Another of the suits-he looked younger than the rest- opened his mouth to bitch, but the look the Ali'i shot him shut him up before he could start. The young suit shifted uncomfortably, then he got back to his averting, too.

The Ali'i glanced over in my direction, and I thought I saw a faint smile. "Mr. Montgomery," he said. That wasn't a question, so I didn't speak. Ho shifted his gaze to Ortega by my side. "Please escort Mr. Montgomery to my private office."

Ortega stiffened. "E ku 'u lani, is that proper?"

Oops, mistake. Regal stink-eye is very different from the run-of-the-mill kind, and I was glad this dose was directed at someone else. Surprisingly, it was the scrawny kahuna who said, "It is for the Ali'i to decide what is proper and what is not." The reprimand was delivered in a quiet voice, little more than a whisper, but Ortega flinched as though he'd been whipped.

The aide/maitre d' nodded and seemed to be trying to swallow his prominent Adam's apple. He tapped me on the arm, and I followed him back out the door.

Leading me through the bowels of the palace, he didn't utter a word for the next few minutes, which suited me just fine. Finally, he stopped before another rich-grained wood door, nodded to the requisite white-suit on guard outside, and turned the knob. Wordlessly, he gestured me in, and this time he didn't follow. I let the door shut behind me before giving the place the once-over.

State-of-the-art, cutting-edge corporate office-that was my first impression. Tech everywhere-not obtrusive or overbearing, but always to hand. Anything and everything to make the life of a busy executive just that one little bit easier or more comfortable. Huge holo unit against one wall; one of those high-tech whiteboard displays, the kind that automatically networks to multiple pocket 'puters via infrared links and lets a dozen people make and annotate drawings and notes; a telecom/commo suite that you'd need an electrical engineering doctorate just to turn on; an electrostatic printer only marginally bigger than the pieces of paper it printed on; and-thank God for something I fully understood-a slick little coffee/espresso maker on the credenza.

I suppose I'd expected the decor of the Ali'i's private office to be something like that of the throne room: dark, polished woods, somber drapes, that kind of drek. Good try, but no cigar. The place was light and airy, painted in pale pastels that made it feel larger than it actually was. The desk and credenza were macroplast finished in a contrasting pastel. The chairs-there were four of them, one behind the desk and three in front-weren't the antiques I expected either, instead, they were this-year's-model self-adjusting units.

Behind the desk was a huge window looking out toward the mountains north of the city. It looked like a storm was blowing in, black clouds boiling up over the ragged peaks. I shook my head, tempted to go over and touch the window material. There wasn't any of the color-shift I'd always associated with reinforced ballistic composite. If that window was standard transpex, any yahoo with a rifle could cap the fragging Ali'i, put a pill in the back of his noble skull. Hey, just wait one tick… What was wrong with this picture?

A couple of things. First of all… this shouldn't be an outside office. Unless I'd gotten myself totally turned around-possible, but not likely-this place was right in the fragging middle of the Iolani Palace's second floor.

Second, the view of the mountains I was enjoying was simply impossible from the site of the palace. Sure, you could spot the mountains… but only between corporate skyrakers, none of which appeared in the view through the "window." A sophisticated holo display, that's what it had to be-like the "window" in Adrian Skyhill's office at Fort Lewis, now that I came to think of it. The sense of deja vu gave me the shivers. I sat down in one of the visitor's chairs, and tried to relax while I waited.

I didn't have long to wait-convenient, since I couldn't relax anyway. The door behind me clicked open, and I reflexively jumped to my feet.

Gordon Ho, King Kamehameha V, had changed again. Not just his garb, although he had doffed his regalia for a set of hideously expensive casual clothes. No, his whole manner-his aura, to use that stupid word-had changed, too, as if in setting aside his royal trappings he'd set aside the strength of personality I'd sensed in the throne room. Was that strength of personality some kind of magical effect, then, incorporated into the headpiece, perhaps?

Uh-uh, I revised after a moment. The strength was still there; it glinted in his eyes. It was just that Gordon Ho made a strong distinction between ceremony and business, like any good executive.

"E ku 'u lani," I began.

Ho gestured casually for me to be seated. "I told you on the phone, it's the kahunas who are so set on the old forms, not me." He sat down in the chair behind the desk and leaned back luxuriously. Then, for almost a minute, he just watched me from under his dark brows. His scrutiny wasn't hostile-more curious than anything, I thought-but that didn't make it any more comfortable. I shifted edgily in my chair, and I felt a bead of sweat start to trace its way down my ribs. I tried to match his stare with my own, but it wasn't long before I had to drop my gaze-look at the "picture-window" behind him, at the desk, at the whiteboard, at anything but those flint eyes.

Finally the Ali'i stirred, and I felt the intensity of his gaze ease. "Mr. Montgomery," he said slowly, almost speculatively. "Derek Montgomery." He smiled. "I know a little about you, Mr. Montgomery. Born on July 22, 2019 in Seattle, Washington-it was still Washington state at that time, wasn't it? One sibling, a younger sister. Both parents killed." His tone of voice was like he was reading, though his gaze was still fixed on my face. It was only when I noticed a faint artificial glint from his corneas that I realized some kind of unit in the desk was projecting my personal data directly into his eyes. "Attended the University of Washington," he continued, "but didn't graduate. Served a tour of duty with Lone Star Security Services Corporation." He shot me a wry grin. "An abbreviated tour," he amended ironically, "after which you left the corporation on less than amicable terms.

"Since then"-he shrugged-"very little, really. Occasional hints that you might have been contracting out your services to various individuals, and even to a couple of corporations. But not much concrete data.

"Until your death, confirmed via gene typing and dental records, in 2052." A thick eyebrow quirked. "Interesting, Mr. Montgomery; I've never chatted with a dead man before."

I shrugged… and tried not to show how chilled I was by the ease with which he'd dug up background information on me. Date and place of birth, family details, employment history… all of which should have dropped out of public ken when I tubed my SIN number after my break with Lone Star. I'd always thought "zeroed" meant just that-you don't exist anymore, no connection between who you are and who you were, and no easy way of tracking down that drek after the fact. Live and learn, I suppose.

The Ali'i leaned forward. "So tell me, Mr. Montgomery, what is a dead man doing in Hawai'i?"

I hesitated. Frag it, I realized Barnard hadn't briefed me enough. Yes, I was supposed to deliver a specific message to King Kam, but what else should I or shouldn't I tell him? 'Trying to do something about that graveyard pallor," I temporized, giving myself time to think.

He chuckled softly at that. "Well, perhaps we'll come back to that later." He paused, then his voice changed-time for biz. "You implied you had a message for me. From whom, Mr. Montgomery?"

"Jacques Barnard," I told him. "Senior veep or something at Yamatetsu."

"I know Jacques Barnard," he acknowledged, "a fine gentleman. I assume you've spoken to him recently. Is he enjoying Chiba?"