I turned and stared out the window. Almost since this thing had started, I'd felt like a rat in a trap. Now the trap seemed to be shrinking. Options and alternatives were slowly being stripped away. For a while, I'd fooled myself into thinking I had a powerful patron in the Ali'i. No more, chummer. For all I knew, maybe Gordon Ho was swinging at me end of a rope, eyes bugged and tongue bleeding like the magically altered statue. Even if he wasn't, it was a pretty good bet he had more important things on his mind than the travails of one Dirk Montgomery.

And Barnard? Frag, I'd already given him my best pitch, and he'd decided to leave me "in-country" to reality-check his other informants. How could I convince him to pull me out? Snivel and whimper?

Maybe ALOHA was hiring. I wondered what the going rate for burned-out haole street ops was these days…

The telecom buzzed, and I almost went over backward in the chair. I glared balefully at the incoming Call symbol on the bottom of the screen.

Who had this LTG number? Monot, obviously, and anybody else she'd happened to tell at Telestrian Industries Corporation. And that was about it… wasn't it?

A little apprehensively, I tapped the key to accept the call, but only after turning off the telecom's video pickup. "Yeah?"

The screen filled with an image of Gordon Ho's strong features. "Mr. Montgomery?"

I hurriedly keyed my vid pickup back on. "It's me," I told him unnecessarily. "Where the frag are you?" And then an ugly thought hit. "And how the frag did you get this number?"

The Ali'i of Hawai'i gave me a tired smile. For the first time I noticed the bags under his eyes, the lines of strain in his face. "As to your second question, Mr. Montgomery, I think I told you once before that some members of my military intelligence community were still loyal to me personally. Fortunately, that still seems to be the case. As to your first question, I'd rather not discuss that, for reasons that should be obvious."

"What the frag's going down, e ku'u lani?" I asked.

His tired smile grew sad. 'That form of address isn't appropriate anymore, Mr. Montgomery."

I nodded. "A palace coup?"

"More or less. The throne has been taken-I prefer the term 'usurped,' of course," he added with a wry grin-"by a distant cousin of mine who apparently has been groomed for the position by certain factions within the legislature."

"A mouthpiece for Na Kama'aina" I translated.

"Of course."

"And you?" I asked him.

"Accused of high treason, what else? How else could Na Kama'aina have played it?" He shrugged his muscular shoulders. "I left the palace one step ahead of a warrant for my arrest."

I shook my head. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold, and all that drek. "You've got some people with you?"

"Some," he acknowledged. "Trusted friends."

"And a safe place to hang?"

"For the moment, yes."

I rubbed at my eyes, which suddenly felt very tired. "So what happens now?"

The erstwhile Ali'i smiled. "I think I'd rather not discuss that at the moment, Mr. Montgomery," he said quietly. "After all, my people have compromised this line…" He didn't have to finish the thought.

I sighed. "Yeah." What the frag else was there to say? Things had gone way too far beyond my ability to affect them-mat's the way it felt, at least. I was adrift on some dark, empty ocean, with no compass or rudder. "Well," I told the ex-Ali'i, "if there's anything I can do to-"

He interrupted gently. "That's not why I called you, Mr. Montgomery."

I blinked. "Oh?"

"I've been asked to pass on a message to you."

"From whom?" Suddenly, bleak fatalism morphed into paranoid imaginings.

"Someone who claims to know you." Ho's voice and body language were giving nothing away, no matter how hard I scrutinized him. "Someone who wishes to meet with you. It's your choice whether you accept the meeting or not, of course."

Well, thanks for that, at least, I thought. "Who?" I asked again.

"Two people, actually." Ho replied slowly. "That was made quite clear to me. Apparently, one of them you'll particularly want to speak with."

"Why? And who the frag are they?"

Ho seemed not to have heard my question. "If you wish, I can help you arrange the meet, Mr. Montgomery," he went on. "Some of my people can escort the… the parties… to any meeting site you wish and guarantee that nothing untoward happens."

"Yeah, thanks, sure," I said distractedly. "But who the frag are they, huh?"

Ho looked a little uncomfortable. "I'm assuming this means something to you. It certainly means nothing to me. I was asked to convey to you that there is a message from 'friends of Adrian Skyhill'."

Oh, just fragging great. The fragging bugs. Wonderful, excellent, oh joy.

I accepted the meeting, of course. Frag, what else would I do? Sheer, drek-headed curiosity was enough of a motivation. After the pogroms and all that drek, after the infestation of Chicago by the bugs, after the revelation of insect spirits and their shamans as the next worst thing to the Antichrist himself… wouldn't a bug shaman have to have one fragging good reason to risk his precious, creepy little skin, arranging a meeting with me? (Curiosity-it's a wonderful thing, neh? Think of all the marvelous boons curiosity has brought humanity-thermonukes, germ warfare, trideo sitcoms…)

Once that decision was made, it was a no-brainer to accept Gordon Ho's offer of resources. Although I couldn't imagine that a bug shaman would go to all this trouble just to geek a null like me, I figured a couple of hard-men would be good to have around. (If for no other reason than to stop me from geeking him. I figured I still owed the "friends of Adrian Skyhill" for what happened to my sister, Theresa.) And come to think of it, physical protection wouldn't be enough, would it? I'd need someone who could do the astral thing as well-preferably a shaman rather than a hermetic, on the assumption that "like understands like." A shaman on my side might be able to predict any assorted weirdness the bug-guy might be considering.

So that's; what I asked Ho for: a shaman plus three hoop-kicking bodyguards. I wanted two of the razorboys with me before the meet; the shaman and the other gillette could pick up the bug-boy(s) and escort him/them to the spot. Ho agreed at once; I think he was almost as curious as I was about the whole scam, and expected his people to give him a complete debrief afterward.

As to the site, well, why not right here, room 1905 at New Foster Tower? I ran a quick mental cost-benefit analysis of security concerns, and on balance the risks seemed lower if I stayed put, avoiding any undue exposure on the streets before, during, or after the meet. If necessary, I'd bail out of the Tower afterward, and find myself another flop. A fragging alley, if nothing else presented itself.

So that's the way it shook out. The meet was set for eighteen hundred; a gillette and a shaman provided by Ho would escort my visitors to room 1905 at that time. Two hours before the appointed time, the other two assets were knocking on my door.

My paranoia was in full flood, so I checked the door viewer before snapping back the m'aglocks. Through the distorting lens I could easily imagine I'd seen the two slags before. Even though facial features and other superficial details vary, I've always felt there's an underlying sameness about the really good bodyguards. Maybe it's the level of confidence, of belief in and understanding of their own capabilities. Or maybe it's the recognition that their job could require them to kill, or the, at any moment. Whatever the truth of it, I always get a vaguely hinky feeling around people like that. Of course, this wasn't a social occasion, and I was glad this pair looked competent.