King Kalakaua III breathed in the warm, misty salt air floating through his window, stretching out in his silver-and-gold pinstriped pajamas as he opened the mahogany doors to his balcony. “Another gorgeous day in lockup.“ He accidentally said out loud as he took one more gaze at the horizon before meandering back inside to his closet.
The closet was filled with everything from historically accurate recreations of Maui fishing gear likely worn by the first humans to set foot on Hawaii to 19th century military garb to 21st century suits to the hottest fashion from across the ocean in every direction. Today was an agricultural inspection day—really a mascot day like all the rest—so he had to dress for the bluehouses. His servants had found quite the farmer’s outfit for him, a drab olive shirt with denim overalls, brown leather steel-toed boots complete with fake wear and tear, plus a wide-brimmed straw hat despite the press event’s location being underground. This carnival act was not the servants’ fault of course, nor was it their idea. As he got dressed Kalakaua wondered if they found this whole ordeal as humiliating as he did.
“Good morning your highness. You certainly look ready to inspect the facilities.” Anna smiled, her teeth as perfect as her posture. “And you’ll feel ready to inspect them after this breakfast.” She gestured to the table. “Poi with milk and sugar, breadfruit with a sprinkle of sea salt from an evaporating pool on the Palace Beach, and plenty of bacon and biscuits. Not to mention the strongest coffee this side of Sumatra.”
“Thank you Anna. Just one small plate please; you know I could never eat this much. Please, keep the rest.” He hoped the pain in his smile wasn’t too apparent.
“That’s not necessary my King. We’re well-provided for with all of our fresh fruit Lady Ailani brought us from the palace grounds.” She said, sing-song as ever.
“If you insist Anna, but I figured you could use some variety in your diet. Give it to the directors then. I know they’re always very appreciative.” Kalakaua said, winking at the camera in the dining room’s northeast corner.
“Of course your highness. I’m sure they’ll be pleased.” She took the plates and handed them to another servant, who nodded silently and covered the plates before walking over to the directors’ office on the other side of the Royal Estate.
Kalakaua finished his meal in quiet. He gave a quick wave to the servants who would clean up after him then exited through the palace’s front hall, the crystal chimes on the chandelier playing an impromptu dirge thanks to the breeze.
As King, Kalakaua had only the best transportation . . . from the Nineteenth Century. His carriage was a burnished mahogany a few shades darker than the doors to his balcony, its sides ornamented with gilded scenes showcasing the greatness of the archipelago’s past, starting on the rear with windswept explorers on catamarans discovering the islands, moving on to the founding of the monarchy and the first coronation, and culiminating the Struggle of the last several decades leading to its restoration.
The two gray horses pulling the carriage were adorned with multi-colored flowered harnesses, looking like storm clouds that a rainbow had just cut in front of.
“Good morning Kawika; I trust you know our itinerary today.” Kalakaua snickered as he looked at the driver, whose blue-and-white outfit matched the carriage’s vintage. He was wearing enough layers and coats to last through a Marquette winter.
“Yes my King. It’ll be about 45 minutes to the bluehouse for inspection.” Kawika said, already having to wipe some sweat off his brow.
Kalakaua entered the carriage and saw a very familiar face. Even on a day focusing on agriculture, Princess Aliani had to wear a dress. This one was forest green, with the fabric splayed at the shoulders to give the affect of flower petals; it was accompanied by a lei of golden flowers, with those same flowers making a bunting of sorts around the skirt in multiple layers arranged into half-ovals. “Hello brother.” She said, dry as usual.
“Hello sister. Going to be another long day.” The King rolled his eyes, making sure he turned to the camera in the carriage when he did.
“Yes, I appreciate self-sufficiency as much as the next monarch, but this is all particularly tiresome. I feel like just another exhibit in that facility. What’s the point of this anyway? Can’t they just show everyone the food?” Aliani said, shifting her skirt.
“We both know the answer to that question. And so do they. But still, the numbers are tough to argue with, as is the tech.” Kalakaua said, grinning to the camera at the sugar and fruit barons, who now de facto held that title, watching on the other side.
“I suppose so brother. Today shows that for the first time in centuries, perhaps ever, that Hawaii will truly not be reliant on outside help for basic needs. The event today will show just how far we’ve come. I’m really looking forward to it.” Aliani said, half-truthful for once.
A few dozen platitudes later and they were at the bluehouse, greeted by an honor guard, their powder blue uniforms piped with white, a slew of golden buttons running down their chest to match their sword hilts on their left hips, with leather pistol holsters on their right. After some customary salutes, the royals entered, the atrium bathed in azure light with black stone floors and walls adorned with frescoes of both traditional Hawaiian crops like breadfruit, imported crops like pineapples and bananas, and the new bluehouse crops like beets, potatoes, and raspberries, which the islands were previously too hot to cultivate in any real numbers.
Standing at the top of the staircase leading to the underground chambers was Director Thompson, his tie and eyes the exact shade of blue as the lights, with a skin tone that looked like he lived underground. “Hello your highnesses. Thank you so much for visiting the facility today. We can’t wait to show our people exactly what we can do here.”
“Of course Director.” Kalakaua’s handshake was as gentle as politeness allowed as he nodded towards Directors Hamada and Stevenson while the cameras snapped and recorded everything.
The group finally descended the staircase to the bluehouse complex; the exterior was plate glass much like a greenhouse, but the inside was much different, with only a few dim blue bulbs illuminating the thick volcanic soil dotted into tufts of green; the crops were separated into individual plots like a community garden which just happened to be in a cave.
The royals completed tasks as pre-ordained as their bloodline, from the King putting the last shovel of dirt on a plot of beets—a process which took all of three seconds to do and about three minutes to document—to the Princess picking some primrose and other flowers from the floral section tucked into the corner of the complex and putting them in her hair.
Kalakaua checked his watch, its silvery gears older than the monarchy itself. “Directors, I believe it’s time for my speech.” He smiled as he walked to the back of the facility, with pine trees and half a dozen of his bodyguard as the backdrop to his podium made of orange-brown Hawaiian sandalwood adorned with the royal seal.
The cameraman gave a nod, and the King took one last glance at his paper.
“People of Hawaii: in the many centuries since our ancestors settled these islands, our people have been in a seemingly eternal struggle to not even thrive, but merely to fend for ourselves. From being reliant on trade caravans from across the Pacific to relying on trade with Europeans, to our land and economy being owned by American fruit companies who took our farmers’ land through illegal means, and later their military-industrial complex. I say no more; the time has finally come for us to become self-sufficient. These bluehouse facilities will produce more diverse foodstuffs than have ever existed on our islands, as well as cash crops that will protect our economy from shocks if our warm-weather cash crops ever suffer a blight, or if the whims of the global market shift.”
“And yet, this facility’s official opening is not the biggest event today. Not close. You see, these crops, they wouldn’t be yours, nor even mine. Nor would the proceeds from their sale go to any of us. They’d go to the directors, and not even to their eminent domain fund, which is tragically lacking in finances. As your King, I cannot have that.”
“Kalakaua. You’ve broken the deal.” Director Thompson said coolly, his white-clad bodyguards walking towards the podium.
“Cameras; cut the feed. We’ll blame being underground for technical issues. Thank God for the delay.” Director Hamada said, her magenta nails drawing a few drams of blood from her palms, the air blasting out her nostrils shifting her raven hair ever so slightly.
Stevenson walked briskly behind the guards, putting his palms on their shoulders so they would make way for him as he pointed at Kalakaua, the veins in his bald head about to break through his skin. “You ungrateful little bastard; your family’s “royal” estate wouldn’t have even sold as a fucking timeshare home when we found your father and elevated him, and yet you still not only want turn against us, but believe you can succeed? By appealing to them like this? Do you think we haven’t planned for every eventuali—” His finger froze mid-point as two bullets from a bodyguard’s revolver eviscerated his jugular and carotid, his blood spraying over the bodyguards, pine trees, and stone pathways.
The directors’ bodyguards hadn’t even turned their safeties off when the King’s guard fell on them; swords easily piercing their composite armor made to stop much smaller, faster objects.
Director Hamada pulled out her pistol and fired a few desperate shots, shattering the glass half a dozen feet over the King’s head; she was promptly tackled by the Princess, who kicked the gun out of her hand. Holding Hamada down with one knee, the Princess drew a sharktooth-lined dagger hidden inside her skirt and tore open Hamada’s throat; one slash making scarlet and crimson intermingle on the bluehouse floor. A spurt of Hamada’s blood turned the green fabric petals on the Princess’ right shoulder into a rose.
Only Director Thompson remained. “You know there’s more than three of us, right?” He smirked. “Nice job getting those two, and using archaic tech to do it. Nothing we could disable. A shame your only reward will be the rest of the directors burning our archipelago to the ground while you watch.” He smirked.
Meanwhile, the other ten directors were having their weekly meeting, going over all their typical minutiae: expected crop yields, the process of new asset acquisitions through the court system, plus tech transfers for their various new projects. As usual, they had this meeting over brunch brought from the palace, though the servants seemed unusually happy today; maybe the King had given them actual meat instead of their normal diet of mollusks and other selfish.
Not thinking anything of it, they dug into their eggs and pancakes, plus plenty of well-seasoned bacon and biscuits from the Royal Palace. Within minutes, the servants were the only living souls in the buildings, the Directors all slouched in their chairs, some still spasming as a result of their poisoning.
“Director Thompson; did you get to take a look at all of the lovely flowers in the bluehouse?” The Princess smirked, pulling out a stem from her hair. “The one you see here is the Belladonna, more bluntly known as Deadly Nightshade. This facility’s been functioning just a bit longer than you know, and in fact, the owner was so kind as to provide my brother and I with as much belladonna as we needed. I’m afraid the other directors have already eaten their final meal.” The Princess smirked as Thompson balled his fists and realized his fate and turned to the King.
“Come on then; do it. You’re the King after all; be a man. Or are you too used to having your servants do everything for you?” Thompson said, his eyes and neck straining to the ceiling.
“Very well.” The King said, inhaling sharply as he called his old enemy’s bluff. The King took a revolver from one of his bodyguards and aimed. Thompson looked down from the ceiling for just a second. By the time he looked up again, there was a hole between his eyes. The cameras hadn’t stopped rolling.
The King stepped back to the podium. “People of Hawaii. I am sorry that things had to come to this. But these robber barons, these interloping, feudal robber barons could not be stopped by any other means. I am returning Hawaii to the Constitution of 1840 until the legislature drafts a new one, which must be approved by both myself and by you, the people. While I will not make many specific promises, I can assure you that I will only assent to a new constitution if that constitution restores all lands and funds taken by the directors and any other interlopers to their original owners. I can also assure you that your rights of expression, protection, trade, and process must and will be preserved.” The King took one final deep breath and looked up from his paper and folded it, his left hand trembling as he put the scrap into his pocket.
“Today was a tragedy, but it was also the fire through which the phoenix of Hawaii, the spirit of our islands, the hope of our people, was reborn. Today, we fought; tomorrow, we work, and the next day, we emerge into the world anew, protected by our intrepid spirit and shaded by a tree of liberty freshly watered with the blood of tyrants. The way ahead is long, but our people were made for long, difficult voyages. God bless us all, from the humblest beggar to the most penitent King.” The King bowed his head, tears cutting down his cheeks. He stayed there until well after the cameras cut out.
The King and Princess exited the bluehouse while the staff cleaned up the mess splattered all over the facility. Upon entering back into the sunlight, they saw Kawika was ready to pick them up. This time he had a helicopter instead of a horse. The royals couldn’t help but smile.