The London Emergency

The Prime Minister's office at Number 10 Downing Street, usually a place of quiet, confident power, was charged with an atmosphere of sputtering, aristocratic outrage. The London fog that pressed against the tall windows seemed to have seeped into the room itself, thick with disbelief and indignation. Prime Minister Lord Salisbury, a man whose imperious beard and heavy-lidded eyes were the very personification of the British Empire's stately authority, held the document as if it were a venomous snake.

It was, in a sense, far more venomous than any snake. It was the summons from Beijing. The parchment was of the highest quality, the calligraphy exquisite, but the words themselves were an act of geopolitical vandalism on a scale no one in the room had ever witnessed.

"A 'summons'?" Lord Salisbury repeated for the third time, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He slapped the document down on the polished mahogany table. "He summons Her Majesty, the Queen-Empress of India, as if she were a minor tributary chieftain from the hinterlands of Siam? The sheer, unmitigated, celestial arrogance is breathtaking!"

The Foreign Secretary, a man whose entire career had been built upon the unshakeable assumption of British global dominance, nodded in furious agreement. "It is a calculated insult of the highest order, Prime Minister. But the insult is merely the wrapping. The agenda he proposes… it is a declaration of war on our entire global position. The return of Hong Kong? The dismantling of the Royal Navy under the guise of 'proportional disarmament'? It is the work of a madman."

"Then we shall treat it as such," Lord Salisbury declared, his mind made up. "We will draft a reply expressing Her Majesty's profound displeasure at this diplomatic insolence. We will reject this… 'summons'… outright and recall our ambassador from Beijing for consultation. We do not negotiate with upstart tyrants who have delusions of grandeur."

A third man in the room, who had been listening silently until now, cleared his throat. It was Sir Claude MacDonald. He had been hailed as a hero upon his return from Beijing, the man who had seen the Dragon's true face. His counsel was now sought on all matters concerning the Far East.

"Prime Minister," Sir Claude began, his voice calm but heavy with a grim realism that cut through the Prime Minister's bluster. "With the greatest respect, that is precisely what he wants us to do."

Lord Salisbury turned, his heavy eyebrows raised. "Explain yourself, MacDonald."

"He has laid a trap for us, just as he did for the Japanese," Sir Claude explained, his words precise and logical. "He presents these impossible terms knowing we will be outraged. If we refuse to attend his 'conference,' he will have his pretext. He will declare to the world that Great Britain is an unreasonable, belligerent power, that we refuse to even speak of peace and a 'new world order.' He will use our refusal to justify his next military move, whatever that may be. He will seize our assets in Shanghai. He will blockade Hong Kong. And he will do it all under the guise of our own intransigence."

The Foreign Secretary looked troubled. "So what do you propose? That we simply acquiesce? That a representative of the Queen of England should travel to Beijing and listen to this list of demands?"

"Yes," Sir Claude said flatly. "That is exactly what I propose. We must accept the invitation, under formal protest, of course. We will state that we are attending in the interests of global peace and stability. It buys us what we need most: time." He looked around the room. "He has given us six months. We must use every second of that time to prepare."

The reality of their position began to sink in. They were trapped. To attend was to acknowledge the Chinese Emperor's new status as a global power player. But to refuse was to hand him the justification for his next act of aggression.

Lord Salisbury sank into his chair, the anger draining from him, replaced by a cold, strategic focus. "Very well, MacDonald. Your logic is sound. We will attend. We will send a delegation, led by yourself. You will delay, you will prevaricate, you will entangle them in the fine art of European diplomacy. You will buy us time." His gaze shifted to another man who had been standing silently by the fireplace, the head of the Admiralty's secretive Naval Intelligence Department. "And while our diplomats are talking, our agents must be working. What have you found? The source of this Emperor's power?"

The intelligence chief, a man named Cpt. Smith-Cumming, shook his head. "Nothing concrete, Prime Minister. Only whispers and rumors that defy rational explanation. Our scientific attaché in Beijing filed a report suggesting it may be some form of advanced mesmerism or mass hypnotism used on his court, but he admitted freely that he cannot explain the physical phenomena. The incident with the typhoon that his invasion fleet sailed through… our meteorologists say it was a meteorological impossibility. A corridor of calm in the heart of a typhoon. It's the stuff of fantasy."

"Then we must start treating fantasy as fact," Sir Claude said grimly. He saw the path forward now, a two-pronged covert plan. "Prime Minister, while the delegation prepares, we must move on two fronts. First, our asset within the Emperor's sphere of influence in London…" He was referring to May-Ling, his mysterious and ruinously expensive acquaintance from the gaming tables. "She has succeeded in putting me into her debt, a fact which I have, of course, reported. It is time to accelerate her timeline. Getting me into debt is no longer enough. We need real leverage. We need to know who she truly works for. Is it the Emperor himself? We must turn their own weapon back against them. We need her compromised. Find her secrets. A past crime, a lost love, a hidden loyalty. We must have something to hold over her."

He then turned to the intelligence chief. "Second, we will use the conference in Beijing as cover. The official delegation will consist of diplomats. But several members of my staff will be from your department. Their mission will not be to talk, but to listen. They will make contact with any and all dissident elements within the Qing military and the government. There must be Manchu princes who resent this Han Chinese Emperor's power. There must be generals from the old armies who were cast aside. Find them. Fund them. Promise them our support. If we cannot defeat the Emperor from the outside, then we will incite a civil war and have him torn down from within."

A slow, predatory smile touched Lord Salisbury's lips. He understood this kind of war. This was the Great Game, played on a global scale. "Excellent, MacDonald. Utterly ruthless. I approve."

The British Empire, the master of covert influence and political manipulation, would fight the Dragon Emperor not with battleships, but with whispers. They would use his own tactics against him: subversion, psychological warfare, and the patient, deliberate exploitation of his enemies from within. The decision was made. They would go to Beijing, but they would go with a diplomat's smile on their faces and an assassin's dagger hidden in their robes.