Pacific Storm

by Linda Nagata

  Some creative fool, throwing environmental considerations aside, had released into the crowd what looked like a hundred light-weight plastic balls, six feet in diameter, each glowing in a sequence of rainbow colors. They rolled and bounced among the dancers, or were volleyed overhead to be caught and tumbled by the wind, ricocheting off buildings and balconies and palm trees, or striking the lanterns and falling back against eager, upraised palms or unsuspecting heads.

  Ava named it in her mind: Disaster tourism. Spawned by a philosophy that urged the individual to: Be present! Seek experiences! Take risks! And celebrate! All fun and games, right up until reality kicked in.

  Had any of these people ever seen buildings torn open, infrastructure shattered, friends you trusted your life to swept away, and the bodies of drowned children drifting past in the muddy polluted waters of a killing flood?

  Dance, she thought bitterly. Dance! And stay to see it all. You should see it. Experience it. Every bitter drop. It’s people like you who brought us to this—people with your greed for spectacle, who share a stubborn denial of any responsibility for the fallout from an ongoing global climate catastrophe that you continue to fuel through your own selfish choices.

  A pleasure-seeking suicide cult.

  She punched a bright pink ball out of her way, sending it lofting over the crowd. Then, dodging among the revelers, she escaped to the shadows of the hotel grounds.

  ◇

  Ava called Akasha as she rode the elevator up to the administrative suite. “HPD show up yet?”

  “No. It’s quiet here, and I’m still alone.”

  “Let me know if anything happens.”

  “I will.”

  No one was in the administrative suite and Ivan’s office was empty. A quick check with HADAFA told her he was out on the dunes. So she took the elevator back down to the ready room and checked out a bike from the rack. It was still red-lit, with only a sixty-percent charge, but that would serve her needs.

  She followed a projected green guideline along a route plotted by HADAFA. It took her across the esplanade, and then to the lagoons. Here and there, people wandered the paths. Some couples, but most solitary. Few enough that she could ride fast. As she entered the dunes, the street-party noise faded, replaced by the low ceaseless roar of breaking waves.

  She brought the bike to a stop when her guideline turned, climbing the side of a dune. Looking up, she discovered a startling concentration of humanity standing in silhouette at the dune’s crest—like a primitive army putting in an ominous appearance in a Hollywood flick.

  No way could she ride up there; she’d have to go on foot.

  Parking the bike off the path, she secured her helmet to it, then climbed, following a zig-zagging path of crushed dune grass. The already humid air, laden with salt spray, felt heavy in her lungs.

  Just as she reached the crest, a curling wave collapsed on itself, generating a sharp boom! like a rifle shot. Instinct dropped her into a crouch. Incoming!

  “Damn it,” she murmured to herself. “Get a grip.”

  Standing up again, she moved among the gathered storm watchers, their moonlit figures adorned with a constellation of green, gold, and red LED indicator lights as they used their electronic gear in what must surely be a futile attempt to capture the majesty of the ocean. White water everywhere for a half-mile offshore, and massive swells rising beyond that, their peaks glittering in moonlight.

  She scanned the diffuse horizon, but nowhere could she make out the dark silhouette of a patrolling warship. They had all fled ahead of the storm.

  Later tonight, the full moon would conjure a peak high tide, but already the storm waves rushed the full width of the beach, to chew at the dunes, slowly eroding them. Eventually, the buried seawall would be exposed. Not tonight. But by this time tomorrow? Surely.

  She moved on, following a rope barrier, newly installed along the dune’s crest. Up ahead, a soft gold glow highlighted Ivan’s position. He wore the black uniform, with the duty belt around his hips. As she approached, he was warning two twenty-somethings to stay behind the barrier. “If you tumble down there and the sea takes you, you’re on your own. No one is going after you.”

  The lifeguard buoy he carried over his shoulder stole some of the punch from this warning. But he had height, muscle, and an aura of authority that warned these young men, Don’t mess with me. They wised up, apologized, and retreated behind the rope.

  Ava stepped forward. He saw her and nodded. “We’ll have to close the dunes in another couple of hours. We don’t have the personnel to keep watch on the entire shoreline.”

  “We need to talk,” she told him.

  He watched the crowd, not her. “So talk.”

  She spoke in a low voice, trusting the noise of the surf to secure their conversation. “I can’t prove it yet, but I know what the connection is between the influx of EP4’s—and it’s likely we’ve stumbled into an ongoing federal investigation. But all that’s on the shelf tonight.”

  “Agreed. With this hurricane, we are in an all-hands-on-deck situation.”

  “It’s more than that.” As quickly as she could, Ava sketched for him what had happened that night, both at the hospital and in the street. She told him her fears. “Matthew Domanski knows something and there is a faction on this island who does not want that knowledge to get out. This is serious, Ivan. I think we’re facing the possibility of a major terrorist incident—and Akasha is standing guard on her own. HPD hasn’t come. They probably can’t spare anyone—”

  “I can’t either, Ava.”

  “Authorize me to go back,” she insisted. “As soon as we can get Domanski turned over to his handler, we’ll be back here. Promise.”

  chapter

  10

  The gusting wind whooshed past the dull-green steel poles supporting the vibrating canvas of Harbor Station’s roof. Maintenance crews had climbed to the top of the poles and were working to furl the canvas, winding it back onto mechanical rollers, one section at a time.

  The crush of departure had passed here too, and the station had gone eerily quiet. Only two HPD officers remained. The one on the upper level stood alone beside a waiting train. The other, at the foot of the escalator, gently urged a tardy group of three Japanese visitors to hurry upstairs and board.

  Ava eyed the officer. She’d summoned an autonomous taxi, now ninety seconds out, but given that her last ride had been hijacked, she would rather find an alternate mode of transportation. What were the odds she could bum a ride from the cop?

  Doesn’t hurt to ask.

  She started to walk over, conscious of the weight of the Glock on her belt, and of the extra ammunition clips. But as she skirted the curb, a taxi—not hers—pulled in. Ava stopped to watch it, sensing something off. There was no queue at the taxi station and no one hurrying over to claim the ride. So why hadn’t this taxi been assigned to her?

  The vehicle’s left front door opened, revealing an empty seat. After a few seconds, a woman leaned into view—black skin, hair close-cropped and tightly curled, her face as lovely as that of a runway model, despite the hard lines of her smart glasses. Even in such an awkward position her pose held a casual elegance. Ava did not need HADAFA’s whisper to identify her.

  Lyric Jones.

  Abandoning her plan to hit up the cop for a ride, Ava stepped up to the taxi, bending low to scan its interior. No one else inside.

  “Get in,” Lyric said.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Matt’s waking up. I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell me.”

  “That order you sent me was rescinded.”

  Lyric raised a thin eyebrow. “Please get in. I may need backup and you’re going there anyway.”

  If Ava didn’t get in, she’d never get answers.

  She slid into the open seat, a hand resting on her holstered shockgun as she kept a wary eye on Lyric. “Talk fast,” she urged. With the sparse traffic, it would take the taxi only a few minutes to reach the
medical center. “What’s your involvement with Robert Bell? What are you working on? And why did you show me my expanded profile?”

  Lyric eyed her in turn, leaning against the armrest, her long legs stretched out under the dash. She wore a silky black, long-sleeve collared shirt, with black slacks, and black flat-soled shoes. Her feet shared the floor with an olive-drab cloth bag, like a military flight bag. She said, “You’re a person of interest to me. A close associate of my primary target—and I want you on my side.”

  “Akasha is a good cop,” Ava said defensively, incredulous that the young officer had drawn this level of attention.

  “I’m not talking about Akasha Li. Right now, her documented association with Hōkū Ala is a peripheral concern.”

  Ava drew back, her gaze shifting to the street ahead. A passing shower had left the asphalt wet and gleaming with crisscrossed paths of light cast by the streetlights. “Sigrún then?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

  She tried to imagine who at KCA Security might be associated with a dissident group whose existence was so sensitive that a high-level security rating was required just to access its basic profile—and she couldn’t come up with anyone.

  Her stomach knotted, knowing she’d failed to read the people around her, even with HADAFA’s aid. A failure that might endanger the civilians she was sworn to protect.

  “Sigrún,” Lyric confirmed, her inflection transforming the name into a curse. “A subversive nationalist organization, headed by Daniel Conrad, with deep roots in the military. Commander Kaden Robicheaux was recruited by Conrad, and is an active member.”

  A shockwave of anger and denial exploded across Ava’s mind.

  This is bullshit. Complete bullshit.

  Her hand darted for the emergency stop button.

  Lyric was faster. She caught Ava’s wrist. “It’s true.”

  “It’s a lie. You’re fucking with me, the way you fucked with Robert Bell.” She yanked her wrist free. The medical center, less than a minute away.

  Lyric said, “Robert Bell and all his friends were my side trick. My cover for the real game—the game we’re both playing now. Have you figured out yet who your assailants were?”

  “Friends of yours?” Ava guessed.

  “No. Friends of your friend. The man who tackled you—did you notice he made sure he hit the ground first, saving you from a possible head injury?”

  An hour had passed since the assault. Plenty of time for Lyric to review video of the incident—an incident for which no record existed, not at the level of reality Ava inhabited.

  “They didn’t want to hurt you,” Lyric went on. “Just take you out of play. Keep you quiet, in case Matt had communicated some critical intelligence to you.”

  The taxi turned in at the medical center, rolled slowly up the driveway, then stopped just outside the hospital’s lobby doors. The doors opened, and the security guard Ava had talked to before, Francis Hoapili, stepped outside to glare. Clearly, he expected trouble.

  “Let’s talk to Matt,” Lyric said sternly. “Then you can tell me whose side you’re on.” She picked up the bag at her feet and opened the door.

  “What are you carrying?” Ava demanded to know.

  “Clothing. Gear. Weapons.”

  ◇

  The first defense when faced with an intolerable future was denial: It can’t be true.

  But what did Ava know of truth?

  She used to think she could recognize it, that she could assess a situation, know who could be relied on, and act accordingly. Then she had gone out into the storm with Kayla, Miguel, and Tyree, believing in them, sure they could handle the violence and the chaos of Nolo without panic taking over.

  Ava had been wrong.

  Since then, she’d come to rely on HADAFA, trusting the system to show her the shape of people’s hearts, even though the conclusions she’d been allowed to see were half-truths based on incomplete data sets, crucial information absent if it intersected in some way with an area of national security.

  Ava had known the system worked that way, even before tonight. Kaden’s sparse profile had been proof. But she’d convinced herself it didn’t matter. She’d trusted the system anyway, because she wanted to believe what it told her. She wanted to know the actions she took were right, based on fact, and not on bias or volatile emotion.

  But Lyric had taken away the delusion of certainty, and in its absence, doubt spread like a virulent mold across Ava’s mind. Doubt kept her from calling Kaden. It left her ashamed to call him, to question him. She trusted him. She didn’t trust Lyric.

  She got out of the taxi, her face locked in a neutral expression despite the heat in her cheeks.

  Hoapili looked her over. His gaze lingered on her pistol, before sliding over to Lyric as she came around the front of the taxi, flight bag in hand. “You bringing more trouble?” he asked Ava.

  “Have you had more trouble?”

  Akasha hadn’t reported anything.

  “Officer Li indicated she was expecting trouble when I found her trying to move the John Doe to another room.”

  “Trying?”

  The guard shrugged a huge round shoulder. “We moved him to the third floor to allow for the option of a fast exit from the building.”

  Even without HADAFA’s guidance, Ava had guessed Hoapili to be former military. Now she felt sure. A small ironic proof that her own judgment was not entirely dormant. But why had HADAFA not included such a basic kernel of information in Hoapili’s profile? Was it because the system had predicted Ava would try to recruit him as an ally if she knew the scope of his experience?

  If so, good guess.

  She nodded to Hoapili. “Thanks, brah. I appreciate it.”

  “We’ll be exiting shortly,” Lyric added.

  Hoapili regarded her with deep suspicion. Ava’s regard for the man grew. “Do me a favor,” she said to him. She slipped off her smart glasses and held them out for an electronic handshake. “Call me if any more military types come to visit, uniformed or not.”

  Hoapili nodded, took his phone out of his pocket, and held it close to her glasses long enough for the devices to trade numbers. “I don’t like this spook stuff, sister.”

  Ava nodded heartfelt agreement. “I don’t either.”

  Akasha called, as they crossed the lobby. “He’s awake. Agitated. Asking for a phone.”

  “Yeah? Good timing. Show him that picture of Lyric I sent you. Let me hear what he says.”

  A flash of white teeth as Lyric indulged in a cutting smile.

  The volume of Akasha’s voice dropped but Ava could still clearly hear her asking, “You know who this is?”

  A male voice responded, low and hoarse. “Where is she? Is she here? I need to talk to her, now!”

  Ava pressed her lips together, shaken again, because she knew now that at least part of Lyric’s story was true. But how far did it go?

  Could it go all the way to Kaden?

  Please, no.

  Denial was the first defense against an intolerable future . . . but Ava was past that. Going forward, she would have to gather and weigh what facts she could, and pick through the half-truths Lyric offered, and somehow decide for herself what it all meant—and hope she didn’t fuck it up along the way.

  In a neutral voice she told Akasha, “We’re downstairs. On our way up now.”

  ◇

  Put on guard by the sound of an irate male voice, Ava acted with caution, easing open the door to Matt Domanski’s hospital room, just enough to assess the situation. Akasha stood a few steps within, shoulders square and elbows bent, poised as if to guard the door against Domanski’s early exit.

  He sounded eager to leave.

  “I have to get out of here! It’s critical. Sigrún will know I’m here. And time is running out.” The wild timbre of his voice suggested he’d emerged from drugged exhaustion into a state of dynamic paranoia. He sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, his skin flushed and mottled, facing off agai
nst the fiercely scowling Dr. Banerjee.

  The diminutive physician gripped his sinewy shoulder with one hand, ignoring the reality that she did not have the mass to hold him down. With her other hand, she wielded a pen light in an effort to examine his eyes. “You will go when I say you’re ready to go,” she snapped. “Now, sit still! Let me finish my assessment.”

  Domanski was not persuaded. Jaw set, he seized Banerjee by the wrists. The pen light fell to the floor as he shoved her gently but irresistibly out of the way and stood, naked and unsteady, his hospital robe abandoned on the bed. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he warned.

  Ava pushed the door open wide and came in, Lyric a step behind her.

  “Settle down, Matt,” Lyric ordered.

  At the sound of her voice, his head whipped around. Frantic hope and manic desperation shared space in his wide-eyed gaze.

  Dr. Banerjee gripped his arm. “You need rest,” she declared, guiding him back to sit on the bed. “I’m keeping you overnight.”

  Akasha gave Lyric a dubious look, but flattened against the wall, allowing her to stride past.

  “He won’t be staying,” Lyric announced. “He’s going with me.” She chucked the flight bag onto the foot of the bed. “Get dressed,” she told Matt.

  His gaze darted around the room. “I need to report. It’s gotten away from us, Lyric. It’s really happening. It’s happening now.”

  “It can’t be happening now,” Lyric assured him. “Locations of the principals are known. There’s time. Get a grip on yourself and get dressed.”

  Matt looked uncertain, but he reached for the flight bag, while Lyric turned to Dr. Banerjee. “Have your system identify me.”

  Banerjee looked like she wanted to spit, but she did as ordered, studying Lyric through the lens of her smart glasses. After several seconds, Banerjee’s youthful brow wrinkled. Her lips pursed in distaste. “All right,” she conceded—agreeing, but to what? To accept Lyric’s authority?