House of the Sun s-17

by Nigel D Findley

  "Sorry," I said, trying to keep my bravado up, "someone's already won the prize for guessing that one. Who the hell are you?"

  "A friend." No smile, no expression at all, accompanied the declaration.

  "Could have fooled me. Are you sure you don't have the wrong number? Wrong Montgomery, for that matter."

  "I don't mink so." Again no smile, although there was a tinge of something in his voice that could be detached amusement. "I have a message for you, Mr. Montgomery. A warning, in fact"

  "I don't want any-"

  His voice didn't rise in volume, but it cut me off as effectively as a gag. "A friendly warning, Mr. Montgomery. I'd advise you listen."

  My bravado was wearing kind of thin at the moment, so I just shrugged.

  'Through no fault of your own, you've become involved in matters much too weighty for you," the austere face told me. (No drek, Sherlock, I managed not to say.) "A longstanding conflict is coming to a head in Hawai'i. Forces are marshaling."

  "ALOHA and the corps. No drek."

  "Yes, those too," Mr. Parchment-Face paused. "Even when one fully understands the dynamics of a conflict, it's often difficult to keep from getting overwhelmed by it… overwhelmed and crushed. When one is unaware of what the conflict is truly about, it's usually impossible."

  "So tell me."

  This time the amusement-cold, distant, but unmistakable-was clear in his voice. "I think not, not at this time. I merely suggest you take my words to heart. Terminate your involvement in matters beyond your control and comprehension. In more familiar terms… stay out of it, Mr. Montgomery. Right out."

  "I would if I had the opportunity," I told him honestly.

  "Then make the opportunity."

  "Who the frag are you anyway?"

  "As I said, a friend," the man repeated softly.

  "And you're telling me you know what's going down?" He nodded. "Yeah, right," I snorted. "Prove it if you want me to pay any attention to you." It was only after the words were out of my mouth that I remembered the last "proof anyone had provided me. Out of reflex, I glanced at the bullet hole in the window.

  And so I missed the first instants of the change. By the time my eyes were back on the screen, the man's outlines were flowing, shifting-morphing. Nothing I saw on that screen was beyond the capabilities of a hot-shot kid with a Cray-Amiga submicro running FX Oven… but, deep down, I knew what I was watching wasn't any kind of special effect. The man's skull expanded, elongated. Those icy eyes swelled, shifting apart, migrating toward the sides of me skull. His mouth opened, showing dagger teem. Beyond the serried rows of teeth, something moved-a black tongue, forked like a snake's.

  "Is this sufficient proof?" asked the dragon.

  14

  The big worm. The fragging bakeware.

  That's who it had to be, didn't it? Ryumyo the fragging Great Dragon. Great fragging Christ on a crutch. Whatever happened to a low fragging profile?

  My hands were shaking, making it harder to hot-wire the car I was boosting-a nice, nondescript Volkswagen Elektro, rusted out here and there. I wiped the sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand and tried not to drek myself.

  A nice, relaxing sojourn in the islands. Just deliver a message, soak up a few rays, get wasted on mai-tais, then it's all over. That's how Barnard had pitched it to me.

  Yeah, right. Ryumyo, the fragging dragon, had it chipped, didn't he? "You've become involved in matters much too weighty for you," that's what he'd told me. No drek. Corps and yaks and terrorists, oh my. And now kings and fragging dragons… Oh yes, and we can't forget the insect spirits, can we? My dance card was already full, and more guests kept showing up at the cotillion. Frag it to hell and back. I must have been something real nasty in a past life- nun-rapist, maybe, mass murderer, or perhaps tax collector-to warrant this kind of drekky karma.

  I finally managed to get the Elektro to admit that I did have the right keycode, and me little flywheel deep in me car's guts spun up to speed. I tried to burn rubber, but me mobile coffin just whined at me accusingly and pulled away from the curb at a slow walk. (According to some Volkswagen propaganda I'd scanned a while back, the Electro is supposed to have a top end of 75 klicks. Sure, chummer. The Volkswagen engineers must have dropped the fragging thing off a bridge to get that figure.) I pointed the Elektro east, and cruised through the noontime traffic.

  Spirits… I would purely loooove to take me nice dragon's friendly advice and just butt me hell out of all this. It hadn't been my choice to stick my nose into anyone's biz. Now, if I made one wrong step, my nose was probably the largest fragment of my anatomy anyone would find left in one piece. Maybe after I'd talked to King Kamehameha V. Yeah, right.

  I was ten minutes early for my appointment-audience?- when I pulled into the public parking facility a block from the Iolani Palace. I bid a less-than-fond farewell to the Elektro-Volkswagen's ergonomic gurus must have left it up to a band of munchkins to spec out the headroom-and took the elevator up to street level.

  And that's where I stopped and listened for a minute or two to my pulse beating a wild tattoo in my ears. Logic fought with instinct. It was instinct that told me to use all the tradecraft I knew, to look for shadows and tails, to watch my hoop, to approach my target without being spotted. Logic told me that was a load of bollocks. I was going to be jandering into a fragging palace. Lot of good tradecraft was going to do me there. And anyway, I recalled, looking down at the nicks the window composite had left in my finger, Gordon Ho's sniper had given me convincing evidence that the Ali'i didn't want me dead yet. Still, it took a good two minutes for logic to suppress the whimperings of reflex. Finally, I strode across the road-almost getting greased by a courier on a pedal-bike, despite the fact that I had the light- and toward the Iolani Palace.

  The building itself sat in the middle of more than half a hectare of grassy turf, almost indecently green and vibrant. It didn't look big enough to be the capitol of a sovereign nation. Frag, you couldn't fit more than a hundred bureaucrats and datapushers into the place. But then I glanced across the road at the Haleaka-something, the big, ferrocrete Government House. I supposed it made sense; separate the day-to-day biz of the government from the symbolic, ritualistic drek. The wrought iron gate leading onto the grounds was open, flanked by four guards-all big boys, trolls or orks dressed in white uniforms that were almost blinding in the brilliant sun. (Stupid, I thought at first, but then I realized these guys were just symbolic. If you're going to stand at attention out in the beating tropical sun, white gear makes a lot more sense than dark camo. The real hard-men would be out of sight, somewhere in the shade, but able to respond to trouble in an instant.) I jandered on through. One of the trolls gave me my daily dose of stink-eye, and I saw his big, horny knuckles whiten on the forestock of his H K assault rifle. Chummer, I just smiled. At the moment trolls with assault rifles were low on my priority list of things to drek myself over.

  Up the driveway I jandered, up the low steps, in the front door. And into the blissful cool of a lobby/reception area. Scott had told me the Iolani Palace was about a hundred and fifty years old, and now I could really feel it Not that the place looked rundown. Far from it, it was perfectly maintained. But the very feel of me air hinted at the history that had passed through its doors, up its stairways, across its dark wood floors.

  There were four more white-clad ceremonial guards-trolls, again-one in each corner of the room. More stink-eye. In front of me was a huge reception desk made from the same dark wood as the floor. Behind it sat a young Polynesian woman, her attractiveness undiminished by the fact that she was an ork. No stink-eye here. She was watching me with a welcoming smile that, under other circumstances, might have had me running around in circles, dragging a wing and whimpering. I walked up to the desk. "My name's Dirk Montgomery," I told her.

  "Yes?" Then she blinked and looked down at a 'puter flatscreen set into the desktop. "Oh, yes," she said brightly, "I'm sorry, Mr. Montgomery, you are expected, of course. If you'll just
wait a moment…" Her eyes rolled up in her head, and for me first time I noticed that a fiber-optic line connected her to the desktop system. In a couple of heartbeats her dark eyes were smiling up into mine again. "Mr. Ortega will be with you momentarily," she told me.

  When she said, "momentarily," she meant it. I'd barely finished thanking her when a door in the wall behind her opened and a suit emerged.

  Not "suit" as in "corp." No, "suit" as in Zoe or one of the other upper-tier designers. When Mr. Ortega came through the door, it was the suit I noticed first, and only as an afterthought the man who was wearing it. A pasty-faced little guy, pale skin, salt-and-pepper hair. He looked kind of dusty, like a librarian who hadn't been let out of the stacks for a couple of years. But the suit and the eyes-flinty-hard, rather like the Ali'i's, I thought suddenly-were enough to tell me this was a honcho with real juice.

  Those eyes gave me the top-to-toe scan, sizing me up… and narrowing as though he didn't particularly like the conclusions he'd reached. "Mr. Montgomery," he said politely, but with no human warmth. He extended a thin hand. "Your weapon, please."

  Out the corner of my eye, I saw the white-suits stiffen as I reached-very slowly, with my left hand-under my shirt-tails and pulled out my Manhunter. I safed the weapon, going so far as to pop out the clip before I handed it over to Ortega. Distastefully, as though I'd offered him a dead fish, he took it and passed it in turn to the receptionist, who made it disappear into a drawer. "You. will, of course, receive it back once your business is concluded," Ortega told me. Then he turned his back and strode toward the door, the lines of his narrow shoulders indicating he fully expected me to follow.

  Follow I did, through the door-through a sophisticated suite of metal detectors and chemsniffers, I had no doubt- and into a kind of anteroom with three doors. Ortega turned around again, and again he gave me the top-to-bottom scan. "Yes, well," he said at last, "you must, of course, wear a jacket and tie for an audience with the Ali'i."

  I almost chuckled aloud-the last time I'd heard words to that effect I'd been trying to sleaze my way into a restaurant called La Maison d'lndochine back in Seattle-but suppressed my amusement. Aide de camp, maitre d'-I guess there wasn't that much difference, when you thought about it. I watched the laser-eyed little man, surprised that he didn't look even slightly Polynesian, as he opened a closet set into the richly paneled walls and pulled out some clothes.

  "A one-oh-five regular should fit." (This seemed to be my week for meeting people with a haberdasher's eye.) He handed over a double-breasted jacket-deep blue with a conservative emerald pinstripe-and a white-and-navy paisley tie. And then he waited.

  The collar of my tropical shirt wasn't made for a tie, and if the jacket actually was a one-oh-five regular, I'd put on some weight. But I made do the best I could, and did a model's turn for Ortega.

  "Yes," he said dryly-I suppose a sense of humor wasn't de rigueur this season-and turned his back on me once more.

  I followed him through another door and down a short hallway. We stopped at yet another door-some dark, dynamically grained wood this time-and paused. He turned back to me, gave me one last once-over-his frown telling me he didn't like what he saw any better this time-and started in on a protocol lecture. "The Ali'i will acknowledge you," he said. "Until that point you will stand with your eyes averted. You will not speak unless addressed, and then you will limit yourself to answers to the Ali'i's questions. You will not-"

  Mr. Manners was cut off by a click as the door opened behind him. He shot me a scowl-didn't appreciate pedantus interruptus, apparently-but turned to whisper something to the white-suit who'd opened the door. After a quiet exchange Ortega stepped aside and gestured for me to go ahead. I did, but not before wishing I had a small-denomination coin handy to tip him (and really slot him off). I walked through the door…

  … And into a throne room. I mean a real throne room, complete with throne, up on a low dais at the far end. Like a magnet the figure on the throne drew my gaze. A bronze-skinned warrior god-that was my first impression. Tall, muscular, in the prime of his vibrant, vigorous life. He wore pretty much the same getup as the statue of Kamehameha the Great that Scott had shown me: loincloth, a cape of brilliant yellow feathers hung over his shoulders, and a big forward-curving headdress also covered with feathers. His chest was bare, well-muscled, and decorated here and there with tattoos of a geometrical design. If he'd held a spear or a war club in his big hands, it would have looked totally appropriate. In fact, however, what he held was a sophisticated pocket 'puter on which he was taking notes. He looked up as the door clicked shut behind me, and those flinty eyes seemed to pierce me to the core.

  It was Gordon Ho-it had taken me this long, a couple of seconds, to recognize him in his glory. Gordon Ho, King Kamehameha V, Ali'i of the Kingdom of Hawai'i. When I'd seen him on the telecom screen, my mental impression had been of a young, up-and-coming corporate exec. The telecom hadn't conveyed the size of him-just shy of two meters tall, I guessed; not up to Kamehameha the Great's standard, but still one big boy-and it certainly hadn't done justice to his… his aura. (I hate the word, but it's the only one that fits.) I could feel his personality, his strength of will, like radiant heat penetrating to my core. I'd never met a king before, and for the first time I realized there might be something more to this monarchy drek than a title and- maybe-congenital defects from inbreeding.

  He glanced back to his computer, and the removal of his gaze seemed to free me from a spell. For the first time since I'd stepped through the door. I was able to look around at the rest of the room.

  It wasn't big, this throne room, about the size of a major corporate boardroom. The floor was hardwood, the walls paneled in the same rich-grained wood as the door I'd passed through. On the wall behind the Ali'i was a large coat of arms or seal or something-circular, with words around its circumference. Ua mau Ice eaaka aina i ka pono, I managed to pick out… whatever the frag that was supposed to mean. In the center of the seal was some kind of emblem incorporating a hibiscus like flower, a tree that looked like a banyan, and-I drek you not-a fragging goose. Framing it were drapes of rich maroon velvet.

  Beside and to the left of King Kamehameha another man was on the dais-standing; the only seat in the room was filled with Ali'i. An older man, he was, scrawny and weathered, looking like he'd been carved from nut brown wood. He too wore a cape-no feathers, just red fabric-and a loincloth. Around his brow was a headband, and a single feather of some kind protruded from the back, to sag forward-forlornly, I thought-over his forehead. An advisor of some kind, I figured at once. What had Scott called these guys? Kahunas, that was it. The kahuna looked only a couple of years younger than God himself, but he had the same steely edge in his eyes as Gordon Ho. Not a slag to trifle with.

  Two white-suits flanked the dais, and another loomed over me and Ortega, who'd joined me in the room. These boys were holding spears, but I noted they also had big-time handguns holstered on their belts.

  And then there were the three… visitors? supplicants? what would you call them? They stood before the dais, eyes averted as I'd forgotten to do. All humans, all Polynesians… and all suits (in the corp sense, this time). One of them turned and shot me a bad look-I was getting pretty goddamned tired of stink-eye by this time-before getting back to his averting.

  The Ali'i looked up from his notes, and fixed one of the suits with a sharp look. "Is there any more I should hear on this matter?"

  The suit looked up and said formally, "No more, e ku'u lani."

  "Good," the king said with a nod. "Then you'll hear my decision within twenty-four hours."

  Another of the suits-he looked younger than the rest- opened his mouth to bitch, but the look the Ali'i shot him shut him up before he could start. The young suit shifted uncomfortably, then he got back to his averting, too.

  The Ali'i glanced over in my direction, and I thought I saw a faint smile. "Mr. Montgomery," he said. That wasn't a question, so I didn't speak. Ho shifted his gaze to
Ortega by my side. "Please escort Mr. Montgomery to my private office."

  Ortega stiffened. "E ku 'u lani, is that proper?"

  Oops, mistake. Regal stink-eye is very different from the run-of-the-mill kind, and I was glad this dose was directed at someone else. Surprisingly, it was the scrawny kahuna who said, "It is for the Ali'i to decide what is proper and what is not." The reprimand was delivered in a quiet voice, little more than a whisper, but Ortega flinched as though he'd been whipped.

  The aide/maitre d' nodded and seemed to be trying to swallow his prominent Adam's apple. He tapped me on the arm, and I followed him back out the door.

  Leading me through the bowels of the palace, he didn't utter a word for the next few minutes, which suited me just fine. Finally, he stopped before another rich-grained wood door, nodded to the requisite white-suit on guard outside, and turned the knob. Wordlessly, he gestured me in, and this time he didn't follow. I let the door shut behind me before giving the place the once-over.

  State-of-the-art, cutting-edge corporate office-that was my first impression. Tech everywhere-not obtrusive or overbearing, but always to hand. Anything and everything to make the life of a busy executive just that one little bit easier or more comfortable. Huge holo unit against one wall; one of those high-tech whiteboard displays, the kind that automatically networks to multiple pocket 'puters via infrared links and lets a dozen people make and annotate drawings and notes; a telecom/commo suite that you'd need an electrical engineering doctorate just to turn on; an electrostatic printer only marginally bigger than the pieces of paper it printed on; and-thank God for something I fully understood-a slick little coffee/espresso maker on the credenza.

  I suppose I'd expected the decor of the Ali'i's private office to be something like that of the throne room: dark, polished woods, somber drapes, that kind of drek. Good try, but no cigar. The place was light and airy, painted in pale pastels that made it feel larger than it actually was. The desk and credenza were macroplast finished in a contrasting pastel. The chairs-there were four of them, one behind the desk and three in front-weren't the antiques I expected either, instead, they were this-year's-model self-adjusting units.