House of the Sun (22 page)
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 . . .
. . . Were ALOHA. And suddenly a bunch of other puzzling little elements fell into place. Zack the ork's reaction at hearing about Scott's death—his interpretation of death by belly-bomb as "doing it up right." That certainly fit in with the idea of ideologically driven terrorists, didn't it? Add to that the fact—which I'd almost forgotten—that Kat and the rest, who claimed they were helping me merely because I was a friend of Te Purewa, didn't seem to
know
much about Te Purewa at all. They called him "Marky," not the new Polynesian name he'd taken for himself. If they were really his close chummers, as they'd implied, wouldn't they respect his rather earnest wishes and call him Te Purewa (and maybe stick their tongues out at him from time to time)?
You're
reaching,
Montgomery,
I told myself firmly,
really
reaching
. There wasn't one thing I could point to and say "proof." Intriguing hints, maybe. Totally circumstantial evidence—well, not even that. Who the frag knew—maybe
Te Purewa only did his more-Maori-then-the-Maoris trip with new acquaintances, and didn't mind close chummers calling him the familiar Marky. And even if the phrase Beta had used
was
"the big worm"—and not "the bakeware"—was I justified in making the logical leap and implicating Ryumyo? Got me, chummer.
Still, it
was
a possibility, and I had to take it into consideration. No more contact with Kat and crew, then. And, a sudden chilling thought, I had to get the frag out of this doss and find somewhere else to flop. Kat had told Zack to "get my bike ready." What if that preparation had included the addition of a homing beacon of some kind? So frag it, I had to ditch this doss, and I had to ditch the Suzuki while I was at it. With a general curse at corporations, yaks, terrorists, kings, and the whole fragging Kingdom of Hawai'i, I forced myself to my feet and headed for the door.
Thanks be to chummer Quincy,
again
. Another one of the wizzer little features with which he'd juiced my pocket 'puter was the software that allowed me to make the next best thing to certified credsticks at a moment's notice. Slip a real credstick—the kind that has personal identification datawork and all that drek, on it—into one slot; slide a credstick "blank" into the other. The software smoothly transfers cred from the ident stick to the blank. (Okay, hold the phone, I know
any
'puter can do that. The feature that sets Quincy's code apart from the usual 'puter facility is that it erases all "audit trails" in the process. Normally, when you transfer cred from stick to stick, both "donor" and "recipient" sticks archive details of the transaction. Anyone with the right toys—cops, mainly—can backtrack this kind of transfer without breaking any skull-sweat. With Quincy's toys, both sticks
think
they're archiving the appropriate data ... but neither is. Try to trace the audit trail later, and you'll come up empty. And
no,
the software
isn't
good enough to slam a credit balance onto a blank stick
without
taking that sum from a legitimate stick. Quincy's a technomancer, not a miracle worker.)
So that's what I did, sheltering like a squatter in the entry alcove of a boarded-up building. I transferred a couple of hundred nuyen from "Brian Tozer's" credstick to a virgin blank. Reassured that I wouldn't be leaving a great, glowing electronic trail that yaks and ALOHAs and other assorted reprobates could follow, I got to work on finding a new squat.
First order of biz was to get out of Ewa. I'd have loved to have taken the little Suzuki Custom—I'd actually come to like it—but I couldn't be totally certain I'd cleared it of any homing beacons. So I hopped The Bus—that's what it had emblazoned on the side in bright yellow, The Bus, in case anyone mistook it for, say, The Art Gallery, or something—and cruised north into Waipahu. Apparently
,
this used to be another distinct city, like Ewa, recently absorbed into the sprawling mass that was Honolulu.
If I hadn't been paying attention to the street signs and pestered The Bus driver with idiotic questions, it would have felt like I'd never left Ewa. Waipahu felt much the same, kind of like Renton on a good-air day, and that made me feel at home.
I checked into a hotel called the Ilima Joy. The sign out front advertised rates by the day, week, or month, but judging by the scantily clad individuals who amorously accosted me on the way in, the place could probably have done good trade charging by the hour. I got myself a "convenience suite"—in other words, with its own drekker, telecom, and hot plate—and slotted my "blind" stick to pay a week in advance (a bargain at 350 nuyen). In most parts of the world, it's a legal requirement that hotel guests provide some kind of ident. I was all ready with one of my secondary aliases—not good enough to get a credstick or to travel, but
certainly
good enough to register at the Ilima Joy. I needn't have bothered. The bored-looking clerk just handed me a stylus and told me to sign in on the touchscreen of the battered registration computer. I overcame the urge to sign in as "I.M.N. Alias" or something similar, but made sure my signature was absolutely illegible, even after computer enhancement. Taking the grimy key-card the clerk handed me, I walked up the two flights of stairs and found room 301.
[f this was a convenience suite, I wondered at once, whose convenience was it supposed to enhance? Not mine, chummer, that's for damn sure. The drekker was private—probably because nobody else would want one that didn't work—and the door to its alcove was distinctly missing. The hot plate apparently
did
work, judging by the scorch marks on the wall and the countertop; I couldn't imagine myself trying it out. And the telecom was also functional, if limited to outgoing calls only (no doubt monitored, and charged for, at the front desk). Still, it was all I really needed at the moment.
The first order of business was to check out the legitimate approaches to the
Ali'i
. . .
No, the
first
order of business was to get some sleep. Being hunted takes it out of you, chummer, trust me on that one. It wasn't so much my body that was tired as my mind, my emotions. Sleep is a weapon—somebody (Argent, maybe?) had told me that once—and I figured it was time to bring that weapon to bear.
* * *
The sun was just rising over the skyrakers of downtown Honolulu—or I guessed it was, at least; the view from my convenience suite at the Ilima Joy didn't give me much of a view, apart from a noisome alley and the back of another decrepit rooming house.
Now
it was time to check out the legitimate approaches to the
Ali'i
... if nothing else, to eliminate them. I had it in the back of my mind that some monarchies—I don't know where I'd picked this up—have always allowed the populace to contact their ruler directly—to "cry Harold," or whatever the frag the term was. Who knew, maybe King Kamehameha had something similar in place. I fired up the telecom and started browsing through the online directory.
It didn't take me long to track down the number of the information desk at the Iolani Palace. I placed the call, and then had to sit through a recorded message telling me about the availability of tours and other such useless drek. Only when that chip had played out did I have the option of speaking to a flesh-and-blood receptionist.
Well, what do you know—there
was
a simple procedure through which citizens of the Kingdom of Hawai'i could arrange for an audience with the
Ali
'i
. So the plastic-faced receptionist told me, at least, through his fashion-model smile. All that was necessary was for me to give my name and SIN and make an appointment. There even happened to be a slot open in the king's schedule ... in early spring of '57. If I wanted to take it, all I'd have to do was to arrange for the requisite security and background check ... I hung up, of course.
What next? For almost an hour I wracked my brain. Frag, if this had been Seattle, I was pretty sure I'd be able to arrange a meeting with good old Governor Schultz. But that would have required a whole bunch of shadowy contacts and resources I just didn't have here in the islands. Back to the directory again, and this time I dredged up a number for the Executive Offices at the Iolani Palace. Again, I placed a call.
With much the same result. A polite functionary informing me that of
course
I could arrange for a message to be passed to the
Ali'i
. All I had to do was give my name, SIN, arrange for the requisite background check ... I hung up, of course.
I was starting to come up dry at the old mental well. On a wild-assed hunch, I even checked the directory for listings under the name "Ho." When the first of seven screens filled with names and LTG numbers, I fragging near despaired. I hung up, of course.
I needed a break, I needed something to jump-start my synapses. If I were really hard-hooped about security, I'd never leave the damn room, but that just wasn't going to work. I needed food, and—more important—I needed coffee. (That was
one
major thing I'd decided I liked about the islands, incidentally. Nobody seemed to have heard of soykaf; even coffee shops served the
real
thing. Bliss beyond measure.) So I strolled downstairs and into the ratty coffee shop next door to the Ilima Joy.
And almost had a coronary arrest on the spot as I saw a face I recognized. Over in the back corner, sitting at a table, idly watching the comings and goings of the patrons, lingering over a mug of coffee. It was the same little bird-boned woman I'd spotted at the Cheeseburger in Paradise. Her eyes lit on mine as I walked in, and I almost had a childish accident. It took me a moment to calm myself down.
Coincidence,
for
frag's
sake,
I told myself firmly. It
had
to be coincidence. This was a free fragging country, wasn't it? Little bird-boned women could take coffee wherever the frag they liked. Sure, she seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to my face, but that was just my paranoia playing up. "The guilty flee where none pursueth," and all that drek. Frag it, she'd never so much as seen my face before, had she? She hadn't been there when I'd walked into the Cheeseburger in Paradise yesterday, and the only time I'd laid eyes on her was via the security camera system. Even so, it took me a lot more effort than it probably should have to turn my back on her and jander over to the counter.
I didn't stay there long—not just because of the birdboned woman, though her presence certainly didn't help any. I drank several cups of fine coffee, scarfed down a sandwich billed as
ono
—some kind of fish, apparently, even though it could well have been Styrofoam packing material, judging by the dry texture—then I left. On the way out through the lobby and up the stairs, I used what tradecraft I could to pick out anyone tailing me. Nobody, specifically not Mrs. Bird-Bone. Thank the spirits for small favors. I returned to my room and locked the door.
If I'd been hoping my sojourn in the coffee shop would jar something loose from my brain, I was sorely disappointed. I sat back down at the telecom—trying to convince my body and brain that it was time to get back to work—but then I just stared at it for a good five minutes. To meet a king ... how do you go about it? And, more to the point, how do you do it
fast!
The telecom beeped, and I jumped so hard I almost sent the chair over backward. I glared at the screen. Yes, the icon told me it was an incoming call . . . despite the placard on the wall over the unit saying no incoming calls. I blinked at it.
And then I brought the telecom online to receive the call. What else could I do?
It wasn't Barnard, as I'd half expected. It wasn't Kat or Moko or an urbane-looking Japanese assassin, as I'd half feared. No, it was a handsome Polynesian man about my own age. Strong-featured, he was, with the kind of nose you could classify as "noble," and eyes as dark and hard as flint. His black hair was worn long, shoulder-length in the back, a little shorter on the sides, and was perfectly groomed. The framing of the image was such that I couldn't see his clothing, but beneath his chin there was something that could maybe be a corp-style split collar. He smiled at me, showing perfect teeth. "Mr. Montgomery," he said with a slight accent that sounded faintly British, "please don't hang up. I understand you need to talk to me."
"And who the hell are you?" I demanded, though I had a nasty, nagging feeling I already knew.
"My name is Gordon Ho," the man said calmly. "You may also know me as King Kamehameha V."
King Kamehameha. Frag me blind.
"Your Majesty," I said slowly—was that the correct form of address?—while I tried to get my racing, panicky thoughts in order. Then I blurted out the question that was in the forefront of my mind—probably not the most politic thing to say to a fragging king, but there you go. "How the frag did you get this number?"
