Harry Turtledove - End of the Beginning

“Sure.” The Marine handed him a pack.

He took one and lit it with a Zippo. “Thanks, buddy. Damn, I needed that.” He gratefully sucked in smoke.

“I believe you,” the other Marine said. “Some of the people here, they’d rather have cigarettes than food, and they’re so goddamn skinny, they look like they oughta go into the hospital. It’s a funny business.”

“Yeah.” Les looked down at the Camel between his index and middle fingers. A thin, curling ribbon of smoke rose from it. “Wonder how come you want ’em so goddamn bad. They don’t do that much for you-not like booze or anything-but they sure get their hooks in.” He shrugged. “Fuck, what difference does it make?”

“None I can see,” the other Marine answered. “We’re gonna have to clean out the stinking palace next, won’t we? Boy, that’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, maybe even more fun than we just had here.” Les took another drag. His eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the glowing coal. “Well, we knew pretty damn quick this was gonna be a game of last man standing. Can’t be that many Japs left.”

“Here’s hoping,” the other Marine said.

WHEN PROPAGANDA AND MILITARY NECESSITY RAN into each other, propaganda had to take a back seat. Minoru Genda understood that. Unfortunately, the Americans did, too. They were methodically knocking down Iolani Palace above his head. They might even get propaganda mileage out of that-something on the order of, We had to destroy this historic building to liberate it. Before long, Japan would be in no position to contradict them.

If not for the basement, which had been the preserve of servants and bureaucrats in days gone by, the palace would have been uninhabitable. As things were, Genda took refuge there with a few Japanese soldiers-his unofficial runner, Senior Private Furusawa, among them-and with King Stanley Owana Laanui and Queen Cynthia.

King Stanley was holding up better than Genda would have expected. He was holding up better than a lot of the soldiers, in fact. He gave Genda a crooked smile and said, “Well, this didn’t work out the way we expected, did it?”

“Please excuse me, your Majesty, but it did not,” Genda said. “Karma, neh ? We did the best we could.”

“I know. I’m not mad.” Stanley Laanui laughed. “I oughta be, huh?”

“What do you mean?” Genda asked cautiously. If the King of Hawaii knew about his affair with the Queen… Genda almost laughed, too. What difference did it make now? No matter how you sliced it, none of them was going to live much longer. A couple of 105mm shells slammed into the palace to underscore that. Something up above Genda fell over with a crash-one of the cast-iron columns supporting the second story?

But King Stanley said, “If you’d picked somebody else to put a crown on, he’d be in the hot seat now, and I’d be off somewhere else thinking, Better you than me, you poor, sorry bastard. ”

“You were a good king,” Cynthia Laanui said. “You are a good king.” She set a hand on his arm. Genda had to work to keep his face impassive. She might have had fun with him-she had had fun with him-but she did love her husband. Or if she didn’t, she wouldn’t show it now, not when everything was falling apart.

“No offense to you, sweetheart, but I always did want to give the USA one right in the eye,” Stanley Laanui said. “I was just a little kid when that damn Dole and the rest of those pirates hijacked the kingdom, but I always figured I owed ’em one. So I tried to pay ’em back-and now they’re paying me back.” Up above, something else came down, hard enough to make the floor over their heads shake. Whatever it was, it had almost come through the floor.

A machine gun mounted at the edge of the dry moat began to chatter. If the U.S. Marines wanted Iolani Palace, they would have to pay the price for it. They did want it, and they were paying.

“All over now,” King Stanley said. “All over.” He had a U.S. Army.45 in a holster on his belt-a brute of a pistol that would knock over a horse, let alone a man. He took it out and looked at it. “Better to go this way than to let those shitheads catch me and hang me.” No Japanese could have put it better.

“Yes,” Cynthia said softly. She eyed the pistol with a strange fascination-half longing, half dread. “They wouldn’t let us go on living for very long, and they’d have fun with us before they did hang us or shoot us. We did what we did, and it didn’t quite work-you’re right-and now it’s time to close the door.”

Stanley Laanui glanced over to Genda. “Shall I give you one between the eyes before I finish Cyndi and me?” he inquired. The way things were, he might have asked the question anyhow. But the words held a certain bitter edge. He does know , Genda thought. His gaze flicked to Cynthia. She must have realized the same thing, for she couldn’t hide her surprise and alarm.

Genda decided not to show he understood everything King Stanley meant. Bowing, he said, “No, thank you, your Majesty. I will not live through defeat, either, I promise you. But we have our own way of ending.”

“Hara-kiri?” the king asked. Genda made himself not wince as he nodded; seppuku was a much more elegant, much less earthy way to put it. King Stanley grimaced. “Better you than me, buddy. I want to get it over with in a hurry.”

“It will be fast enough,” Genda answered. He turned to Senior Private Furusawa and spoke in Japanese:

“Will you please serve as my second? Things here cannot go on much longer.” As if to underscore that, the machine gun at the edge of the moat started hammering away again.

“I would be honored, Commander- san, ” Furusawa said. “I will do it quickly, so you do not suffer.”

“Domo arigato,” Genda said, and then went back to English: “It is arranged.”

“Okay,” Stanley Laanui said. His mouth twisted when the machine gun abruptly fell silent. “You ready, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know.” Queen Cynthia’s voice shook. “I don’t know if anybody can be ready, but you’d better not wait.” She nodded to Genda. “Good-bye, Commander. We tried our best.”

“Hai. Sayonara.” Genda looked down at the floor.

The Hawaiian royal couple went into a little room off the central hallway. A shot rang out, and then a moment later another one. Genda opened the door. If either of them needed finishing, he would take care of it. But Stanley Owana Laanui, while he might not have made much of a king, had done what he had to do here. He and his redheaded queen both lay dead, each with a neat gunshot wound to the temple-and a nasty exit wound on the other side.

“Sayonara,” Genda whispered again, and went back outside. He nodded to Senior Private Furusawa.

“The time has come,” he said, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Baring his belly, he drew his Navy-issue katana from its sheath. He’d never used it before. He should have had a wakizashi, a samurai’s shortsword, but he would have to make do.

“As the blade touches you, sir?” Furusawa asked.

“Let it go in first,” Genda said. “Then.” He looked up to the ceiling. “With this, my death, I atone for my failure here. May the Emperor forgive me. May my spirit find its home in Yasukuni Shrine.” He drove the sword home. The pain was astonishing, unbelievable. Discipline forgotten, he opened his mouth to scream. Then everything ended.

WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE TOP TWO FLOORS of Iolani Palace belonged to the USA again. Japs and Hawaiians sprawled everywhere in blood-soaked, unlovely death. So did too goddamn many Marines. Japs, and maybe Hawaiians, too, were still holed up in the basement. Every so often, they would fire up through the floor above them. That was a nasty angle when a bullet hit; two Marines, one in Les Dillon’s platoon, had had their balls shot off.