“Gentlemen,” Konoye continued, pausing slightly as he considered the unpalatable news to come. “It is with great regret and heavy heart that I must tell you, His Highness has recommended that we accept the Allied terms of ceasefire.” He raised his hand quickly, cutting off any angry response he might’ve otherwise received as he went on to explain. “With the loss of Germany as our most powerful ally, and this new and unexpected threat from the Soviets in the north, it has been decided that we must do everything we can to secure the safety of our Empire and our people, particularly in the light of the terrible destruction inflicted upon us by these atomic weapons – weapons which we were first to use in anger against the United States.”
“My Lord…” Umezu began slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. “The loss of face… the shame our nation will endure in this will be intolerable. If we surrender now, any country in the world with think they can defeat us!”
“General, the reports I have read indicate the aircraft that has dropped these weapons on our cities is invulnerable to our defences… is this correct…?”
“Y-Yes, My Lord… at present we have no aircraft capable of reaching its altitude, and there are not enough suitable anti-aircraft guns available to be of use.”
“Then… the fact remains that, should our enemy possess any more of these atomic bombs, they can attack any city in Japan without fear of interception. Is this correct…?”
“At the moment, it is, My Lord…”
“These are the wishes of The Emperor,” Konoye stated bluntly, having decided that no further discussion was required on the matter. “We are his subjects and we will obey. Word will be sent to our Ambassador in Geneva within the hour stating that we are willing to accept this Allied offer. What is required of you, gentlemen, is the enforcement of a complete and total ceasefire as of Midnight tonight with terms to be signed and ratified three days from now on January First, Year 2603…” he added, referring to the coming New Year’s Japanese Imperial numbering. “This ceasefire will be enforced, gentlemen, and any attempt to break it will be met with the sternest response. Do we have an understanding…?”
“We do, My Lord…” Yamamoto and Oikawa answered immediately, almost in unison.
“Generals…?” Konoye asked pointedly as the others hesitated.
“My – My Lord…” Umezu answered finally, making it seem as painful as drawing teeth as Anami could do nothing other than give a stiff, short bow in the form of an exaggerated nod that moved his entire upper body in the chair.
“It is decided,” Konoye declared softly, fighting his own inner demons as best as he was able. “A recording shall be made of a speech His Highness will give to the people to advise them of what is to come and to assure them that they need not live in fear. It is to be broadcast that same morning on every radio station across the country, and throughout The Empire. The people will understand. We will put an end to this madness before it destroys us all.”
Still standing in one corner at the rear of the carriage, Miyagi gave a silent, internal sigh of relief as, from across Konoye’s shoulder, Kido caught his eye and gave a faint, approving nod of understanding and agreement.
“We must watch those two closely… they remain tied to the ashes of Tōjō’s war cabinet.” Kido advised twenty minutes later as he sat alone in his cabin with Miyagi, taking part in a Chanoyu ceremony prepared by a servant trained in the art of serving traditional Japanese tea. The old man waiting on them had brought with him a narrow trolley on which he was able to heat a small, iron kettle and take from it the other accoutrements necessary for the correct performance of the ritual.
“Surely, My Lord, they would not dare to defy The Emperor?” Miyagi asked sharply, shocked by the very idea.
“My mind would like to think so,” Kido admitted with a partial shrug and tilt of his head, “however my heart is nevertheless filled with fear. The Army has had its own way now for far too long for it to acquiesce so easily. There will be repercussions that come out of our meeting today, whatever happens moving forward.”
“It is a terrible thing, I know, but perhaps it might have been ‘easier’ had there been more of our General Staff present for Taihō’s launch…” Miyagi muttered softly, his face flashing with sudden guilt the moment the words had slipped out.
“It would be wise not to speak in such a manner around others,” Kido suggested with a mild frown, “although I understand what you mean by this.” His frown deepened as something else occurred to him. “It troubles me however; this grand coincidence of an atomic attack upon Hiroshima on the very same day that the entire Imperial Headquarters was present for such a ceremony. If these German ‘Direktors’ were to be believed, this city was targeted anyway in this thing they call Realtime, however it is the timing of it all that concerns me…”
“Not so difficult to understand if it is considered that we had used a similar device against the Americans just days before, and were involved in the detonation of a second at Ambon Island just hours before the bombing,” Miyagi suggested awkwardly, desperate to hide the discomfort he suddenly felt. “Perhaps an easy decision to make in the name of vengeance, and not so difficult to choose a target that was already known to have been destroyed in such a manner in this other version if history we have been made party to…”
“Perhaps…” Kido conceded slowly, still bothered by it all. “Your words have logic…” he added, bowing solemnly as the servant seated between them at the head of the table carefully passed across a steaming cup of green tea. “Yet my fears remain that this was other than chance…” he continued, causing Miyagi’s stomach to lurch sickeningly even as his own tea was handed over. “Hiroshima might’ve been an original target in this Realtime, however nothing we have been told suggests that Kure ever was. Certainly, the opportunity to make such a devastating display of their power in the destruction of those two cities would have been great enough to make any sane man show pause...” He sipped at the tea, bowing his head to the servant in recognition of its quality. “However it might also be said that Tōjō-san and his cabinet were anything but sane. So much easier for the enemy… so much more certain that we will accede to their demands… if they are also able to cut the head from this Japanese snake in that same fell swoop! One great, final show of their invincible power that some new and undoubtedly terrified Imperial Headquarters could never ignore.”
“A frightening thought in itself,” Miyagi admitted, shuddering involuntarily. “What you suggest could only mean one thing: a traitor within the General Staff itself.”
“The General Staff or the cabinet…” Kido pointed out matter-of-factly. “And I do not suggest… it is no more than fear I hold, unfounded at present. Think no more of this, Miyagi-san… there is enough for you to do without troubling yourself with this also. I shall think more on it…”
And as he drank his tea, Kido implacably continued to stare directly at him, eyes boring into the younger man’s soul as a fearful Miyagi Ryo feigned a poor attempt at pretending to sip at his own cup and fought down the sudden and almost overpowering urge to throw up.
Raffles Hotel, Palm Court Wing
Beach Road, Singapore
January 1, 1943
Friday
Anger. Fear. Pain. All three sensations coursed through him as he held the radio microphone in his hands and called desperately for help. The bloodied, broken bodies of the Japanese lay strewn about him. A hundred… a thousand… a million…? It was impossible to count them all; that congealed, bloody mass of corpses strewn about him like so much chaff after the threshing, and it continued to grow before his very eyes, spreading out across the empty plains around him like a crimson cancer. Burns… bullet holes… limbs severed and torn apart… every possible horror of the imagination lay there before him in the terrible vengeance wrought upon so many innocent bodies.
He called again, the mike held to his lips by scarred and bloodied hands, and again there was no reply; and he knew that the world had forsaken him
… disavowed him… had divested itself of his very existence. He fell to his knees in despair, the ruined corpses piling up around him, and those above began to press down with their added weight, compacting those below, the last, wheezing moans of the dead rose in covert around him like the harbinger of some deafening, unholy air raid.
The flash came then, sharp and clear as a pinprick against the horizon, and he knew that he must take cover somehow – find some way to avoid the devastation to come. His first thought was to dig – to dig a trench or foxhole in which he might seek protection from the blast – but as his hands reached down they found no earth in which to find solace. Instead, his fingers were met with an alien hardness that felt dark and unyielding to his touch.
Sweeping aside the limbs and body parts in his way, he was presented with a cold, featureless blackness of such a lustre that it seemed almost fathomless as one stared into it. ‘Trinitite’: the word came to him silently in that moment, and as he felt around himself, he realised that he was standing on a broad, flat plateau of opaque glass.
There was rushing in his ears now, and his breath caught in his lungs and he raised his eyes to stare up in terror at the huge, boiling mushroom cloud towering above him. He watched the shockwave speed toward him, ever-expanding outward from ground zero at supersonic speed, and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain. He fire swept over him, searing his very soul even as it burned the flesh from his bones, and this time he screamed in mindless agony.
Thorne awoke violently, sitting bolt upright in bed with eyes wide as he cried out in a moment of disoriented fear. The nightmare of that terrible atomic blast lingered in his mind, hanging like some mental after-image left from staring too long into the blazing sun. Sweat had already collected on his bare chest and back, and had beaded on his forehead as stared wildly around himself, trying to come to grips with where he actually was.
The sheets and pillows felt faintly damp from his perspiration. It had been a relatively hot night that had barely dipped below around 27˚C, and with almost ninety per cent humidity to deal with, the ceiling fan spinning directly above the huge king-sized bed did little in real terms to mitigate the stifling heat. He collapsed back onto the bed now, chest still heaving slightly in the aftershocks of the dream, and tried to ignore the vaguely unpleasant moistness of the damp sheets beneath as he lay there in his boxers, sheet half-draped across his lower body.
“No smart remarks…?” He asked softly to no one in particular, the words hollow and broken as he felt the hangover of the previous night’s drinking envelope him, and closed his eyes in some vain attempt to somehow alleviate the sudden migraine and vague sensation of spinning.
There was no answer, for a change. In the two weeks since he’d been evacuated from Ambon, he’d found that the silent voice in his head was often severely muted in the mornings that followed a hard night of alcohol, and that it almost never appeared in the aftermath of the nightmares that had also come with unpleasant frequency since he’d arrived in Singapore. The morning hangovers had instead become his regular companion since his arrival, and he knew how dangerous that was becoming; recognised how close he was pushing the envelope as he edged ever closer toward a return to problems with alcoholism he’d thought mostly vanquished two years before.
Another morning ‘companion’ that was far more normal was a desperate need to urinate, the sensation striking him now with such sudden ferocity that his body was instantly galvanised into action with no regard whatsoever for his aching head. Groaning in pain and vague dizziness, he forced himself out of bed and staggered into the adjoining bathroom, wincing at the brightness of the light blazing in through an ornate, frosted glass window in the back wall as he relieved himself with a long, unashamedly-blissful sigh of relief.
It was as he walked back out into the bedroom, drying his washed hands on a small, white towel, that Rupert Gold entered the room through a set of double doors in the far wall, already dressed in a very expensive, tailored white suit of light cotton, a similarly-coloured panama hat in one hand and a folded collection of the morning’s newspapers in the other.
“Dear God, Max, you might have a little consideration for those of us who’ve already had breakfast…” he remarked with distain, grimacing over his employer’s distinct lack of clothing and averting his eyes slightly.
“Like you actually care…” Thorne growled back, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about being partially-naked in the same room as a gay man, regardless of the fact that he knew how ridiculous that feeling actually was. “Be happy you weren’t here five minutes ago…!” He added, with no intention of elaborating.
“Honestly…” Rupert continued to gripe prissily as Thorne accelerated across the room and gathered up a light cotton robe crumpled across the foot of the bed. “It’s almost enough to make a man look at women again…!”
“‘Again’…?” He shot back, managing a wry smile this time as Gold lay the papers on a side table by the door and fussed pointlessly at the flower arrangement beside it, trying not to smirk. “When did that happen last…?”
The banter had become a common activity between the pair – particularly when alone together – and as Rupert had come to realise and accept that there was no prejudice behind it on Thorne’s part, it had become a quite liberating experience to be able to trust another straight person deeply enough to relax and actually be who he really was.
“You could at least make an effort to get some sunshine,” he suggested drily, finally able to turn to face his boss once more as Thorne shrugged the robe around himself and tied it in the middle. “Two weeks in Singapore in the middle of summer, and you look as if I should be hanging garlic and carrying a crucifix!”
“We’ll see who bursts into flame first, shall we?” Thorne grinned. “You do know we’re actually north of the equator, right? That technically it’s winter here?” He pointed out, yawning and rubbing his hair as he sat down on the end of the bed, feigning a casual air but nevertheless making sure his robe was carefully positioned to cover any potential embarrassment.
“Sweetie, the average low temperature here varies by less than four degrees… year round…!” Gold replied sourly, having thoroughly researched the matter in the first few days of his arrival in the city and finding the humidity no more pleasant than Ceylon had been a few months earlier. “Winter here is about the same as summer in London, so if I want to call it summer here, I bloody-well will! I never imagined I’d say this, but right now I’d give anything to be somewhere with a relatively dry heat, like Sydney or Melbourne.”
“You bastards haven’t changed in seventy bloody years…” Thorne chuckled softly, adding: “Fuckin’ whinging Poms…!” The running joke over the huge disparity between English and Australian weather was an old one that both enjoyed perpetuating.
“There’s only two hours until the beginning of the Armistice Ceremony: you could at least make an effort to look presentable. You’re looking forward to seeing Briony again, no doubt…” Rupert suggested, sounding far more serious now.
“Uh, yeah… yeah, of course…” He answered eventually, not making anywhere near a good enough effort in concealing his discomfort. “It’ll be good…”
“You will have to talk to her… you do know that…?”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” Thorne replied stiffly, rising from the bed and turning his back on his Personal Assistance in a futile effort to hid his reactions and somehow retain some false sense of control.
“Dozens of radio calls… letters… half-a-dozen telegrams…” Gold continued, no humour at all in his tone now. “You at least owe her some kind of explanation.”
“I don’t owe her a Goddamned thing…” He hissed softly, back still turned, but Rupert could hear the quaver in his voice and knew from experience that the man he worked for was very close to tears.
“You and I both know that that is complete bullshit, Max…” Gold replied quickly, using one of Thorne’s own preferred expletives against him.
He checked his wristwatch. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes, by the way: I should have a shower and put some clothes on, if I were you…”
“Don’t you have something important to take care of?” Thorne shot back over his shoulder, starting to move rigidly toward the walk-in robes near the bathroom door.
“Indeed, I do, Max…” he replied with gentle honesty, a sad half-smile on his face. “…Someone, in fact… and right at the moment, they need a lot of looking after…”
That last remark stopped Thorne in his tracks momentarily, and he turned back to face Gold with a sad, truthful expression.
“You know,” he observed with a good deal more self-reflection than he was generally accustomed to, “I could pay someone half what you get and still get this level of abuse...”
“Perhaps,” Rupert countered glibly, tilting his head in a half-nod, “but would they patronise you with the same level of style…?”
“All right, push off: time to get dressed, and I don’t want to get you all excited.”
“You should be so lucky,” Rupert quipped without batting an eyelid. “I’ll head across to the foyer and bring them over.”
“Her over…” Thorne corrected a little too quickly. “Briony…”
“Max…”
“Go…!” He warned, forcing the situation by making a show of shrugging off his robe as he walked into the bathroom once more.
“Be still, my churning stomach!” Rupert grumbled, taking care to secure the door behind himself as he departed in decided haste.
Raffles Hotel had become nothing less than an icon of Colonial Singapore since its opening in 1887. Intended right from its inception as a luxury hotel with all the high-end services expected of such a venue, its reputation quickly became a draw card for the wealthy and famous from around the globe. Created out of a private beach house and designed in a Colonial style, its ornate and luxurious décor was complemented by a standard of service unmatched in the region and the equal of anywhere else in the world.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 114
