House of the Sun

by Nigel Findley

  I heard Akaku'akanene's smile, rather than saw it. "You should continue to surprise yourself, maybe, as you do others."

  For a moment I mentally chewed on the twisted grammar of that statement, then I gave up. "How?" I asked.

  "How much do you know of the workings of magic?" the old woman began elliptically.

  I couldn't help but smile. "Do you have any elven blood?" I asked wryly.

  Again I heard her smile broaden. "Why, because I answer a question with a question?"

  I sighed. "Word games later," I told her. And I repeated, "How?"

  "Guardians," she said simply. I waited for her to amplify, but she didn't.

  "The spirits, you mean?"

  "Yes, the spirits. And other guardians as well. Guardians of Haleakala, guardians of the pattern."

  She had to mean the rock dogs, didn't she? I nodded. "Go on," I suggested.

  "The kahunas, they had to keep the guardians out to unravel the pattern."

  Again I waited; again, I had to prompt, "And ... ?"

  I saw the silhouette shrug, as if to say, "That's it!"

  And I guess it was. I'd wrecked the Dancers' protective circles, which let the "guardians of the pattern" in to do their thing. Simple.

  "Okay," I admitted, "I scan it. But"—I gestured at my body, the bed, the hospital room—"what's wrong with me? I feel drek-kicked."

  Silence for a moment, then Akaku'akanene said softly, "Do you understand the powers you were close to?" Something in her voice made my skin crawl, but I pressed on anyway. "The Dancers were closer than I was," I pointed out.

  "Yes. Shielded by protective wards. Skilled in the working of magic. You?" She snorted. "You are lucky Nene watches over you."

  "What would it have done to me?" I didn't really want to know, but I had to ask. "Killed me?"

  "Worse," she said, her voice a chill whisper. "Much worse."

  I lay back and stared at the ceiling. I blinked. After a few moments a memory jarred me. "Hey," I said, "what was that drek with Pohaku—that goose ex machina!"

  I didn't look at her, but still I felt her smile. "When the spirit sings, the shaman answers," she said softly. "But sometimes it is the shaman who sings."

  Typical spiritual mumbo jumbo, is what I didn't say. I blinked ...

  And it was day again, and Akaku'akanene was gone. I never saw the old goose again.

  * * *

  Maybe it was the old shaman's visit, or maybe it was my own indomitable strength of will (yeah, right). But after that my rate of improvement increased drastically. Within two days of Akaku'akanene's nocturnal admissions, I was on my feet and taking mild exercise, and two days after that I was rolling toward the main door of the hospital—the Kuakini Central, I'd learned its name was—in a powered wheelchair. (Why do hospitals, even in this day and age, insist that patients can't leave the premises under their own power? In case other prospective "clients" think they're actually cured ...?) My escort—the practical nurse assigned to my rehabilitation, a big, jovial ork called Mary Ann—pressed the Door Open button for me and stood clear as I rolled out into the sunshine. She bent down and planted a wet, tusked kiss on the top of my head. (We'd gotten along just fine, me and Mary Ann—when she wasn't threatening me into one more rep on some exercise-torture machine, that was.)

  "So, what now?" I asked her. "And can I finally get out of this thing?"

  Mary Ann gave me one of her best child-terrifying grins. "You're through the doors," she pointed out. "Now give us our fragging wheelchair back, hoa."

  I chuckled as I extricated myself from the depths of the powered chair. I drew breath to repeat the first part of my question.

  But she cut me off with an inclination of her head. "You're expected," she said quietly.

  I looked where she indicated. A limousine—not a Phaeton, not this time—had pulled up at the curb, the rear door opening with a hydraulic hiss. "No space for me at your house?" I asked the ork mock-hopefully.

  "Always, lover," she purred. "But my husband, see, he's kinda touchy about these things."

  I laughed freely. It felt good. "Well, far be it from me to jack with your marital bliss." And then I let my face grow serious for a moment. "Thanks, Mary Ann. I mean it."

  She hugged me. And if you've never been hugged by an ork who's been trained as a practical nurse ... bruddah, you ain't never been hugged.

  When I could breathe again, I gave her a last smile and went slowly down the stairs toward the limo.

  All the windows were tinted and polarized. The driver could as well have been that thing that had tried to come through the gate, for all I could see. I sighed. Well, if anyone out there in the big, wide world wanted me dead, they wouldn't have had to pay for a limo to arrange it. I climbed inside and closed the door after me.

  The kevlarplex screen between the passenger and driver compartments was in place—no surprise there—and it was also fully polarized. I couldn't see so much as a silhouette of the driver's head. I sat back as the limo accelerated away from the curb, and I waited.

  Nothing, so I waited some more. Still nothing. So this time I rapped on the divider with a knuckle. "So what gives, huh, brah?" I asked the kevlarplex.

  More nothing. I was winding up for another, harder rap when the telecom screen in the limo's entertainment/commo suite lit up and filled with a familiar face.

  "I'm glad to see you've made it in one piece, Mr. Montgomery," Jacques Barnard said.

  I sat back in the sumptuous upholstery and scrutinized the corporator's on-screen image. He was in a new office, I saw. The background was a simple wall, not an out-of-focus view of a garden and statues. "More or less," I admitted. And then I waited. I could tell from the suit's expression that this was definitely not a social call.

  Barnard nodded then, apparently satisfied that I'd caught the tenor of this "virtual meeting". "Well, Mr. Montgomery," he said lightly, "you'll be glad to know that the ... confusion ... of the past month has come to a satisfactory conclusion. Satisfactory to all concerned, I'm pleased to say."

  I nodded. "Uh-huh."

  He hesitated slightly, put off stride for a moment. "You'll also be glad to know that King Kamehameha has staged a"—he paused, theatrically searching for the correct word—"a countercoup. The Ali'i is back on his throne. The Na Kama'aina faction in the government has been humbled. And, as far as I can tell, ALOHA has been nearly eliminated." He smiled magnanimously. "And much of the credit must be accorded to you, Mr. Montgomery."

  I nodded. "Uh-huh." Barnard didn't seem to have anything else to say, so after a long, uncomfortable pause, I said, "So, business as usual, neh?"

  He shrugged. "More or less. Again, thanks to you, Mr. Montgomery."

  "Uh-huh." I paused again. "And how far do those thanks extend, Mr. Barnard?"

  He gestured broadly, his telecom image seeming to encompass the entire limo. "This far, to begin," he said. "The charges for your hospital stay have, of course, been absorbed. And there is a room in your name at the Diamond Head Hotel for one week."

  "Uh-huh. And transportation back to the mainland?"

  "When you wish to leave, contact one of my people," Barnard said. "The driver will give you a datachip when he drops you off at the hotel. The contact information is on it ... along with data on an account at the Zurich-Orbital Gemeinschaft Bank."

  "Uh-huh." And again, I paused. "And future contact, Mr. Barnard? Future work?"

  Jacques Barnard gave me one of his best plastic corporator smiles. "If the need arises, one of my people will contact you, Mr. Montgomery. Count on it." And with that the screen went blank.

  Uh-huh. Translation: Don't call us, we'll call you.

  So, what about Barnard's protestations of respect, back when he was recruiting me for this job? Of affection, for frag's sake?

  Everybody lies.

  * * *

  Back in the Diamond Head Hotel. A different room, but the only way you could tell the difference was by looking at the number on the door. I dumped what few thi
ngs I'd taken with me from the hospital—my toothbrush, basically, and not much else—into the corner. Then I sat on the bed and stared at the datachip in its carrier that the chauffeur had given me when dropping me off. A couple of times I glanced at the room's sophisticated telecom, but I simply couldn't get up the energy to slot the chip and check it out.

  So it was over. The gate closed, the corps satisfied. Na Kama'aina out, Gordon Ho back on the throne ...

  Well, hell, let's admit it: I tried to phone him. Gordon Ho, King Kamehameha V, Ali'i of the Kingdom of Hawai'i. I checked my wallet, and I found the mylar card he'd given me in his office at the Iolani Palace was still there. I called the number.

  Unlike the last time Ho himself picked up the phone. When he saw who it was, he smiled. And then, an instant later, that smile was extinguished by an emotionless, politican's expression. "Mr. Montgomery," he said coolly.

  Okay, I knew where this conversation was going, so I didn't belabor the point. All that kanike about "keeping in touch?" Just that, chummer—bulldrek, pure and simple. Politically, he couldn't afford to be friends with some low-life haole shadowrunner. He had to cut loose from me, past protestations of friendship notwithstanding.

  Everybody lies.

  And what the frag, since I had my momentum up, I phoned the LTG number bug-boy had given me on that strip of pocket 'puter thermal printer paper. A voice mail box—predictable, of course. I left a message, requesting—well, maybe demanding—a meeting later that afternoon, down at the east end of Waikiki Beach, in front of a statue of some slag with a surfboard I'd spotted on my first day in the islands.

  I was at the site fifteen minutes early—I didn't have what it took to wait any longer—but bug-boy had beaten me to it. The Insect shaman was sitting on a wooden bench in the shadow of the statue, gazing out over the surf with his glassy eyes. I don't think he could have heard me coming, and I knew he couldn't have seen me unless he had a third glassy eye in the back of his skull. Yet he turned when I was still fifteen meters away, and watched as I slowly walked over.

  He stood as I approached, and again I was glad that he didn't offer me his hand.

  "We had a deal," I said flatly.

  He inclined his head—agreement, admixed with regret. Just as with the Ali'i, I knew where this conversation was going. "Yes," he said.

  "Well? Where's my sister?"

  The Insect shaman shrugged almost apologetically. "Gone," he said simply.

  "You can't bring her back." My voice sounded soulless in my own ears. "You never could, could you?"

  The nondescript man shook his head. And then he turned his back on me and started to walk away.

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to chase after him and smash his head to pulp. I wanted to pull out the pistol I was packing and empty the clip into his back. I wanted to turn that same pistol on my own head and pull the trigger. Instead, I said to him, honestly, "Thank you for coming alone."

  He hesitated for a moment. He didn't look back, for which I'd be eternally grateful. Then he nodded once, and he walked on, westward, toward the sinking sun.

  Everybody lies.

  * * *

  It was like I was back in the hospital. One moment I was sitting on a wooden bench, watching bug-boy walk away across the sand toward the setting sun. I blinked, and the sky was dark. Lights burned in the hotels along the curve of Waikiki Beach. Behind me, on the street, cars cruised by, their stereos playing Hawai'ian music.

  A taxi stopped for a few moments a dozen yards away, its windows down, stereo blaring. I recognized the song—"Hawai'i, My Home," by that group Scott had played for me my first full day in the islands. Kani-something. All dead, now. Appropriate, somehow.

  I felt a presence beside me. I turned.

  It was the elf. Quentin Harlech, or whatever his real name was. An arm's length away, he was staring out over the night black ocean.

  "How long have you been here?" I asked. Then, "Skip it," I told him.

  Hotel lights glinted off his teeth as he smiled. "Long enough," he answered the question I'd just canceled. Then he waited—to see if I'd speak again, to see if I'd try to geek him ... I don't know which. I didn't do either; I just looked out toward the pink-tinged horizon.

  Finally, I saw the silhouette of his head nod. "You don't know what you did, do you?" the elf asked quietly. "You don't know the importance, you don't know why it mattered. But you did it anyway."

  I didn't look his way, but I could feel his eyes on me. I knew the question he was asking—the question he couldn't bring himself to voice. But I didn't know the answer. I shrugged.

  "I thought so," he said, responding to the answer I hadn't given him. "I think I knew you before, Derek," he went on quietly a moment later. "Perhaps we fought alongside each other once before."

  Now I turned to him. "Chummer," I said, "you're up the pole. I never set eyes on you before Puowaina."

  "Not those eyes, no," he agreed ... if it was agreement. "But I know you, Derek. You face overwhelming odds. And you vanquish them .. . merely because you don't know it to be impossible." He smiled—sadly, I thought suddenly. "You remind me of ..." His voice trailed off, and he looked out to sea again. "Long ago," he whispered, almost inaudibly. Or maybe it wasn't him at all, but a breath of night breeze.

  "Question," I said, after a long silence. "You were trying to close the gate, right?"

  Quinn shrugged. "Rather, to prevent it from ever opening."

  "Then why did the guardian spirits attack you?" My gaze fixed on his face. "Why, Harlech?"

  To my utter shock and amazement the elf seemed unable to meet my gaze. "History," he said quietly. "I have ..." He stopped and tried again. "I have .. . touched ... this danger before," he went on. "The guardian spirits sense its taint on me." His lips quirked in a smile. "I wonder how they would react to you, Derek, should you go back there a second time?"

  "No danger of that."

  Quinn laughed softly. "I think I rather like you, Derek," he said. "Some of my contemporaries would laugh if they could hear me say this, but ... I feel that you might just be a kindred spirit. Do you realize how rare that is?"

  Now he did meet my gaze. I saw ... something ... in his eyes. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought it was envy, or maybe even longing. Longing for something that had been lost, a long, long time ago. Stupid, of course.

  I snorted, and I turned away. "Frag off, Harlech," I said. Then I yelled it, still not looking at him: "Frag off! Okay? Just get the fuck out of here."

  I couldn't bring myself to turn around and look at him. I didn't dare—I was afraid of what I might see in his eyes.

  I felt him stand up and hesitate a moment. Then I felt him stride away from me into the darkness.

  "I don't need you!" I yelled after him without turning my head. "I don't need anybody!"

  Everybody lies.

  Even me.

  COPYRIGHT

  ROC

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