objections, Captain Ferner?" Oberstein asks.
Ferner reigns in a grin. "I know someone who would."
They fall into step together, Ferner a pace or two behind. Oberstein returns to silence. His hands don't so much as flex behind his back, but there's something in that lack of motion that inclines Ferner to believe he's thinking. He turns his head forward again, staring at the empty hall ahead to pretend he isn’t watching Oberstein.
"Perhaps," Oberstein concedes, finally. His voice is quieter than it was. More subdued.
Ferner leans forward. The grin he had been pushing down rises to the surface against his will. "He's rather soft-hearted, isn't he?"
He doesn't need to say who he means. The straight, unmoving set of Oberstein's shoulders tells Ferner his meaning has been caught. Anyone else here might sigh, might tell Ferner to pull his nose out of the corner he's stuck it in. Not Paul von Oberstein. He doesn't move, doesn't even seem to breathe – but he says, softly, "That isn't what we're discussing."
Got him, Ferner thinks. "My apologies," he says. "You asked me a question. I'm afraid I've forgotten it now."
He steps forward. Oberstein begins to walk away, apparently ready to finish leading him to where they need to be. Where he needs to be, in order to enact this plan. "I asked you," he begins, slowly, as the sound of their footsteps fall into sync, "if you have objections."
Ferner smiles, small and pursed, unseen. "None that you haven't already considered."
"Hm."
He can't see Oberstein's face from this angle, but Ferner decides he likes the idea that that made him smile, or at least do his invisible equivalent. But he turns suddenly, glancing at Ferner over his shoulder, only one eye visible. Ferner catches the unnatural reflection of the hallway light off it as it turns to him. "And what do you assume I have considered?"
"The balance of life," Ferner says immediately, as though he were an eager student performing for his teacher. "There are two million people on Westerland. At least twice that fighting in this civil war, though I couldn't tell you the exact number." He gets a brow raise at that, and wonders in which way Oberstein is judging him. "Though losses to His Excellency's forces have been minimal – perhaps save the assault on Garmisch—" and here the brow lowers again, "—one victory doesn't guarantee another, even with an enemy as incompetent as the Lippstadt nobles. Regardless, victory isn't won without a few sacrifices, is it? Every battle we've lost ships and resources and lives, and the enemy even more than that. Over time, it adds up."
"The lives that will be lost on Westerland will be innocent."
Ice drops in the pit of Ferner's stomach, and he stops cold. His limbs feel numb, heavy with the frost that's begun to pump through his veins. Of course he had considered that. Of course.
Oberstein does not stop moving; he continues on, looking ahead again, and Ferner smacks himself mentally to return feeling to his body.
He hastens to catch back up, forces his usual easy smile back on his face. "How innocent, if they are under the influence of the duke?"
It’s a bit of a play, one he’s sure those false eyes can see through, but devil’s advocate has always been his favourite game. The light glints off Oberstein's eye again, now that Ferner is almost back to his side. He doesn't look at him. "Is that what you think?"
"No." And it isn't – or rather, it isn't entirely. After all, he, too, had served under Duke Braunschweig, and he can't say he is entirely faultless in anything surrounding this war. He had been somewhat reluctant in his duties, yes, and had relished in pointing out the farce of some of that man's decisions, but he had been complicit in them anyway, just by association. Did that make the people the duke planned to sacrifice complicit as well, despite having no say in where their planet's resources and the funds in its coffers ended up?
Somehow, Ferner has his doubts; more than that, though, he doubts that is where Oberstein's line of questioning is heading.
"Then?" Oberstein prompts.
"I rather think it's about ending things quickly," Ferner concludes. He slows his pace, troubled suddenly, but continues to follow behind his superior. Hadn't he been the one prodding Oberstein for information, not the other way around? "There's an ancient philosophical problem concerning ethics and morality, and on whose shoulders blame falls when the chance to impact an outcome arises. I'm sure you know the details already, Excellency, so I'll spare you them; but it seems that, regardless of the innocence of the lives or their level of involvement with the circumstances, it's the duration of suffering and the number of lives lost that matter in the end."
They turn the corner. Oberstein is silent for another long moment, letting the sound of their boot heels, clicking one after the other after the other, fill the space instead. They're almost to the control room now, and it's only once they reach it and Oberstein turns, about face, to permit Ferner entry, that he speaks again. "Tell me, Captain…"
"Yes?"
"Do you think one life is inherently more precious than another?"
To that, Ferner smirks. "I'm afraid I'm not a noble, sir, and therefore I cannot say."
Oberstein opens the door. Ferner steps into the control room, alone, and grins to himself as the door closes.
Without complaint, without so much as another word, he sets about his work.