by Linda Nagata
Akasha drew back. “I don’t know what this guy’s been saying, but I know it’s got nothing to do with Hōkū Ala. So don’t go there, okay?”
Ava stared at her, stunned by the brazenness of this almost-admission. No pretense of denial. No hint of guilt. “Just like that?” she asked.
“Why?” Akasha’s lip pushed out in that familiar, pugnacious glare. “You want me to lie?”
“You want me to let it go?” Ava countered. “Compartmentalize it?”
She’d learned to do that in the army. Focus on your own assignment. Don’t think too hard about the shit going down in someone else’s area of responsibility.
Akasha lowered her chin. Dropped into a light pidgin accent. “Come on, Ava. You know we stay on the same side. And we get enough to worry about tonight.” She gestured at the hospital bed. “Whatevah this shit’s about, it’s not gonna be worse than Huko.”
As if cued by these words, a civil defense siren burst into life, wailing from somewhere outside the grounds of the medical center. Ava flinched, as the rising and falling tone triggered an old reflex to grab for body armor and run for a bunker.
Deep breath.
Instead of body armor, Ava grabbed her smart glasses and logged back into the system. Immediately, an emergency alert popped into her field of view: an official hurricane warning, issued at last.
As predicted, Huko had turned sharply north. The eye wall was on track to reach O‘ahu’s southern shore in roughly twenty hours.
◇
Three minutes later, the siren went silent, but Ava remained on edge, pacing the hospital room while Akasha walked the corridor outside.
Where was Lyric? She had to be working here in Honolulu. She’d been at the Sandalwood Lounge just last night. But more than an hour had passed since Ava had talked to her. Why hadn’t she come for her agent? Or was she waiting to see who else would come for him?
Her words: Let’s see what turns up.
“Let’s not,” Ava murmured aloud. She called Lyric’s contact number again, but this time she got no answer.
Ivan called after that. The chief was not in a good mood. “Get back here now. I’ve put in a call to HPD to take over guard duty. You can leave Akasha on watch until an officer gets there, but I need another supervisor on the floor, now. We’ve got panic breaking out all over.”
“Can’t,” Ava said. “I’ve got orders, issued through HADAFA, that tell me I have to stay here.”
“Bullshit. I haven’t seen any orders.”
“Hold on.”
She spoke to HADAFA, requesting her documented orders to be forwarded to Ivan. The system hesitated: an anomalous one-second pause suggestive of a massive records search, ones and zeroes woven together in complex cross-references. Even with that hint, HADAFA’s pronouncement caught her by surprise: “The referenced orders have been rescinded by a higher authority.”
Holy shit. Had Lyric been taken down?
“Ivan—”
“Get back here now. We don’t have time to babysit a drunk sailor.”
“This is about more than a drunk sailor, Ivan.”
“HPD can handle it. I need you here.”
He ended the call.
Ava glared at the wall, lips pressed together. She wanted to stay. Instinct told her that whatever was going on with Matt Domanski and Lyric Jones, it was more critical than herding frightened tourists into hurricane shelters.
But she had her orders.
She stepped out into the hall.
“It’s on you, now,” she told Akasha. “Ivan wants me home, but you get to stay until HPD sends someone.”
For the first time that night, a hint of worry in Akasha’s eyes. “You think they can spare someone tonight?”
“We’ll find out. But if you’re still here when Matt wakes up, call me. I’ll try to sneak back. And if he tries to leave, arrest him on terrorism charges.”
chapter
9
Ava stepped out of the hospital into a gusting wind, no rain yet. Headlights approached around the driveway. Her ride was here, right on time. She met the autonomous taxi at the curb and slipped into the front seat. The dash screen confirmed her requested destination: Harbor Station.
It was 8:00 PM, and as the taxi turned left onto Punchbowl Street, Ava saw that the panicked rush of traffic she’d witnessed earlier had passed. People had gone home to their apartments or their assigned villages, or they’d checked into hurricane shelters. Most would not be going out again until after the storm. The exodus had left the street looking eerily empty under the amber glow of streetlights.
In less than a block, the taxi turned onto Beretania Street, passing between the illuminated lawn of the capitol grounds and the Eternal Flame memorial on the mauka side of the street. Past the memorial, lay the dark, empty lot where the governor’s mansion used to be. As the taxi rolled by, Ava’s earbud beeped an alert. “Call from Gina Alameda,” the system announced.
Her friend in vice.
“Answer.”
A second beep to let her know the call was live.
“Hey, Gina. Got something for me?”
“Not a lot, sister. You do know you’re wading into nasty waters?”
“It’s real, then?”
“I think so, but I’ve never gotten in.”
Up ahead, two sets of red taillights. Both turned mauka on Alakea Street. No other cars. No pedestrians. She was past the capitol grounds now.
Gina said, “I only know what I’ve read in reports. The Predator Network is supposed to be a honeypot for pervs. Manipulators, revengers, voyeurs—from all around the world. They post realtime locations of vulnerable targets.”
The taxi turned makai onto Bishop Street. Buildings constructed like concrete fortresses ruled the first block. Then a city park, with neatly mowed lawns and immature landscaping—a green memorial to the historic buildings that had once stood there. There were a lot of parks in the city now.
A gust of wind came rushing up from the harbor. It thrashed the young shower trees so recently planted along the street, reminding Ava of the dream.
Focus!
Already, the lights and activity of Harbor Station were visible, just a few blocks away.
Gina was saying, “The Predator Network tracks men as well as women. And children too, of course. Creeps who crave physical interaction browse the list. If they go after something, they’re supposed to go linked, share the—”
Between one word and the next, her voice cut out. Ava’s glasses beeped a warning that she’d lost her network connection. Maybe the taxi had too, because it abandoned its programmed route. Braking hard, it turned left off Bishop Street and onto Merchant—and as it did, all the streetlights went out.
Storm damage? That was her first thought. Had the wind taken down a network tower already? No. The idea was ridiculous. The wind was no more than twenty-five at peak gusts. She also rejected the possibility of an isolated power outage, because the streetlights weren’t on the grid. They ran on batteries charged by retractable solar panels.
A hack, then. An attack. A deliberate blackout.
Hand poised over the emergency stop button on the dash, she scanned her surroundings: the deserted street, the empty sidewalks. No traffic. Just one parked car, a bulky black SUV, ahead on the right. Twisting around, she checked her six. Nothing.
Wait . . . that parked car . . . did it have a federal license plate?
She looked ahead again, confirmed it, and glimpsed the silhouette of a figure inside. The taxi gradually slowed, as if preparing to stop. Ava helped it reach a decision by slamming the base of her palm against the emergency-stop button. To her relief, the taxi responded, cutting over to the curb and stopping some twelve feet behind the federal vehicle.
Was she going to have to face the MAs again?
The taxi’s cabin light came on. She cursed it. Drawing her shockgun, she confirmed it was set to projectile. Then she checked the network. Still jammed.
Up ahead, a door o
n the parked car opened into the street. No cab lights there. She could just make out a male figure. Tall, muscular. Moving fast in her direction.
She bailed out through the right-hand door onto the sidewalk and bolted, back toward Bishop Street.
A high-pitched buzz erupted behind her. All too familiar. Needle drone. She’d used them in the army to secure fleeing targets. She’d been trained to defend against them, too.
In a split-second move, she ducked sideways behind a pillar—one of several fronting a series of shops, all dark now. Too damn bad she hadn’t had a chance yet to check out a pistol. She pulled her shockgun instead, and knelt, knowing she had about a second and a half to get ready.
Holding the shockgun in two hands, she followed the drone’s progress by the sound of its buzzing flight. When she judged it was about to round the pillar, she fired.
The wireless dart whispered out of the barrel, faster than the eye could follow. It struck one of the drone’s propellers, sparking as it glanced off. The drone tumbled, and shattered against the street.
Soft footfalls warned that her human pursuer was only steps away. She had to assume he was armed. She stood, and at the first glint of motion, kicked out hard. Her foot struck against aluminum. A low-voiced curse. The green bead of a targeting laser appeared to wink—on, off, on. He’d been carrying a shockgun, too. It clattered to the sidewalk. A momentary distraction.
She stepped around the pillar and turned to fire. But he’d anticipated the move. He lunged at her in a diving tackle, taking her down with his greater mass but rolling so he took the impact of the concrete sidewalk in his shoulders, his body cushioning hers.
Even so, her head snapped back and cracked against his teeth. It fucking hurt. It hurt him too. He grunted and his grip around her body loosened. She still had her shockgun. Her thumb shifted the selection lever to contact. Then she drove an elbow into his ribs and twisted hard, breaking her gun arm free. Rolling to her knees, she pivoted, concrete tearing at her bare skin.
He still held her left arm, a veil of black mesh hiding his face, distorting his features, but she glimpsed blood oozing from his lip. She shoved the gun against his chest and pulled the trigger, sending a jolt of electricity into him. He gasped and jerked back, writhing, as she scrambled to her feet.
He wouldn’t be down for long.
She holstered her shockgun, grabbed a zip tie from her belt, and moved in to cuff him. That was when she heard the tire noise of another car approaching from Bishop Street. Rescue for her? Or reinforcements for him?
She glanced over her shoulder. Another dark-colored SUV.
For him, she concluded, and abandoned her attempt to handcuff him. As the vehicle skidded to a hard stop, she ran, racing past the first SUV. She used the pillars and a series of concrete planter boxes for meager shelter, and to confuse the line of fire.
Behind her, a car door slammed shut. She heard one set of footsteps in swift pursuit, and tire noise as the vehicle accelerated after her. But no threats or shouted directions. Whoever they were, they operated in silence.
She looked ahead to the end of the block. A bar on the corner, still open, colorful holiday lights around its door and quiet music spilling onto the sidewalk. Just beyond it, streetlights glowed on Alakea. If she could make the corner, she might be able to get a signal, call for backup—
Plink! Plink!
A hard metallic double tap against the dark glass of the shop window beside her. Shockgun darts. But no buzz of a needle drone. She was breathing too hard now to hear pursuing footsteps, or tire noise. Where the hell was the SUV anyway? It should have raced ahead, to cut her off at the corner of Alakea—except the hack didn’t extend that far, did it? The streetlights on Alakea were working, and that meant the surveillance cameras were working too.
She made the corner. Glanced back to glimpse a dark figure climbing into the parked SUV, the other vehicle already reversing back to Bishop Street.
Rounding the corner, Ava ran until she reached the driveway of a parking garage. She ducked inside and waited, shockgun in hand, striving to push aside her disbelief at what had just happened, to lock it away. This was real. Accept it. And be ready when they came.
A minute passed.
As her breathing slowed, she noticed her network connection had returned. Video of the event would have already uploaded to HADAFA. HPD would be by soon, asking questions.
Shit.
She waited another minute, but her pursuers did not return. So she started jogging toward the lights of Harbor Station, calling Akasha as she did.
“You okay?” she panted when Akasha linked in.
“Yeah, of course. You’ve only been gone like three minutes.”
“I just got jammed and jumped.”
“Oh shit.”
“I’m okay. But I’m pretty damn sure it has something to do with Domanski, and I want you to take precautions. Detach his ID bracelet. Move him to another floor. Don’t ask permission. Don’t involve the staff. Don’t discuss it with hospital security. Just do it.”
“Affirmed.”
“And if someone from HPD shows up, confirm their identity before you turn Matt over.”
Ava meant to call Ivan next, but the post-adrenaline aftershock had set in. Her hands trembled. She didn’t trust her voice to be steady—and that would be a liability when it came to convincing Ivan to let her work this case. Better to wait, and persuade him when they were face to face.
She stopped in at her apartment, taking five minutes to wash up and to clean and seal the abrasions on her knees. When she confronted Ivan, she had to look like she could handle herself.
Then she crossed the street to Harbor Station, wondering that she’d heard no wail of incoming sirens. Had her smart glasses failed to record video of the assault? She had two minutes to wait for the next eastbound streetcar, so she whispered, “HADAFA, replay video of my altercation on Merchant Street.”
“Confirm location as Merchant Street, Honolulu?”
“Yes. A few minutes ago, on Merchant Street.”
“There is no available record of an incident matching that description.”
“No available record?”
“Correct.”
Meaning there was a record, but it had been tagged with a security rating higher than anything she could access. Her hand closed into a fist. A game was being played around her on a level she couldn’t see. Tempting to go back and look for the shockgun darts, hold them as evidence. Maybe her assailants had left fingerprints. And if they had? HADAFA would just tag them with an inaccessible security rating, right?
Shit.
She felt duped. Foolish. Set up and then betrayed by the system she’d come to rely on. How could she trust HADAFA, knowing its analyses might be based on a filtered selection of allowable facts? When reality might be tucked away behind an inaccessible security rating?
Doubt left her unmoored, wondering who to trust, what to trust.
The streetcar arrived, and she boarded. Looked around. This time, she shared the ride with a transit officer, two hotel staffers in aloha-shirt uniforms, and an entertainer dressed only in T-shirt and shorts, who carried her formal attire in a garment bag draped over one arm—all four of them glum, their worried expressions communicating they’d rather be anywhere else.
As they passed the abandoned hulk of Ala Moana Shopping Center, a westbound streetcar went by. From what Ava could see, it was only half full, and carrying resort workers, not tourists. She checked the Atkinson taxi station as they passed, and found it deserted, along with the westbound streetcar stop on the Ala Wai Bridge. So the panic to get out was over . . . or it had moved on, to the airport.
But not everyone had chosen to go.
Sounds of celebration reached them as the streetcar passed Fort DeRussy Park: pounding music and werewolf howls and whooping voices from the heart of the strip.
“What is going on?” the entertainer demanded, clearly offended. With no tourists riding the streetcar, she had no nee
d to hide a dark scowl.
The transit officer shook her head, looking disgusted. “It’s gotten crazy down there,” she informed them. “Street party, in full swing, from the Taipingyang to the Pākīpika.”
Ava soon saw this was no exaggeration. Starting at the Taipingyang, revelers filled the pedestrian mall, some with drinks in hand, others dancing, as music reverberated off the hotel towers. The mood: a weird boil of nihilistic joy.
Ava thought she understood it. The cautious souls had gone, departing on passenger jets or holing up in the concrete bunker of the airport terminal. That left the district in the hands of the romantic, the daring, the desperate—the idiots—all gathered in gregarious celebration of the coming death of a city.
The night was right for it.
A full moon rose behind thin scudding clouds that trailed veils of misty rain across the sky, decorating the night with a pale, red-tinged moonbow.
Delicate white fairy terns whirled in the gusty wind, diving amid strings of colorful, bobbing lanterns hung across the promenade, each one haloed by a haze of salt spray from the crashing breakers. The violent pounding of the waves could be felt in the bones as a constant, low vibration—or maybe that was the music generated by a live band. Ava recognized the sound as Tequila Folly. Despite the risk of rain, they’d set up in the festival grounds, playing out in the open, at the foot of the refurbished Duke Kahanamoku statue. Dunes rose behind them, and an ecstatic crowd boiled all around. No way did they have a permit, but Ivan must have decided to look the other way.
As Ava jumped down from the streetcar in front of the Pacific Heritage, the band concluded one happy dance tune and rolled right into another. All around her, and on the balconies above, revelers cheered their approval. They danced in sweaty ecstasy, some alone and others hip-locked with their partners, grinding out rhythms that made Ava hot with just a passing glance.