Pacific Storm

by Linda Nagata

  “What if we don’t hear from Lyric again?” Akasha asked.

  “It gets harder,” Matt said, his gaze still fixed on Ava, so intense it made her feel vulnerable.

  She didn’t like feeling vulnerable. “You’re still thinking you can use me to get to Kaden. I think we’re past that.”

  A slight shake of his head. “We don’t know that yet—”

  He broke off with a distracted look, just as Ava’s earbud pulsed a sequence of emergency-alert tones. A male voice followed—not the standard voice she’d selected for her system, but something sterner: “Emergency Management System alert. Warning: The Ānuenue Taxi fleet will end service at 1 AM. All travel must be completed before that time. Hurricane Huko is an extremely dangerous Category 5 storm. Shelter only within hurricane-rated structures. Emergency shelters are available at—”

  Ava tapped her earbud, ending the message. Her hand returned to the dog, stroking its head to bleed off tension. They still had time before Denali sailed. But what, realistically, could they do with their time? Arm up and storm the main gate at Pearl Harbor? Send Matt over the wire in a commando operation to sabotage Denali? Or send in an autonomous drone to do it?

  She shook her head. “We’re nowhere if we don’t find allies.”

  Akasha shifted beside her. “Yeah. We’re in a fucking black hole, aren’t we?”

  Maybe not. Ava had worked years for HPD. She knew a lot of people there. And Akasha had some link to Hōkū Ala—tenuous, maybe, but real. Maybe they didn’t have to do this all on their own.

  She glanced at Matt. Found him zoned out on his smart glasses, while Akasha grasped at a wistful alternate history: “Shit, Ava. How did we let this happen? We should be at the coastal park. That’s where we belong.”

  Truth. Right now, Ivan would be organizing a sweep of the beach and the dunes, to clear the park of anyone lingering in the inundation zone. Later, KCA Security would clear the strip and check the lower floors of the hotels to ensure compliance with emergency procedures.

  Anger welled up in Ava for the way things had gone. She’d given up her place in the world and she’d taken Akasha down with her . . . but none of that mattered, not in the greater context of what might be real.

  The truck pulled off on the side of the highway, just outside the stadium complex. Ava whispered goodbye to the dog, then jumped down, waving her thanks to the driver and her partner. Matt and Akasha set off at a fast walk toward the lights and bustle of the stadium complex, but Ava lingered.

  Reach out, she chided herself. Make connections. Tap every potential resource, however unlikely . . . lowest-risk first.

  In the momentary quiet afforded to her there on the side of the road, Ava double-tapped her tactile mic and subvoked, Call Astrid Robicheaux. She saw no downside in talking to Kaden’s college-age daughter—and you never knew what you might learn from relatives.

  Gazing southwest toward the glow of Naval Base Pearl Harbor less than a mile away, she waited for a ring tone. None came. The call went straight to voicemail.

  Speaking aloud, she left a terse message: “I’m a friend of your father’s. There’s an emergency situation here in Honolulu. It goes beyond the hurricane. I’m hoping I can get a call back, as soon as you’re able.”

  Kaden was somewhere in that sprawl of light. Probably at the dock, aboard Denali. Ava wanted to ask him, to demand to know, How do you explain any of this to yourself?

  ◇

  The stadium complex had still felt new when Nolo roared through, ripping apart the roof that shaded the stands, tearing up the seating, and destroying the field lights. But the structure’s shell had survived the hurricane, as had the ancillary buildings. A small hotel and a mini-mall, positioned along the rail line, were among the first structures to be repaired and reopened after the storm.

  Soon after, the state government decided a community center was desperately needed to boost morale, and the stadium would do nicely, thank you. Volunteer work crews cleared the field of debris and stripped every remnant iron seating bracket from the stands. Audiences made do with what was left, bringing canopies for shade, and their own folding seats or cushions to pad the bare concrete tiers. Ava had been to a few concerts and a couple of amateur games. There had always been room enough, just using the lower courses.

  She held the memories of those days and nights, but as she trotted to catch up with Akasha and Matt, the memories felt like they belonged to a different person, a different life.

  A bus glided by, moving on past a line of parking structures left dark and unused by the collapse of private automobile ownership after Nolo. The bus would deliver its passengers to the bright lights and ubiquitous security cameras surrounding the stadium. Closer, quieter—and less subject to surveillance—was the open-air market.

  Established in a re-purposed parking structure close to the train terminal, the market provided a home for an ever-changing assortment of independent vendors. Every day and most nights the first three floors hosted farmers, crafters, resellers, and other entrepreneurs working to supplement their basic income. Most advertised their social ratings alongside their prices, but even those who didn’t had reasonably good reputations, because the market’s management group didn’t allow anyone with a negative rating to set up shop.

  “Let’s split up,” Ava said as they approached the ground-floor entrance. “Not a lot of people tonight, no surprise. We’ll be less noticeable if we’re not moving in a pack. Get what you need, get changed, and get out. We’ve got options, but we need to keep moving.”

  “Look confident,” Matt added. “Don’t look lost, and don’t look like a victim.”

  “We’re fucking cops,” Akasha reminded him.

  “Right. And don’t look like cops.”

  “Just be back here in twelve,” Ava said. “Ping your location if you sense any kind of trouble.”

  They agreed. Akasha headed in to look at the nearby stalls. Matt split off toward another aisle. Ava watched him walk swiftly past the stalls and the browsing shoppers, heading toward the back of the market like he knew where he was going.

  If he found what he was looking for back there, would he drop out of sight? Fail to make the rendezvous?

  She doubted it. If he had wanted to, he could have slipped away with Lyric. And if he had, Ava probably would have stayed to meet the cops who’d been looking for them.

  She kind of wished it had gone that way. But she suspected part of Matt’s assignment was to keep an eye on her, to keep her close, in case it turned out she still had an in with Kaden.

  Setting a countdown timer, she headed upstairs.

  ◇

  Lines and numbers had been painted onto the concrete floor to mark out the stalls—each with enough room for the vendor’s van or truck, and their display tables. The vendors who sold art, kitchenware, flowers, potted plants, carpets, small furnishings, and packaged or preserved food—all those had closed down, their goods packed up and evacuated.

  But at least half the stalls remained open, all offering highly discounted fresh produce and prepared foods—storm sale!—and their supplies were going fast. Ava grabbed three sets of bentos in waxed-lined cardboard boxes—styrofoam and one-use plastic had been banned more than two decades ago. A looming headache warned her she needed to rehydrate, so she picked up a glass bottle of some repulsive-green athletic drink and chugged it. Water would have been better, but you couldn’t get it in plastic bottles anymore. She returned the glass to the vendor, then went to the third floor to look for clothes.

  The stalls closest to the stairway all sold used clothing. Once Ava figured that out, she bypassed their tables without browsing. If this turned out to be her last shopping expedition, she wanted to spend her money on new stuff, tags still attached.

  Money. Her thoughts chased the word. After this adventure—no matter what happened—there wouldn’t be any more paychecks going to her ex-husband for the support of her kids.

  Shit.

  Her own parents we
re gone. There’d be nothing more from her side . . . but her girls were older now. They had basic income and they were smart. She told herself they’d be all right. Did her best to believe it.

  “Hey, sistah,” a friendly female voice called out. “Watcha lookin’ for? Looks like you caught some rain. Need dry clothes for the night?”

  Ava turned to see a smiling, short-haired woman, plump, with Asian features, no more than five-two, standing behind a table stacked with surf-wear. Designer brands. Tags on. Fell off a truck.

  Ava crooked a smile, noting that the vendor didn’t display her social rating. “Yeah, I got caught in the rain. And more rain coming. You got a rash guard that’s gonna fit me?”

  “Sure do. What color you like?”

  She liked black, but that was too close to what she was already wearing, and a light color would be too obvious at night. “Camo?” she asked hopefully.

  “Urban gray or desert tan?”

  Ava’s smile widened at the absurdity of buying luxury goods on the edge of disaster. “Urban gray. A hoodie and lightweight watch cap, too, if you’ve got ’em.”

  Ava examined the goods, approved the purchase. Pricey. No doubt marked up for suspected fugitive status.

  The vendor hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “You wanna jump in the back of the van to change, go ahead.”

  “Thanks.”

  It took Ava just a minute to swap shirts and pull the cap on. Too hot to wear the hoodie, so she stuffed it in the gym bag on top of the food and her duty belt. Damn thing already splitting at the seams. No wonder it’d been left behind.

  “Don’t stay too late,” she advised the vendor as she slung the bag over her shoulder and prepared to leave. “This blow’s going to be bad. Nolo all over again.”

  “Yeah, no worries. Heading home at midnight.” She thrust her chin. “How ’bout you? You gonna shelter at the stadium?”

  “Can’t go home,” she said truthfully.

  Her little apartment was lost to her. She flashed back on the joy of moving in, achieving running water and electricity on the same glorious day. But all those windows . . . they were made of cheap glass, not hurricane-proof. Even if she’d had a way to board them up, plywood wasn’t going to stand up against Huko. There would be no going back anyway, after tonight. Her old life was gone.

  “Aloha,” she called to the vendor. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, sistah.”

  Right.

  She’d headed downstairs, ready to do what was needed—once she figured out what that was.

  ◇

  Ava’s earbud beeped an alert as she reached the landing between the second and third floors. In her exile from HADAFA, the bright, eager female voice of her personal digital assistant had taken over. “Call from Astrid Robicheaux,” it announced.

  Ava startled at the name. She had not really expected a call back, and certainly not this soon.

  “Answer,” she ordered, moving to a corner of the landing as an older couple passed by.

  A second beep, confirming the link.

  “Thank you for calling,” Ava said softly.

  The voice on the other end was strung high with tension: “Who are you?”

  “My name is Ava Arnett. I work for the Coastal Authority. That’s like a special police agency for the Waikīkī District here in Honolulu.”

  “The hurricane hasn’t hit yet?”

  “No, not yet. But things have happened tonight.”

  “My dad?”

  “He may be involved with something, Astrid.”

  A cynical grunt. “Yeah, you mean someone finally figured that out? Has he been arrested?”

  Ava caught her breath, needing a couple of seconds to process this. “Why do you think he’s been arrested?”

  Hesitation. Then, “You should know, I haven’t talked to him in two years, at least. He writes me, but I don’t write back.” She sniffed. Tears had started. “He’s a bigot, you know. And a crypto-fascist. Devoted to Cornerstone.”

  “What?”

  Ava’s chest squeezed. A flush of heat. She had not known that. But should she have known? Guessed? Her thoughts flashed back to the sailor she’d talked to, helping with the evacuation. Most of those Kaden had put ashore were black skinned, or brown.

  “My mom didn’t catch on either,” Astrid said. “Not for years. That’s what she told me, anyway. I think she didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Why?” Ava whispered, not realizing she’d spoken the thought aloud until it was too late.

  “I don’t know. But it’s real. It’s deep. Mom divorced him for it. And after she and Farron died—”

  “What? Your sister? I thought she was in high school?”

  “She should be. She would have been a senior this year, but she and my mom . . .” A shaky breath. “They died in the Endocino Hack. Two years ago now.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  The Endocino Hack had been an insider job. An autonomous taxi company in Charleston, South Carolina, had been compromised. Malware cropped up in the navigation programming. The vehicles had been used in a coordinated terrorist attack, accelerating into crowds of unsuspecting shoppers and kids on school playgrounds, ramming into suburban homes, or driving their hapless passengers into trees or concrete walls. It had been a fucking horror movie, cars possessed by vengeful spirits. But in the end, those spirits had turned out to be a brilliant young programmer of Muslim faith who’d immigrated from Nairobi. In the minds of many, his sins had become the sins of anyone who shared his faith or the dark shade of his skin.

  “I was dating this boy at the time. Mixed race, you know? And not the right mix. He got jumped. Beat up really bad. He wouldn’t talk to me, after. I know my dad had something to do with it. Him and his asshat friends.”

  “Jesus,” Ava whispered. She felt sick, defiled, realizing she didn’t know at all the man she’d been sleeping with for two months.

  “He hides it well,” Astrid said bitterly. “He has to, in the navy.”

  A long pause. Ava at a loss for words.

  Astrid broke the silence. “I know you can’t tell me about the case, but you do have him in custody? Right?”

  “Not yet,” Ava said. “But soon.”

  chapter

  15

  Deep breath.

  Ava imagined a cigarette between her lips, its papery feel, white smoke curling past her throat and into her lungs—a well-rehearsed mental exercise.

  Exhale.

  Envisioning the smoke spewing from her lips, no longer white. Turned dark and toxic by the anxiety and ill feelings it had absorbed, and that it now carried away from her. The exercise helped her to compose herself, to settle her mind, to reject a sense of being in the wrong place, of occupying an alternate reality that allowed impossible things.

  She stood at the wall of the open-air stairwell, looking out at another bus coming in, and beyond it, Kamehameha Highway, with two lanes of heavy traffic heading out of town. Below the highway, athletic fields, and then the dark water of Pearl Harbor, flecked by glints of reflected artificial light and moon-glow that slipped between the clouds.

  If any large ship remained in port at the naval base, she should have been able to pick out its superstructure from where she stood. But the surface fleet had left ahead of Huko, and the submarines would leave in the morning. At least that’s what Kaden had said. She knew now that he’d lied to her, more than once.

  Deep breath.

  The faint roar of a distant jet drew her gaze out over the ocean. She spotted the bright lights of two arriving airliners come to carry away transient visitors and those residents who could afford the ticket and had made the choice to go. She could have gone. Taken Kaden up on his offer, grabbed that seat on a military flight, seen her daughters again . . .

  No way.

  No way could she have ever lived with herself afterward.

  She headed down the stairs again just as her countdown timer went off. A moment later, h
er earbud beeped, and the chipper female voice announced, “Call from Matt Domanski.”

  “Answer.” She waited for the next beep, then said, “I’m on my way.”

  “New rendezvous point,” Matt said. “I’m pinging you the location.”

  Retrieving her smart glasses from the pocket where she’d stashed them, she asked, “What’s changed?”

  “Lyric’s back online—and I’ve got us transportation.”

  ◇

  Ava’s digital assistant mapped a path to the new rendezvous point—ground floor, far back corner—an area occupied by bike racks and charging stations. Tonight the bike racks were empty and only a handful of scooters were still charging up. With the exceptions of Akasha and Matt, the area was deserted, and the chatter and bustle of the marketplace seemed weirdly far away.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Ava asked, eyeing Matt in suspicion.

  “What were you expecting?” he asked her. “An expeditionary vehicle?”

  “An SUV maybe? Or hell, a chartered taxi? Lyric struck me as a woman with resources.”

  Instead, Matt had taken possession of a trio of electric scooters.

  Akasha had already claimed one. She sat on it with one foot on the ground, the other on the scooter’s floorboard. She’d changed from her uniform into a form-fitting gray tank top, black leggings, and a charcoal overshirt. She’d released her hair from its service bun, securing it instead in a braid behind her neck. And she’d exchanged her dinosaur backpack for a more dignified black teardrop style.

  Matt tossed a key fob to Ava, telling her, “This is our best option. These bikes are fast, cheap, off-grid, and therefore unhackable.”

  “Cheap?” Akasha echoed. “You paid three times their cost, new.”

  “Midnight before a major hurricane? That’s still cheap.”

  “It’s not even close to midnight,” Ava said. “But it is damn late for us to be standing here, waiting for Lyric to come up with a mission plan.”