House of the Sun

by Nigel Findley

  Then the confidence vaporized. I knew what I had to do—what I thought I had to do, rather—but that didn't make it any easier. I'd lived this long trusting my gut, but one of these days that well-tuned organ was going to let me down, violently and terminally. I sat down in front of the telecom, slipped my Manhunter from my waistband, and set it on the table beside the keyboard. Then I just stared at the screen for a couple of minutes.

  Did I have the jam to do it? Did I have the jam not to do it? Frag, I hate these questions. Finally, I accepted that, a) I really didn't have that much choice; and b) if I played it right, it wasn't going to increase the danger I was in—already maximal—by any meaningful degree. I sighed, and then I keyed in the LTG number I'd taken off my voice-mail back in Cheyenne, what seemed so long ago.

  I fidgeted and fretted as the telecom clicked its way through the intermediary nodes of the cold relay. Finally, the Ringing symbol blinked on the screen. Belatedly, I ran through the math to figure out the time in Kyoto, Japan. Nigh on midnight unless I'd slipped a time-zone somewhere. Would Mr. Jacques Barnard still be in the office? I doubted it. If not, would he have the call redirected, or would I get that most hateful of voices, the one that says, "Please leave your message after the beep?"

  The Ringing symbol cleared, but the screen stayed blank. Then I heard the electronic click of yet another relay. After a few more seconds the screen cleared, and I was staring into the face of Jacques Barnard.

  He was at home, I figured. Behind him, slightly out of focus, was a nighttime cityscape, viewed from a decent height—like from the penthouse of a downtown skyraker. for example. He was awake and alert, but he looked mentally cooked. When I'd first called him from Cheyenne, he looked to have aged a good decade in four years. Now he'd added another five years to that figure. He leaned back, brushing an invisible speck of dust from the sleeve of his maroon velvet smoking jacket—a fragging smoking jacket—and he gave me a smile that reminded me of sharks and barracudas.

  "Mr. Montgomery," he said. "I'm so glad you saw fit to contact me. Can you please do me a large favor and tell me just what the frag is going on?"

  I mentally flinched at the ferocity of his words. I'd never seen Barnard lose his temper, and I'd never expected to see it. I wished I'd been able to forgo the pleasure. "Tokudaiji's dead," I told him.

  "I do understand that," he said coldly. "I would like to assume that you were not responsible—"

  "You got that right," I said fervently. Then I went on to give him a capsule description of what had gone down. He didn't interrupt or ask any questions, but I could see his brain spinning at 1,000 rpm behind his eyes. "I thought Scott was one of yours," I finished at last.

  "A reasonable assumption," he acknowledged slowly, "since it was the same one I had made." He paused. "What is the . . . the tenor of the islands, concerning this matter?"

  "I don't know directly," I told him, "but I can guess how things are going to shake out. You were using Tokudaiji to counter ALOHA's 'corps out' rhetoric, weren't you? When word gets around that a corp hitter whacked him"—I raised my hand to forestall the inevitable objection—"I know you're saying Scott didn't do the dirty deed on Yamatetsu's behalf, but who's going to believe that?"

  "Even you have some difficulty believing it," he put in incisively.

  I didn't have to acknowledge it; he could see it in my eyes, no doubt. "Anyway," I went on doggedly, "ALOHA's going to be able to play this one for all it's worth. 'Corps cack defender of the common people,' and all that bulldrek. They'll have the people behind them, and they'll be able to give you some serious grief."

  "They would be exceptionally foolish to try," Barnard said flatly. "There are individuals in the corporate sphere with less . .. restraint ... than I. And many of them have close connections with Zurich-Orbital and the Corporate Court." He paused. "Still, I have to agree with your analysis."

  "Well, that makes me feel just so warm and fuzzy inside," I said sarcastically. "Get me the frag out of here, Barnard, Now. Hawai'i's getting a little too hot for me, if you'll pardon the wordplay."

  Barnard smiled, but there was no real amusement in the expression. "Impossible at the moment, I'm afraid," he said flatly. "Perhaps in a week or two ..."

  "I'll be dead in a day or two."

  "Not if you use those skills that so impressed me during our first acquaintance," he pointed out. Normally I like an ego-stroke as much as the next slag, but this one grated on me. I kept my reactions under control, though. "There is a further small matter on which I would value your assistance," he went on.

  "A further ... ?" I laughed out loud. "Frag you, Barnard, and the hog you rode in on. Your last 'small matter' is already going to get me geeked."

  "I understand your animosity," the corporator said reasonably. "I would assure you that I had no intention for things to turn out this way ... but of course you wouldn't believe me." He paused.

  "Mr. Montgomery," he went on, leaning forward intently, "it is exceptionally important that we be clear about this. There are larger matters at work here than the death of an oyabun ... and certainly larger than the fate of an erstwhile shadowrunner from the Sioux Nation." His mouth quirked into an ironic smile. "Larger than the senior vice president of a megacorporation, if it comes down to that.

  "I need you to make one more contact, Mr. Montgomery."

  "No fragging deal," I told him. "Not after the last one. Frag, you want me to 'contact' the CEO of Renraku, maybe, watch him get splattered, and then spend the rest of my short life running from the Red Samurai as well? No dice."

  "That is unfortunate," he said sadly. "Truly unfortunate. If that's your final position ..

  "It is."

  "... Then your death is assured. Followed by the deaths of others—perhaps many others. However ..

  He let the thought hang, like a baited hook dangled in front of the nose of a fish. I hated myself for it, but I wanted to hear that "however."

  "However," Barnard continued slowly, "if you were to help me in this, you would be in a position to still the turmoil that all this has caused. You would save the lives of countless others. And, incidentally, you would find yourself under the protection of those who even the yakuza's soldiers would think twice before challenging. Once the situation has settled down, there would be no problem—no problem whatsoever—in ... extracting … you from the islands, and returning you to wherever on the mainland you may wish to go. With, I should point out, the gratitude of Yamatetsu Corporation, expressed both in monetary and other terms."

  Frag, I knew I was hooked, and I knew Barnard knew. It wasn't much of a choice really, was it? "Die now, or maybe get out of this with skin intact." Kind of a no-brainer, all in all, neh?

  I sighed resignedly. "Whom do you want me to contact?"

  "A gentleman by the name of Gordon Ho."

  I choked at that one. "Gordon Ho! King fragging Kamehameha the fragging Fifth? The fragging Ali'i! What the frag have you been slotting? Jesus!"

  Barnard just watched me calmly as I ran down. "That is who I mean."

  "Why don't you just ask me to go deliver a fragging pizza to Dunkelzahn, or something?"

  "I understand your reaction," the corporator said calmly, "but you, in turn, must understand the importance of this. It is necessary—vitally necessary—to reassure the Ali'i that there was no corporate involvement in the assassination of Ekei Tokudaiji. Which there was not."

  "Call him yourself, for frag's sake."

  "Impossible," Barnard shot back. His voice was totally calm and controlled, and at that moment I hated him for it.

  "Why impossible? Frag, Barnard, you're Yamatetsu, for frag's sake. How many commo satellites does Yamatetsu own? Send him a screened and encrypted message—"

  He cut me off again. "Impossible," he repeated. "For various reasons, actually. The first is that a face-to-face meeting will almost certainly be required to set his doubts at rest."

  "Then you go see him!"

  Barnard chuckled. "I wish I could
, actually. I had the chance to meet Gordon Ho on several occasions—he and my son went to university together, as a matter of fact—and I would enjoy the chance to talk to him again."

  I digested that one; I didn't even know Barnard had a son, couldn't picture him doing anything so normally human as popping kids. "Still, the political situation is such that a senior corporate executive can not be seen visiting the Ali 'i of the Kingdom of Hawai'i. How much do you understand about the political situation in the islands?"

  "I've had other things on my mind, if you hadn't noticed," I pointed out dryly.

  The suit chuckled again. "Quite." He paused. "You do know how Gordon Ho's father—Danforth Ho, King Kamehameha IV—ascended the throne, though?"

  I thought I knew where he was leading. "Deals with the megacorps, among other things."

  "Correct. There were many of Danforth Ho's advisors who counseled against making deals with the ... the corporate devil. They were outraged when Ho made the deals initially. They were even more outraged when he stood by those deals, after Secession.

  "Have you heard of Na Kama'aina?"

  "Of course. I'm not totally brain-dead."

  "I never thought you were," Barnard said, stroking for all he was worth. "Then you will understand that there is still a large and powerful Na Kama'aina faction within the government?"

  I nodded. That jibed with what I'd scanned from the sub-orbital's data system during the flight in.

  "The Ali'i must balance economic realities with popular perceptions," Barnard continued smoothly. "He must not be perceived to be too close to the corporate interests, while still maintaining the status quo. Can you imagine what the Na Kama'aina opposition would make of a private meeting—and it would have to be private—between King Kamehameha V and a senior representative of a megacorporation with extensive financial interest in the islands?"

  Okay, I could see that. I didn't like it—I ground my teeth, I disliked it so intensely—but I could see it. I tried one last counterbattery shot. "But he's the fragging king, isn't he? He can do what the frag he wants."

  "He is the king," Barnard agreed, "but of a constitutional monarchy, with an elected legislature."

  I had to cede him the point. Anyone who's been to school knows what happens to a constitutional monarchy when the electorate gets fed up with it. Just ask the Windsors, erstwhile Royal Family of the United Kingdom. Barnard had won one battle, but I wasn't about to pack it in on the whole war, "So send him a message," I tried again.

  He laughed. "Do you really think that anyone's electronic communications, even a king's, are immune from interception? There is a possibility—no, a certainty—that the Na Kama'aina faction of the government monitors and records all of the AH'Vs communications. How would a supposedly secret message from a megacorporate executive be any different from a private visit?

  "No, Mr. Montgomery, once again, I need the message to be delivered, face-to-face, via a deniable asset."

  What the frag was it about me? Did I have a slogan blazoned across my forehead—"Hi! I'm a deniable asset. Frag me over"—that only corporate suits could read? "If I did this—I'm not saying I will, but if—how the frag would I go about it?" I demanded. "Just stroll on up to the palace and say, 'Got a secret message for King Kam. Oh, and don't tell anyone.' Yeah, right. I need some kind of 'in'."

  "I can't give you one," Barnard replied at once. "For the reasons I already mentioned, plus others." He smiled, knowing he'd won. "Someone with your talents should have little difficulty arranging a private audience."

  Yeah, right. "You're telling me you can't do anything to help me."

  "Nothing you should depend on to the exclusion of other options," he corrected smoothly. "Through various other assets, I am sending word to the Ali'i that he might expect a visit from one Dirk Montgomery, and that he would find value in what you have to say." He shrugged—a little apologetically, I thought. "For obvious reasons, I can't make those messages too .. . noticeable, if you understand. They may pave your way, however."

  "So that's it? You want me to go see the fragging king, and tell him, 'Hey, Brah, Yamatetsu didn't cack the yak, cross my heart and hope to croak?' "

  "Stripped of the sarcasm ... yes."

  I shook my head. Better and better, oh boy. "I'll think about it."

  "Don't think too long," he warned me quietly. "There are various factions who wish to see you dead. The yakuza, of course, and the real killers of Tokudaiji "Who are ... ?"

  Barnard blinked. "ALOHA. I would have thought that was obvious. They would like to see you unable to testify that it was not a corporate-sanctioned assassination."

  I hadn't thought that one through all the way, but frag it, it made an ugly kind of sense.

  "Think fast," the corporator stressed again, "and act. There is no need to contact me again on this matter. Either I will hear of your success through other channels, or word will reach me of your unfortunate death."

  "You've got a nice way with words, anyone ever tell you that?" I ground my teeth again, so hard I expected enamel to flake off.

  "Do you have any questions, Mr. Montgomery?"

  I considered a smart-ass answer, but decided against it. "Just one," I said after a moment. "Off point, I suppose, but I'm curious. You said Sharon Young was doing some work for you in Cheyenne, and it was connected to this cluster-frag. How?"

  He smiled faintly. "I wondered if you would get around to asking that. The individual I asked Ms. Young to trace—Jonathan Bridge, if you recall—has connections with the islands. In fact, under the name 'Kane' "—he pronounced it CAH-nay—"he is one of the major human and metahuman leaders of ALOHA."

  My turn to blink in surprise. "Hold the phone," I said. " 'One of the major human and metahuman leaders'? What the frag does that mean?"

  "The true leader of ALOHA is actually a feathered serpent," he told me. "A vassal of the Great Dragon Ryumyo, if my intelligence is correct."

  "So the group that wants to give you grief is run by a fragging dragon?" I shook my head. "Remind me not to hang out in your backyard anymore, Barnard. I don't like your playmates."

  The suit chuckled once more. Then his face grew deadly serious, and something cold and nasty twisted in my gut. "There's one more thing I should tell you, Mr. Montgomery," he said quietly. "There is even more to this matter than you understand ... or to be honest, than I understand. It would seem that some . . . previous acquaintances of yours have some involvement."

  "What the frag does that mean?"

  "I take it this is not a secure line." He didn't phrase it as a question. "Then all I can tell you is that Adrian Skyhill would appear to have some interest in the outcome.

  "Good day, Mr. Montgomery." And the screen went blank.

  12

  Barnard couldn't have meant that.

  Could he? I sat on my doss's Torquemada bed and I stared at the wall.

  He couldn't have meant it .. .

  Why the frag did he say it, then? There was only one way I could possibly interpret his words, and, by frag, Barnard must have known that. Adrian Skyhill . . .

  Memories bubbled back up—the terror and pain and death and chaos under Fort Lewis four years ago. Fragments of The Dream. Oh, fragging Jesus.

  Insect spirits. What the frag else could he have meant? Dr. Adrian Skyhill—erstwhile managing director of Yamatetsu's Integrated Systems Products facility in Fort Lewis—had been a shaman. An Insect shaman. He, or someone like him, had summoned the Queen of the Wasp spirits. The same Queen that had killed Toshi and Hawk and Rodney and many others. The same Queen that had burned off my left arm. The same Queen that had run the .. . the hive, I suppose is the right word ... that had tried to assimilate my sister, Theresa. Oh fragging Christ on a crutch. How the frag were insect spirits involved in this?

  Fragging hell, didn't the bugs have other things to worry about at the moment? The pogroms. The "cleansing" of the Universal Brotherhood across North America. And—for Christ's sake—the fragging bugs taking over Chi
cago ...

  My sole encounter with insect spirits had left me maimed; I'd only survived because others had given their lives to destroy the Queen. With a supreme effort I bit back on the fear, forced it down. Barnard's words were something to remember, his warning something to take to heart ...

  But in the future. For the moment there weren't any insect spirits or Insect shamans around (were there?). I was still up to my nostrils in drek, but—at this precise moment—the putative involvement of insect spirits didn't make the drek any deeper. I fell back on the bed, shifted my sightless stare from wall to ceiling.

  So fragging Barnard wanted me to get in touch with the fragging Ali'i, did he? How in frag was I going to do that? For all the ego-stroking Barnard had given me, I had the nasty, twisty feeling that he had more confidence in my abilities than I did at the moment. I could hope that his estimate was more accurate than mine, but that didn't help my lousy self-esteem one iota.

  How was I going to contact King Kamehameha V . . . without getting geeked in the process? I needed resources. Maybe Kat and those other shadowrunners .. .

  That thought fired off all kinds of subtle warning bells in my gut. I paused and mentally worked it through. Just what was it that was bothering me so much? Something Barnard had said, partially, but there were other elements to it as well. I replayed the telecom conversation in my mind.

  It was Barnard's comments on ALOHA that were bothering me, I figured that one out at once. Why? He'd said one of the sub-bosses of ALOHA was Kane, aka Jonathan Bridge. The real head honcho was a feathered serpent, who might or might not be a vassal of the Great Dragon Ryumyo.

  "The bakeware."

  "The big worm." A pretty decent description of Ryumyo, neh! Which implied, if I took it at face value, that Kat and her little friends . . .