House of the Sun

by Nigel Findley

  "But now ALOHA has scented blood. Na Kama'aina can't leash them in anymore." He shook his head and frowned. "I wonder what Ryumyo's agenda is in all of this? Does he know what ALOHA's doing, or has he lost control, too?"

  I raised my hands, palms out. "Hey, don't ask me," I protested.

  We both fell silent again, sinking back into our private thoughts. The ex-Ali'i's scan of the situation seemed all too plausible, I realized. Except ...

  "You said Na Kama'aina never bought the 'corps out' drek?" I asked suddenly.

  "Of course not," Ho said, surprised. "They're realists, after all. Politicians, and ambitious, but still realists."

  "But ..." I felt like I was wandering into the mental equivalent of a mangrove swamp.

  "Think about it, Dirk," the ex-Ali'i urged. "What happens if the corporations are forced out?"

  "They'll fight back. Sanford Dole all over again."

  "Precisely. But, just for the sake of argument, what would happen if the corporations could be ousted?"

  I hesitated. "Polynesia for Polynesians, I suppose," I said slowly.

  "It won't happen," Ho countered firmly. "Hawaii'i was self-sufficient once . . . back when the population of the entire island chain was less than half a million. There's six times that in Greater Honolulu alone. There's no way the nation can be self-sufficient now. If the corporations are pushed out, the islands starve."

  I nodded. That's what Scott had told me, what seemed so long ago now. "Na Kama'aina knows this?" I suggested. "Of course they do. As I say, they're realists."

  Another idea was niggling away in the back of my brain. I closed my eyes and let another healthy mouthful of Scotch encourage it to come out where I could examine it.

  "If the corps were booted out," I went on tentatively, voicing the thoughts as they came to me, "there'd be a power vacuum, wouldn't there? The islands are strategically valuable—the U. S. thought so, for frag's sake. So somebody's going to move in. Japan, maybe?"

  Ho was smiling. "It took my staff considerably more time to figure that out than it did you," he said quietly. "Yes, of course. Corporations out, Nihonese in. That's why I said 'Polynesia for Polynesians' will never happen. Neither the megacorporations nor the Japanese would allow it."

  "Maybe that's Ryumyo's angle, then. Maybe he wants Hawai'i for Japan."

  "That occurred to me, too," Ho said. "Ryumyo seems to live in Japan, however he and the Nihonese government have never been on particularly amicable terms."

  "There is that," I admitted. And with that we both sank back into our private contemplations. It was funny in a way, I had to admit. Even with the drek dropping into the pot around me, it was reassuring—calming, in a way—to have someone with me who was getting ragged over by it all as royally (no pun intended) as I was. What was the old saying: "Misery loves company"? We sipped our Scotch and we stared at the carpet and we thought our bleak thoughts.

  The telecom bleeped, jolting me out of my reverie. Pohaku was standing nearby, and he shot me a questioning look. At the moment I simply didn't feel like talking to anyone new ... or, what I particularly feared, hearing any more bad news. For a second or two I debated just letting it ring. Bad idea, probably. Not that many people had this number (I hoped), so it was probably important. I sighed. "I'll get it," I told Pohaku, levering myself out of the upholstery and going over to the telecom.

  I disabled the video pickup and accepted the call. "Yeah?" The screen stayed blank—the caller had selected voice-only, too—but I recognized the voice immediately. "Mr. Montgomery?"

  Deeper sigh. I keyed on my pickup. "It's me," I told Barnard.

  The corporator's face filled the screen. Beside me, I felt Pohaku stiffen. Apparently, the bodyguard recognized Barnard as a corporate presence, and hence a potential threat ... or maybe he was just professionally paranoid. "Do you have any news for me?" the suit asked. "Any developments I should know about?"

  "Got an hour or two?" I asked dryly. "First thing, the throne's been usurped. Ho's out on his hoop."

  "Indeed? I had heard that. Do you have confirmation?"

  I smirked at that. "All the confirmation I need," I told him.

  "The Ali'i ... is he safe?"

  "As safe as can be expected, I guess."

  "And you have confirmation of that?" Barnard pressed. "All the confirmation I need," I repeated. "He's sitting right here, swilling Scotch."

  Up went the corporator's eyebrows. "Honto? Let me speak to him."

  You two should have been talking to each other all along is what I didn't say. I just beckoned Ho over and gave him my chair. I stepped aside, out of the telecom's axis of view, but made sure I stayed close enough to hear what was going down.

  "Aloha, Gordon," I heard Barnard say. "Pe-hia 'oe?"

  "Aloha. Pona'ana'a," the ex-Ali'i responded quietly. "Et Gilles? Comment ga va?"

  "Tres bien, a tout prendre," the corporator replied. "He's Commercial Services manager at Yamatetsu-U. K., making his own way up the ladder." Barnard paused. "He still speaks of his time at university with you."

  Gordon Ho smiled—a little sadly, I thought. "There's something very appealing about a time when the biggest thing you have to worry about is a term paper or whether you can smuggle your girlfriend into your residence." While those two droned on with more of that "old-home week" drek, I went back to the couch and sat down again to concentrate on my Scotch. I could still hear snippets of the conversation, but couldn't make much sense of it with Ho and Barnard apparently flipping between English, French, Hawai'ian, and Japanese as the mood took them. After a while I stopped even trying.

  After maybe five minutes of multilingual chitchat, Ho turned away from the screen. "Dirk," he said, beckoning me over. I clambered to my feet and joined the ex-Ali'i before the telecom, this time bringing my drink with me in case I needed instant fortification.

  "Uh-huh?" I said to Barnard.

  "When we spoke before," the corporator said, "you implied that someone by the name of Harlech might have revealed your corporate connection and your involvement with Gordon."

  "Quentin Harlech," I said.

  Barnard frowned. "I have yet to find any information on an individual by that name. Do you know anything about him that might help?"

  I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "Nothing," I replied. "I just saw him the once."

  Barnard nodded. "Another possible angle," he mused after a moment's thought. "Are you aware of anyone who might have background on him?"

  Well, now that he put it that way ... "Maybe you can get some scan from Chantal Monot," I suggested. Barnard shook his head, so I elaborated. "Telestrian Industries Corporation? Prez of South Pacific Operations?"

  I saw the recognition dawn in his eyes. "Monot, yes." Then his frown deepened. "And how do you happen to know Mademoiselle Monot, Mr. Montgomery?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

  Okay, well, I guess maybe I should have told him before now. Quickly, I recapped my experience with TIC, starting with the narcodart in the chest and finishing with my "transfer" to New Foster Tower. "Monot recognized Harlech's name," I concluded. "At least, I think she did."

  Barnard sighed. "Telestrian Industries Corporation," he said quietly, a complex expression on his face.

  "Why don't you ask Monot about this Harlech slot if you think it's so important?" I suggested.

  The corporator chuckled softly at that. "I rather doubt she'd tell me."

  "Why?" I wanted to know. "You corps are thick as thieves, aren't you?"

  Barnard looked at me as he would a child too stupid to get with the toilet-training program. "Megacorporations rarely speak with one voice, Mr. Montgomery," he said coldly, unconsciously echoing Chantal Monot's comment on another topic. "We cooperate in some areas, it's true. But don't forget that, primarily, we're in competition. Do you really think that one megacorporation would fail to keep confidential something that could prove to be a competitive advantage?"

  I nodded, a little chastened. Point taken.

/>   "It is interesting, though," Barnard continued thoughtfully after a moment. "Telestrian's representatives to the Corporate Court was initially in accord with one of the major factions that have formed around the Hawai'i issue. Now Telestrian Industries Corporation has withdrawn all involvement ... on either side of the issue. I wonder if there's some connection?"

  "Hold the phone," I began.

  But Gordon Ho got there before me. " 'Factions'?" he asked sharply. "What 'issue'?"

  Barnard smiled mirthlessly. "What issue do you think, Gordon? How best to deal with the Hawai'ian provocation, of course. There've been attacks on megacorporate assets—personnel and materiel. An outrage like that can't go unanswered, you understand that. The Corporate Court is more or less split on what the response should be."

  "What are the choices?" the ex-Ali'i asked.

  "Again, what do you think? Diplomatic pressure on one hand—sanctions, embargoes, and such. More ... direct ... action on the other."

  "Military?"

  "The supporters of direct action are split on that question," Barnard allowed. "Some believe this nonsense with ALOHA has gone on long enough and should be settled once and for all. Others prefer 'executive action' against members of the government."

  I glanced over at Ho and saw he'd gone pale. No wonder.

  I'd heard the euphemism "executive action" before. It generally meant "assassination."

  "And where do you stand, Jacques?" the young ex-king asked softly. "Where does Yamatetsu stand?"

  "In the middle ground, where else?" Barnard said with a shrug. "A very lonely middle ground, as it turns out. A 'wait-and-see' attitude isn't particularly popular with the Court at the moment."

  "What about Donald?" Ho asked suddenly.

  "Your great-uncle is finding it especially uncomfortable," Barnard told him. "Zurich-Orbital doesn't give him much chance to avoid contact with the others."

  I blinked at that. So Gordon had some relative up on Zurich-Orbital? I filed that little gem away for future consideration ... assuming there was a future.

  "How is the Court leaning?" Ho queried.

  Barnard's smile faded. "The direct action proponents seem to be ascendant," he said quietly. "There will be a ... a message sent. A demonstration." On the screen the corporator checked his watch. "At midnight, local Honolulu time. If that fails to bring the government to heel . . ." He shrugged eloquently.

  "A demonstration," I echoed. The word had a frightening sound to it, a bitter taste. "What kind of demonstration, Barnard?"

  "Thor," he said quietly.

  22

  We stood shoulder to shoulder, the ex-Ali'i and I, our noses millimeters from room 1905's picture window. None of the respectable media had said word one about the Corporate Court's scheduled demonstration, but the word had certainly gotten out nonetheless. Part of that was due to the fact that a media lockdown simply isn't possible when parties with a vested interest in getting the word out—in this case, the corporations—can beam their message directly down from the high ground of low Earth orbit. Ground-based pirate stations had done their part, too, gleefully reporting on the Hawaiian government's attempts to muzzle the commercial media outlets. Back in the Dark Ages—the nineteen-eighties and nineteen-nineties, for example—it might have been possible to keep this kind of genie in the bottle. These days? No fragging way, hoa, as the government was finding out.

  I knew the word had gotten out thanks to reports that filtered in to the Ali'i from his few trusted assets still on the streets. Even without that source of data, though, I'd have guessed that people were getting the message. Normally Kalakaua Avenue, stretches of which I could see from my window, was two ribbons of slowly moving car lights until two or three in the moming. Tonight, at a couple of minutes to midnight, W'aikiki's main drag was next to deserted. Idly, I wondered where everyone was. Holing up, terrified that the sky was going to fall on their heads? Or doing what Gordon Ho and I were doing, finding a good vantage point from which to watch the show.

  "Twenty-three fifty-eight," Pohaku announced quietly from behind us. As if driven by the same mental impulse, both Ho and I took one big step back from the transpex of the window.

  It was a perfect night for it. Since sunset dark clouds had been piling up along the southeast horizon. Now they hung heavy over the ocean, black on black, flickering with lightning bolts, a dozen klicks offshore. An impressive background for what would probably be a bloody impressive show. Directly over Honolulu and Mamala Bay, the sky was clear. A couple of stars burned against the blackness.

  At a signal from Ho one of the bodyguards killed all the lights in the apartment. Outside, along Kalakaua Avenue, other people had gotten the same idea. All along the shoreline, lights were going out. I blinked a couple of times, to help my eyes night-adapt faster.

  "What's the reaction going to be?" Ho asked quietly. His voice was so soft, I wasn't sure if he even knew he'd spoken.

  The question was an important one in both our minds, of course. The megacorporations' little demonstration was like a cop's warning shot. As I'd been taught at the Lone Star Academy, a warning shot's always going to provoke a reaction. Sometimes it's the one you want—abject surrender, when the perp you're chasing realizes you could have put a round into his ten-ring. Sometimes it's the exact opposite—a kind of "Oh yeah? Well, frag youl" response that turns into a blazing firefight. I couldn't shake the worry that the high muckamucks of the Corporate Court hadn't given much thought to the second possibility.

  "Thirty seconds," Pohaku announced. I felt movement behind me as the bodyguards pressed as close as they dared to their ex-sovereign's august presence, staking out their own view-spots. Mentally, I counted down.

  T-minus three, two, one, zero . . . Nothing. Plus one, plus two, plus three ...

  I'd reached T-plus five when Gordon Ho gasped softly beside me and pointed toward the sky. A new star burned in the heavens, harsh and brilliant. It flickered, it moved. For an instant it had dimension, more than a perfect geometric point ...

  And then the Thor shots rained down, perfectly parallel bars of light, lancing down from the zenith to the black ocean a couple of klicks offshore. They were impossible to count, they were there and gone so fast, an impression of unbelievable speed. Like a burst of tracer fire from God's own machine gun, but faster than any tracer bullet I'd ever seen ... and immensely larger. There was a flash of light where they hit, a single strobe pulse—like a secondary explosion, but without the fireball. I think that was the most chilling part of the whole demonstration. There'd been nothing under those descending bars of light, nothing but water. Still, the impact from the Thor projectiles had been enough to strike sparks off the ocean itself.

  It was over in less than a second. I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My God, I thought dully, how fast did those things come down? I ran a quick mental calculation. Assume they were traveling at orbital velocity when they hit the atmosphere. What would that be? Something like 35,000 kilometers per hour—in other words, 10 klicks per second or thereabouts, maybe 10 times the speed of a rifle bullet. And Thor projectiles were a lot bigger than rifle bullets, of course. I'd heard them described as "smart crowbars." Assume each one massed a nominal one kilo. How much kinetic energy was contained in one kilo of mass traveling at 10,000 meters per second? If I remembered my high-school physics—and hadn't slipped a decimal place somewhere—that would be something like 100,000,000 joules of energy: one hundred megajoules. Per crowbar. And how many crowbars had been in the burst we'd just seen?

  I felt cold. No wonder the Pacific fleet had turned back when the megacorps had fired a warning shot like that across their bows back in 2017.

  I heard a sound behind me and turned in surprise. Pohaku was glaring out the window, lips drawn back from his teeth in a rictus of rage . .. and he was growling. I shrugged. I suppose if this had been my country, I'd have been pretty torqued off about the whole thing, too.

  "Lights, please," Gordon Ho said softly. As a body
guard flicked the lights back on, the ex-Ali'i turned away from the window and slumped down in a chair. He picked up a whiskey glass from the table beside him—mine, as a matter of fact, but I wasn't going to give him grief about it, not now—and polished off the contents in one swallow.

  "What's the reaction going to be?" he asked again, and this time I knew the question was directed at me.

  I shrugged. "You know your people better than I do," I pointed out.

  He smiled at that. "I thought I did," he amended quietly. He paused, then went on, "It depends on how well ALOHA's managed to stir them up ... and how crazy ALOHA is, when you get right down to it.

  "It's possible to pull it back," he continued with a sigh. "Na Kama'aina doesn't want war with the corps. If the government can keep ALOHA under control, if it can prevent any more provocations, it should be possible to get things back under control."

  I nodded. It made sense, what Ho said, but it sounded too much like Barnard's comment a day or two before that "perhaps saner heads would prevail," or whatever. They obviously hadn't prevailed yet. Was that going to change?

  I turned back to the window. Now that the demonstration was over, there were cars on the streets again. Not as many as usual, but at least Waikiki didn't look like a ghost town anymore. From somewhere to the west—Sand Island? I wondered idly—a small constellation of lights was approaching, burning bright against the darkness of the sky. Choppers—two or three of them. Corp shuttles, maybe, coming downtown to pick up VIP vacationers and take them to the airport for a suborbital off-island? I didn't know, and I didn't really care at the moment. I started to turn away.

  I didn't see it happen straight on, just in my peripheral vision. Without warning something flashed upward from somewhere to my left, almost like a Thor shot in reverse. The lance of fiery light transfixed one of the helicopters, blotting it from the sky in a dirty orange-black puffball. The surviving choppers broke formation, diving for the deck, killing their anticollision lights as they did so. In a second or two they were lost to sight.