Harry Turtledove - End of the Beginning

He couldn’t tell whether she meant him alone or the Japanese as a whole. The answer was the same either way: “Fight.”

Queen Cynthia’s gingery eyebrows leaped. “Can you win?” If they couldn’t win, she would face whatever the Americans chose to dish out to her husband and her. Whatever that was, Genda didn’t think it would be pretty. King Stanley could at least claim he was a Hawaiian trying to regain his country’s independence after half a century of U.S. occupation. It wouldn’t help, but he could claim it.

His wife, pure haole, couldn’t even offer that excuse. If the Americans won, they would probably reckon her a traitor to her race.

“We will do our best. We have won before,” Genda said: almost exactly what he’d told her husband.

“You’d better,” she said fiercely. If she led the little Hawaiian Army, it might well fight harder than it would under King Stanley.

Genda shrugged again. “Karma, neh ?” After that, he found only one thing left to say: “Karma too that we fell in love, neh ?”

“Yes,” Cynthia Laanui answered, and looked down at the desk. Was she remembering she was an American? She’d been willing, even eager, to forget when things were going better for Japan. Now… She looked up again. “What are we going to do? What can we do?”

He shrugged. “I do not know. Everything we can.” His own chances of living through the fighting ahead were anything but good. He didn’t tell her that-what was the point? No doubt she could see it for herself anyway. If he didn’t live, her chances were better if no one knew she’d been sleeping with the enemy. Of course, as queen to the Japanese puppet King of Hawaii, she faced long odds, too. He got to his feet to go, and bowed once more. “Good luck.”

“Same to you,” she said. “I used to have it, but it seems to be gone now.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He’d just got back on his bicycle when air-raid sirens began to wail. When he saw the swarms of American planes tearing up Hickam Field again, he feared Japanese luck in Hawaii was gone now, too.

FLETCHER ARMITAGE WAS DIGGING an antitank ditch north of Wahiawa when American planes roared by overhead. He wanted to laugh in the face of the worried-looking Jap guard who rode herd on him and his fellow POWs. He wanted to scream, All right, motherfucker! You had it your way for a while. Now see how you like taking it for a change!

He wanted to, but he didn’t. He didn’t get out of line at all, in fact. The Japs had been jumpy even before those planes came over. Fletch hadn’t known why, but their wind was up. They started beating people up for no reason. If you gave them trouble on purpose, you’d be lucky if they just shot you. They’d probably bayonet you and leave you to die slowly under the hot sun.

And yet… There were a hell of a lot of prisoners and not very many guards. Before, it hadn’t seemed to matter so much. The Japs were top dogs, and they knew it and so did the men they guarded. But if all of a sudden they weren’t guaranteed top dogs any more, an awful lot of Americans owed them plenty-and wanted to pay it back, with interest.

More fighters and bombers flew by. The noise of explosions not too far away said something-probably Wheeler Field-was catching hell again. Unlike the big, heavy bombers the day before, these planes were coming in low. “Son of a bitch,” Fletch said, staring up. “Son of a bitch.”

“What is it?” another POW asked.

“They changed the wing emblem on our planes,” Fletch answered. “They took out the red ball in the middle of the star. When did that happen?” What else had his country done while he wasn’t looking-couldn’t look? All at once, he felt like Robinson Crusoe, trapped on a desert island while the rest of the world went on about its business.

“No talk!” the closest Jap guard shouted. “Work!”

Like any POW, Fletch worked no harder than he had to. He doubted he weighed even 110 pounds. He had little strength and less stamina. The Japs didn’t care. A lot of the work they’d had the POWs do was designed more to wear out and destroy men than for serious military reasons.

No more. Fletch could see how this ditch would slow an armored attack. The mud of the rice paddies wouldn’t help tanks, either. The U.S. Army had done its best to fight when the Japanese invaded. Now the Japs were getting ready to do the same.

And they’re making me help them, the sons of bitches! Fletch wanted to scream it. Under the Geneva Convention, they weren’t supposed to make him do work like this. Since he was an officer, under the Geneva Convention he wasn’t required to work at all. Did the Japs care? Not even slightly.

“Work!” the guard yelled again, and bashed somebody in the side of the head with the butt end of his Arisaka. The luckless POW staggered and fell to his hands and knees. The guard kicked him in the ribs, and went on kicking him till he lurched upright once more. Blood running down his cheek, the prisoner dug out another spadeful of earth. He didn’t say a word. Complaining only got you deeper in Dutch. Keeping your head down as much as you could was a hell of a lot smarter.

It was most of the time, anyhow. Though Fletch obediently dug, he kept looking at that Jap guard out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t the only POW doing that, either-oh, no. Up till now, it had looked as if the Japanese would hang on to Hawaii indefinitely. That being so, you had to go along-at least some-to get along. But if this place would be under new management (or rather, the old management again) pretty soon…

Yeah, you slanty-eyed son of a bitch, I’ll remember your face in my nightmares for the rest of my days. Do you have nightmares now, you bastard? If you don’t, I bet you will pretty soon. Serves you right, too.

Along with glancing at the guard, Fletch also looked south toward Wahiawa. Jane was still okay. He’d seen her. He knew. Maybe they could patch things up again. If Hawaii returned to the old management, why not? Anything might be possible then, anything at all.

PLATOON SERGEANT LES DILLON SPENT AS MUCH TIME AS HE COULD ON THE Valdosta Liberty ’s deck. It was cooler and less cramped there than down below. He went below to eat in the galley-the rule was that no food left it-and to use the heads. He slept down there, too, and played poker. Other than that, no. Besides, when he was below he couldn’t see what was going on.

His troopship had been zigzagging west and south ever since sailing from San Diego. Other converted freighters and liners-and the destroyers escorting them-filled the Pacific as far as his eye could see. He thought this was a bigger fleet than the one that had sailed and then turned tail the year before. He couldn’t prove it, but it looked that way.

He was sure the course changes were quicker and more precise than they had been the last time around. When he remarked on that, Dutch Wenzel nodded. “I guess even the swabbies can learn something if you give ’em enough time,” the other platoon sergeant said.

“Looks like you’re right. Who would’ve believed it?” Les said. They stood only a few feet away from a couple of the Valdosta Liberty ’s sailors. The sailors pretended not to hear. If they’d felt like brawling, Les was ready. What would Captain Bradford do to him? Make him miss the invasion? Not likely! The worst they could do to him was to send him in no matter what he did on the way.

That thought had hardly crossed his mind before the troopship’s loudspeakers crackled to life. “Now hear this!” an exultant voice said. “Now hear this! Our ships have whipped the Japanese Navy, and so we are good to proceed to our destination. Beautiful, romantic Hawaii coming up!”