House of the Sun (37 page)
Which
site of power? Puowaina? Haleakala? Hona-whatever Bay? Or one of Christ-knew-how-many others?
And when were these shamans going to do the dirty deed? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next month? Or had they already started?
So what the frag was I supposed to do, huh? Use my "influence" to arrange for all the sites of power to be staked out, round the clock, forever and ever amen? Yeah, right.
I sat on the couch in room 1905, New Foster Tower, staring out the window. The sun had gown down maybe an hour before. A couple of the brightest stars—or maybe they were comsats—were visible against the black velveteen sky; the rest couldn't compete with the artificial fire of the city.
Kono and Lupo had taken Theresa and the Insect shaman away a couple of hours before. They didn't say where they were going, and I didn't ask. Theresa promised she'd be in touch, and that was good enough for the moment. On his way out the door, bug-boy had given me a strip of paper from a pocket 'puter's thermal printer—a local LTG number where I could contact him.
That left Louis Pohaku and Akaku'akanene to keep me company. Since I didn't particularly feel like company at the moment, I was relieved when they settled down to do their own thing. The bodyguard quietly field-stripped and reassembled his weapon, then seemed to tune out and go to sleep. The shaman just settled down into full lotus in a corner and stared blankly into space—maybe talking to geese or some damn thing.
It was maybe ninety minutes after sunset that Pohaku surged to his feet—no warning—fragging near scaring me to death. Silently he crossed to the window, staring out and down. City lights reflected in his eyes as he frowned out into the night.
"What?" I asked him.
"
Trouble," he said quietly.
I was on my feet and beside him in an instant, straining my eyes to see what was worrying him. Nothing. No fire-flowers blooming from Sand Island ... or anywhere else, for that matter. If I pressed my forehead right up against the transpex, I could look down to the right onto Kalakaua Avenue and watch the cars—mainly corp limos, probably—cruising along it, forming streams of lights. White on one side, red on the other. I blinked. Way down Kalakaua, to the west, there seemed to be a major knot of red taillights.
No, I realized suddenly, the knot of red
wasn't
the tail-lights of cars. The color was subtly wrong, as was the way it waxed and waned.
Fire
. Maybe a burning barricade, maybe the aftermath of a car bomb, I didn't know. Only now that I knew what to concentrate on, I could hear the distant, almost subliminal ululation of sirens. And something else—maybe the crackle of gunfire, I couldn't be certain. One thing I knew—there was trouble in paradise tonight.
Beside me Pohaku was shaking his head.
"Lolo,
" he muttered to himself ... then noticed my attention, and translated. "Stupid."
If I'd thought the bodyguard had reacted fast before to some cue I'd missed, I hadn't seen anything yet. A knock sounded, and before my brain had even fully registered the sound, Pohaku was flattened against the wall beside the door, SMG out and off safety.
Akaku'akanene was alert, too, back from her avian conversations. Pohaku shot her a quick nod, and the woman closed her beady eyes. After a moment she opened them and announced,
"Hiki
no
. "
Apparently that meant "okay" or "copacetic" or something similar, because I could see Pohaku relax. His gun was still at the ready, but his finger was on the trigger guard now, not on the trigger itself. He reached out to unlock the door, then stepped back well out of the way.
I was about to grouse "Who's fragging room is this anyway?" or some such drek—until I saw who my visitor was.
Visitors, to be precise, but only one of them counted. He flashed me a wry smile as his personal bodyguards shut and locked the door behind him.
"E
ku
'u
lani,
" I began . . .
Gordon Ho waved that off. "I told you, that's not appropriate for the moment." His smile took on a new edge. "Since we're both outcasts, why don't you call me Gordon?" I could see from the way his bodyguards stiffened that they didn't like it, but frag them if they couldn't take a joke. "I'm Dirk, then," I told him. I paused, "So, not to put too fine a point on it—"
"What the frag am I doing here?" he finished for me. He took off his jacket—an armored leather number, quite a change from his feathered regalia—tossed it to a sideboy, and slumped down on the couch. For the first time I noticed how drek-kicked he looked.
"I've got to be
somewhere!"
he pointed out, "and since I'd already assigned a significant percentage of the people I really trust to this room, I thought, 'why not?' " He sighed, rolling his head as though to relieve tension in his neck. "You wouldn't happen to have some Scotch, would you?"
I realized I hadn't checked for a minibar—which indicated just how distracted I was at the moment. Pohaku had scoped the place out, however, and opened a wooden cabinet
next to the trideo to reveal a well-stocked bar. "Make that
two," I told him. "Triples, while you're at it." Then I planted myself in an armchair across from Ho.
Pohaku assembled the drinks almost as quickly as he'd responded to trouble and handed them over to us—Ho first, of course. I sipped and let the peaty liquor work its magic on my tangled synapses. The erstwhile King Kamehameha V was doing the same thing, and I could almost see some of the tension melt away from his face. What the frag had he been up to before coming here? Where does a king in exile—by definition, one of the most recognizable of all people—go to avoid notice?
And what would happen to him if he
was
noticed? I suddenly wondered. "Protective custody?" Or a necktie party on the streetcorner? I guessed it depended on who noticed him first. No wonder he was looking a little ragged around the edges.
We held our peace, the two of us, for maybe five minutes and a hundred milliliters of single-malt scotch. Then Ho sighed and remarked, "Well, it's starting to get . . .
interesting
... out there."
I'd decided I wasn't going to be the first to talk biz, but now that he'd broached the subject, I leaned forward. "What the frag's happening out there?" Quickly, I filled him in on the fire—or whatever—we'd spotted from the window.
Ho nodded wearily. "Anticorp violence," he said quietly. "It's breaking out all over the city ... all over the island, if what I heard is true."
"How bad?"
"Disturbingly bad," he admitted. "It's not well organized—not yet—but in some ways that makes it even more difficult to counter."
I nodded agreement. If civil disobedience, which was what we were talking about here, was organized, you could often quell it by snagging the leaders. (Or at least so they taught us at the Lone Star Academy.) But if it was spontaneous mob action? Mobs are creatures with a few hundred legs and no brain (again, a quote from my Academy days), so there's no clean and easy way of shutting them down. "So what's happening?" I pressed.
Ho shrugged. "What
isn't
happening?" he said dispiritedly. "Cars turned over and torched—that's probably what you saw, by the way. Rocks through windows. Molotov cocktails, sometimes. A couple of sniping incidents."
That shocked me. "Sniping? Already?"
"What about casualties?"
He shrugged again. "I'm not privy to detailed police reports anymore," he pointed out dryly, "but I'd assume they're probably still light."
"That'll change."
"Yes," he agreed. He was silent for a moment, then went on quietly, "I
did
hear about one incident. A Mitsuhama executive's limousine was blocked by a mob. No overt violence, just threats ... but her bodyguards overreacted and opened fire." I cringed as he continued. "More than thirty of the rioters dead .. . plus the bodyguards and the executive herself, of course, when the mob rampaged. I understand they turned the car over, built a bonfire around it, and roasted her alive."
It's
getting
out
of
control
. The thought chilled me like an arctic wind on the nape of my neck. "Somebody's behind it," I pointed out. "Somebody's stirring up the mob."
"Of course," Ho said. (He didn't voice the accompanying,
"you
idiot
. " but his expression conveyed it adequately.)
"Na
Kama'aina,
right?"
"Initially, yes," Ho corrected. "But they've lost control of the situation, too." He smiled grimly. "It seems that their dogs aren't on quite as short a leash as they'd believed."
Realization dawned. "ALOHA," I breathed.
"Of course.
Na
Kama'aina
never really believed in all of that fiery 'corporations out' rhetoric. They were too realistic for that. They only wanted to use it—and ALOHA itself—as a lever, to oust me from the throne." He smiled again, with bitter humor. "Well, they've achieved
that
part of their plan.
"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?"
