House of the Sun

11

For the next six hours I sat in a corner well out of the way and watched the shadow team-if they had a name, they (predictably) hadn't told me-go about their biz. Poki, the elf decker, spent all that time hunched over his computers, singing tunelessly along to some three-year-old shag rock fed directly into one of his secondary datajacks. The others… well, they did "shadowrunner stuff." The ork I'd met outside the drekker-his name was Zack, I'd learned-was the team's equivalent of a gunnery sergeant, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy his job of stripping down and cleaning some of the lethal-looking weapons in the team's arsenal. A Chinese dwarf-I never caught her name-helped him from time to time, occasionally going over to Poki and giving him a deep shoulder massage as he worked. Moko slept most of the time away, sprawled in a net hammock hung between too support pillars. Kat and another female ork-Beta, Kat called her-had networked a couple of pocket 'puters together and seemed to be doing administrative datawork. (I'd never really thought about it, but I guess even shadow teams can't avoid that joyless task.)

Of the seven people in the sprawling ops room, only I had nothing to do, assuming that Moko's current assignment was catching up on his zees. I've never handled down-time all that well, particularly when I've basically put my life in the hands of people I don't really know. The wait should have given me time to think things through, to come to some significant conclusions, but my brain just wasn't up to incisive analytical thinking at the moment. I couldn't stop my mind from churning; I couldn't stop my thoughts from running around and around in the same, well-worn track. I wished I could sleep, but I knew that wasn't in the cards.

About four hours in a receiver in the team's commo suite chirruped. Beta hurried over and slipped a hushphone head-set on. I could see her lips move as she subvocalized, but I couldn't hear squat of either incoming or outgoing communication. After a minute or two she set the headset down and came over to Kat. Beta glanced in my direction before she spoke, but I'd already made sure I was staring blankly into space, quite obviously paying no attention to the proceedings. I quieted my breathing, trying to hear everything I could and momentarily wished for cyberears and enhanced peripheral vision.

"It's him," I head Beta say.

"Neheka?"

Beta shook her head. "The big'worm," she corrected. (Or that's what I thought she said, at least. It could just as well have been "the bookworm" or "the big word," or even "the bakeware," really…) Whatever it was Beta had said, it was enough to break Kat away from her datawork and send her hurrying over to the hushphone. That piece of hardware did its usual fine job of work, and I couldn't make out a single syllable of the conversation, which lasted more than five minutes.

When Kat was done and had terminated the circuit, I watched her expression and body language out the corner of my eye as she walked back to the briefing table and the networked 'puters. Nothing meaningful; maybe Hawai'ians have their own body language as well.

It was something like two hours after the conversation with "the bakeware" that Poki let out a creditable rebel yell. I was on my feet in an instant and hurrying over to him. Kat got there before me, though-chipped? I wondered-and it was to her that the elf decker announced, "Got it."

"Yeah?"

Poki smiled nastily at my skepticism and told me, "Hey, slot, seventy-bit's old news. Where you been anyway?"

I shook my head, isn't there anything that doesn't change so fragging fast you can't keep up? The elf had sliced a corporate code in less than a fragging quarter of the time I'd expected. Whatever is the world coming to, etcetera etcetera drekcetera. I held out my hand for the chip, but the decker just pointed to a high-res data display.

I shot a meaningful look at Kat, and she picked up on it right away. "Got a couple of ticks to check my 'puter's memory, Poki?" she asked. 'Think I might have picked up a virus."

The decker looked absolutely scandalized for a moment, and he opened his mouth to bag about it. But then he saw the hard edge in Kat's eyes, swallowed his kvetching, and nodded. (I'd already scanned that Kat had the juice in this outfit, but it was nice to get a little confirmation.)

"Yah, okay," he said, though his voice told me and everyone else that it definitely was not okay. He stood up, unjacked, and followed Kat to the briefing table… but not before giving me a solid dose of stink-eye. I shot him my best "Hey, I'm just a harmless idiot who probably won't reformat all your storage" smile, and sat down in the chair he'd just vacated.

It took me a few moments to make sense of the 'puter's user interface. (Sure, modern systems are supposed to follow the same paradigm, but just because you can drive a Volkswagen Elektro doesn't mean you're immediately competent behind the wheel of a 480-kilometer-an-hour Formula Unlimited racing machine, right?) When I thought I had everything under control, the first thing I did was scope out how many copies of the chip's contents Poki had in memory or in long-term storage. As far as I could tell, there was only the one: a single copy of the file in volatile memory displaying on the screen. Unfortunately, the key phrase was "as far as I could tell." If a nova-hot decker wanted to hide a backup copy from an amateur code-jockey like me, he'd sure as frag be able to do it. Once I'd done what I could in the way of security, I actually read through the message on the display.

Apparently, Barnard had never learned how to write concise letters. (But then, of course, by-the-bit charges for message traffic don't mean much to a corporate suit.) The message from Jacques Barnard to the late Ekei Tokudaiji filled three screens. I read it over twice, word for word, then scanned again for overall content.

For all the meaningful content I pulled out of the text, Barnard could as well have kept it down to two or three lines. If I'd been asked to give a high-school-style precis of the letter, it would have come out something like, "Keep on doing whatever it is you've been doing with regard to the subject under discussion, and be aware that some other, unidentified people might take steps to stop you from doing so. Have a nice day."

Sigh. I should have expected it, I suppose. There are more ways to conceal meaning than by using 70-bit public-key encryption. Veiled language, cryptic references that mean something to no one but the two principals, "closed" allusions to things like "our communication of 12/18/55" and "the matter that so concerns our mutual friend"…

In addition to my simple precis, I could conclude one thing from the message with a fair bit of certainty. Namely: Tokudaiji and Barnard weren't strangers, and their interests had definitely aligned several times in the past. That's all I knew for sure after reading the message.

I could make a couple of guesses, of course. First, considering what Te Purewa-"Marky"' to these folks-had told me, it seemed reasonably logical that "whatever it is you've been doing" was calming the populace down when Na Kama'aina and ALOHA tried to stir them up. And second…

Second… I couldn't be at all sure about this, but I couldn't shake the feeling, gut-deep and so very disturbing, that this wasn't a fake message whipped up just to set the mind of a soon-to-be-dead courier/Trojan horse at ease. If someone had asked me to bet on the instigator of Tokudaiji's death, not so long ago I'd have put a whack of cred on one Jacques Barnard. Now? No bet, chummer. Sure, I've been known to be wrong, but deep down where instinct sends you messages, I just didn't buy it anymore.

So, what the flying frag was going on?

I checked that the chip I'd given Poki was still in the 'puter's chipslot, then downloaded a copy of the plaintext message to it. Once I was sure it was safely ensconced on the optical chip, I deleted the copy from memory. Then I removed the chip using the same carrier and slipped it into my pocket.

Kat and Poki were watching me as I walked back to the briefing table. "Thanks," I said with a nod at the decker. Then I focused my attention on Kat. "I need to go back to my doss in Chinatown." I'd misstated the location of my flop, of course, and I watched her eyes closely for any reaction.

There was none-none beyond a frown of disapproval, that is. "Your safe-house is insecure," she pointed out. "The yaks might have compromised it." She gestured around at the ops room. "Just hang here, hoa, you're covered here. You scan? If you need to catch some sleep…"

I shook my head. "There's gear there I need," I lied sincerely. "If I don't get it, I'm dead. Not now, but pretty fragging soon."

She glanced over at Moko, still sprawled in his hammock. "I can send-"

"No good," I cut in. "It's secured. Unless I cut off my thumb and give it to Moko…" I shrugged and let the thought hang.

Kat considered it. The fact that my implication I was using a thumbprint security system of some kind didn't even faze her told me something more about this group's resources. "Moko can come with you," she suggested after a moment.

I shook my head. "That's just asking for trouble, isn't it?" I pointed out. "It's not as if Moko isn't a memorable type, after all." She half smiled at that and I knew I'd won. "I'll be back in touch the minute I've got my gear," I told her, to soften the victory. "Give me a cold relay so I can contact you."

After a moment she nodded once, and recited a string of digits. I committed them to memory. "Get his bike ready," she told Zack. Then she turned back to me. "Hope you know what you're doing, bruddah."

"So do I," I told her fervently, and that was the only truthful thing I'd said in the past few minutes.

I had to ride around in circles through the depths of Ewa for almost ten minutes before I spotted a landmark I recognized- From there it only took me another five to make it back to my doss.

I was cautious going in, of course. I didn't think it particularly likely that the yak soldiers had a line on my flop, but you don't bet your life blindly on vaporous things like "likelihoods." There were no unusual-looking people in the stairwells or the hallways, and when I reached the door to my room all the telltales I'd left were still securely in place. Confident for me first time that I was doing the right thing, I went in and locked the door behind me.

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 mat most hateful of voices, me 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 me 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 dial 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 cannot 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 suborbital'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 Ali'i's 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 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-san."

"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.