by Weston Ochse
A Filipina girl kicked him awake.
“Go, go, go. We no want you here.” Her shrill voice sent blades through his aching head.
He’d pissed himself in his dreams. His back felt wet as well. The stench of the monkey’s evacuation made him feel sick. When he reached back with his hands and realized that it covered his back, he couldn’t help himself. He rose to one knee and retched on the deck.
Amidst the screams of the girl and her mother, who’d joined him when he’d fouled their ship, he managed to stand. He pulled himself away, using the rails and cables as an anchorage to keep himself steady.
He found a rhythm. He’d stagger for a moment, then sleep, leaning against whatever he ended up against. The sun fell and still he moved on, urged by boat owners and citizens of the city. They wanted a cure, but none of them wanted to see it in action. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been traveling, but eventually he came to a ship he knew well. It was a super tanker, empty and ghettoized by the myriad peoples who lived within it.
Kavika knew this as an unaffiliated ship. It was free space. He could not be denied access. And the very bottom of the bottom was a place where he’d only been once, retrieving an old friend of Wu’s who’d lost his battle with the velvety grip of the poppy. The place was called The Hole. He’d seen more monkey-backed there than he could count. At the time, he’d shuddered with the idea of anyone living amidst the offal and oil. But now, as he stood exhausted and devoid of friendship, it seemed the perfect place for him to rest his soul.
It took him another hour of falling and staggering before he made it to the bottom. He found a spot by two other monkey-backed, and lay on his side between them on the slanted floor. His feet slid into the oil pooling below. He didn’t have the strength to pull them free and so left them there, his body resting against the shit-encrusted metal of the supertanker’s hold, hands clasped together and placed between his legs as he’d done when he was a boy and scared of what might come next.
Sleep—or a version of waking that mimicked sleep—soon found him. The kaleidoscope of the monkey’s vision twirled and cascaded through his mind, reliving the journey from the Freedom Ship to the hole, a lifetime of monkey memories, and the face of the snoring Korean girl behind him.
The last memory Kavika had for a long, long time was of Spike, her quick grin, her painted nails, and her lust for life. Then he dreamed of her flayed alive and hanging like a flag from the ship of Abraham Lincoln.
DADDY? WHY MONKEYS?
What do you mean?
Why not other animals?
I suppose because they were more like us.
But they’re so dirty.
So are we, Kavika. So are we.
SOMEONE FED HIM. Someone else came and cleaned him. He didn’t have the strength or the inclination to move. The monkey’s theta waves and his own were almost in synch. He knew this only because he knew nothing else. He lived and breathed the joining.
THE DARKNESS WAS complete. Kavika didn’t know how many days had passed. He’d seen the light cycle, but had lost the ability to count. He passed his time by picking the fleas from the monkey in front of him. They slipped from his fingers unless he gripped them in a certain way. Once he had them, he slid them into his mouth. They tasted of oil and acid, but the crunch was satisfying. He felt his own hair being parted by something behind him. A joyful connectedness surged through him.
DADDY?
What’s Daddy?
Daddy?
Who you talking to?
My Daddy.
Your Daddy’s dead.
Then who are you?
I am you.
No you aren’t.
I am now.
GREE-GREE-GREE
HELLO?
Who’s there?
Where are you taking me?
Daddy?
Gree-gree?
Daddy?
Gree?
Daddy, where are you?
Gree-gree-gree!
LOPEZ-LAROU HAD HER own troubles. She owed The Family for the loss. She’d fronted the Pali Boy three hundred grams, against her better judgment. But it was her avarice that had conspired against her. Her desire to be like Sanchez Kelly and Paco Braun had infused her every waking moment. If only she had her own company of runners, she could make some serious chits, and elevate herself within Los Tiburones. But that was a dream she’d never attain if she didn’t get the grams back, or some equivalent value.
She’d determined that neither the Water Dog transvestite nor the strange Pali Boy knew about the drugs, which meant that it was either the Boxers or one of the other Pali Boys who’d taken them. She’d heard that they’d been first on the scene, gathering around their fallen brother as if their presence could bring him back to life.
She doubted it was one of the Boxers. They were like single-minded animals in their attention to their business. If the Nips had sent them to blood rape, then that’s what they did. Their leashes were tight; she’d seen them pass up plenty of opportunities to cheat and steal, so eager were they to get back to their masters.
That left the Pali Boys. Most of the citizens of the city thought of them as simple boys, or more commonly a nuisance. Their ability to stay high above everyone else afforded them a certain celebrity status. But the truth was that they were just like everyone else. They sinned. They lied. They desired things they couldn’t have. Akamu wasn’t the first Pali Boy to become a runner for Los Tiburones.
She’d heard from one of her sources that a Mga Tao had come into some Waffle Dust. The information was less than an hour old. She knew enough about Kelly and Braun to know that they didn’t do business with the Monkey Worshippers. Plus, Waffle Dust was something in particular that she liked to make—it was her signature. Kelly specialized in opiates, which is why he was so popular with the Nips. Braun specialized in Benzodiazepine remodeling, which didn’t give the same high as an opiate, but allowed the user to function while under the influence.
Like any good chemist, she could tell her own drugs from anyone else’s. She added a little bit of thyme to each bag, giving it an herbal aftertaste that wasn’t at all unpleasant. So unless someone had an incredible desire to replicate her own signature drugs, she’d be able to determine if the Mga Taos had gotten hold of her missing drugs or not.
Their ship was an old teaching ship. The name University of the Waves still held out against the weather, the raised black lettering stark against the white bow. Built like a cruise ship, the differences inside were unremarkable, except that the places where the cruise passengers had used to eat had been replaced by classrooms and auditoriums. It was an open ship, so she didn’t have to pass a chit to board. She wore her standard black cotton pants and shirt, and had a knife at her waist, and another secreted on her calf if needed.
She made her way to the gangway and into the reception area, marking the two groups of people based here. The administrators were dressed in everyday garb, with silk orange bands across their foreheads, while the monks were dressed in full orange robes with flared sleeves and hoods.
An administrator approached her, speaking in Tagalog. Lopez-Larou introduced herself in Spanish, then English, and he frowned and held out an orange arm band. She took it. She’d be expected to wear it around her left arm during her time aboard ship.
One of the problems with the Taos was that they universally didn’t speak English. They stuck to Tagalog as much as possible. Since Lopez-Larou only knew a few words of Tagalog, she was hoping that her target was willing to converse in Spanish; a few had been known to when pressed.
Her target’s name was Bituin. She worked in the auditoriums, although Lopez-Larou didn’t know what she did; she’d never been to the auditoriums, and her source worked in the engine room. He was a regular customer of Lopez-Larou’s who did the night shift and found it hard to stay awake. With her help, he was now being considered for a promotion, which meant day shift. That meant he might not need her help anymore, but that didn’t worry her. The word wa
s out, now; his success story would drive more towards her and she’d be more than willing to help.
Lopez-Larou found an approachable young Tao and asked for Bituin. He gestured towards a hall. She followed it and found herself at the intersection of three hallways. There were signs on the walls, left over from when the ship had been a college. She was sure that Biology Wing, History Wing, and Sports Wing didn’t mean the same things today as they had pre-plague.
She chose the middle hall, and walked down it like she belonged there. Each of the doors she passed bore name placards; she suspected that they were old dorm rooms, now used as living quarters. One thing that struck her was how clean everything was. Most ships weren’t as large, nor were they as organized. Regardless of what she thought of their crazy religion, the Taos knew how to keep a clean ship.
She came to another intersection, but this one only went in two directions. She was about to take the one on the left, when a door opened and an older man stepped out. On seeing her, he raised his hand and spoke to her in rapid-fire Tagalog.
She responded with an innocent smile. “I’m lost,” she said in Spanish. “Maybe you can help me.”
He seemed flustered, but responded in accented Spanish. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I figured as much. Sorry, elder. Maybe you can direct me?”
“Go back the way you came. This area is private.”
“I can’t do that. I’ve come to see Bituin.”
He shook his head. “She’s busy. We’re expecting an input and you can’t be here.”
Lopez-Larou saw her chance diminishing. She sighed and flapped her hands. She stammered, “I’m late for my appointment. I was supposed to be here an hour ago.” She bowed and shook her head. “I’ll be in so much trouble if I don’t see her, elder. Please, if you can just show me, then I’ll be on my way.”
He appraised her, looking her up and down. She shuddered gently with implied fear and tried not to meet his gaze.
Finally he grinned. “Go back to the intersection and take the right hand hall that says ‘Sports Wing.’ It will take you to where she is. But be quick about it. She’ll be busy very soon.”
She bowed low and backed away, thanking him in his native language. She headed back the way she’d come. She’d noted the name on his door. Joselito Senior. She’d use that name if she came into contact with someone else who tried to get in her way.
When she got to the intersection, she followed the sign to the Sports Wing. She imagined the things she’d seen in magazines and on vids: tennis courts, basketball courts, gymnastic equipment, a boxing ring. The hall, when she arrived, was immense. The door opened onto a landing with a wide staircase descending along the wall and a platform overlooking the room. She imagined many things, but was totally unprepared for what she saw as she stepped to the railing.
Instead of sporting equipment, the entire room had been cleared, revealing a flat space the size of most ships. A raised round stage stood in the middle, atop which danced a naked fat man. He moved slowly to unseen music, his glacial gyrations sending him back and forth across the stage to the ebb and flow of the music. She tried to place the instrument but couldn’t; some sort of mouth organ, perhaps.
Arrayed around the stage in ever-widening circles were plush red couches, the kind she would have imagined finding in one of the dining areas before the plague, when people spent money to travel and engorge themselves. Strange multi-limbed figures reclined on the couches.
No...
Now she saw it. Monkey-backs. Her hand went to her mouth. She’d never seen so many at one time; never in such numbers. She counted roughly sixty monkey-backs.
The orange-robed monks were going to each of them, massaging their muscles, wiping them clean. Some fed them, but it seemed only the monkeys were being fed. And here and there she saw a monk picking a flea from the chest of one of the monkeys eating it.
She realized she’d been holding her breath, and blew it out. “Jesus.”
And there, in the far corner of the room, among a group of administrators, stood the only Tao woman in the room. It had to be her.
Lopez-Larou made her way down the stairs and across the room without bringing attention to herself. It wasn’t hard. Everyone kept their eyes on the monkeys.
“Bituin?”
The woman turned. Her eyes flashed; she was unhappy to be disturbed.
“I need to speak with you,” Lopez-Larou pressed.
The woman shook her head and glanced at her fellow administrators, who in turn were looking at her. “What are you doing here?” Lopez-Larou was a Tiburón; they could tell by looking at her. Her presence could only mean one thing.
“Please. In private.” Lopez-Larou gestured to a space a few feet away.
The woman seemed ready to argue, then gritted her teeth and balled her fists. She shook her head as she made her way over. “What is it?”
“You bought something recently,” Lopez-Larou said.
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“Sure you did. We all know you did.” The fat man drew her attention. She couldn’t look away.
“Please—you have the wrong person.”
Lopez-Larou wrenched her gaze away from the nude abomination. “Your name is Bituin. You purchased three hundred grams of Waffle Dust. And by the looks of it, I know who it was for.”
She watched the woman closely, but she didn’t bat an eye.
“I came because of the problem we have with that batch. Wrong chemistry. Just don’t use it.”
“What?” Bituin shook her head as if to clear it. “What?” she repeated.
“If you give it to someone, it will kill them.”
The woman’s gaze moved to the man on stage.
Just as Lopez-Larou expected.
The monk took a step towards him.
Lopez-Larou put a hand on her arm. “Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know his name.” Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She pointed at the fat man, “Will he be all right?”
Lopez-Larou pulled a pouch of white powder from her waist. She’d used the ruse a couple of times before, but it always worked. “He needs to have this within the hour to counteract the chemistry.” She handed it to the woman. “What did he look like? The man who sold you this?”
She stared at the pouch in her hand. With her other hand she traced a line from her chin to her navel. “He had a tattoo along here,” she said.
She seemed about to say something else, when a group of orange-robed Taos entered the room from the landing. Two by two they descended; between each duo they carried a monkey-backed. All in all three new monkey-backed were brought into the room and placed on couches.
When the third one was laid on the couch directly opposite her, Lopez-Larou was stunned to see it was the Pali Boy. Gone was the eager, dancing gaze of the young man she’d met, replaced by the dull stare of one forever connected to a monkey.
What a shame.
What a goddamn pitiful shame.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY WERE ONE.
Kavika didn’t know where his thoughts ended and the other’s began.
The smell was different. No longer were they inhaling the stench of The Hole. Gone was the cloying smell of oil. Their slick, greasy bodies had been washed, leaving his skin flowery, like memories of the jungle, and of the rooftops of Hindu temples.
Gree-gree-gree!
Music filled his mind. From somewhere it came, like the whisper of a desert wind, breezes slipping through a mountain pass, and the bending of trees after a summer monsoon. The notes lifted and carried him past his childhood, into a borrowed memory of buildings and temples and auburn skies, to a place where his new being swung free, serenaded by the sound as he pulled and swung forever in a breeze filled with love.
Gree-gree-gree!
Orange clouds of love touched them, running their hands and arms across their bodies. A touch here. A touch there. A long line of adoration slid down one arm
, across their backs, ending at their chin; whose, he couldn’t tell. The orange-clouded beings were everywhere, wrapping them in glorious devotion, billowing, billowing, billowing, like the breaths of a family of lovers, trapped in an orange-veiled universe.
And at the end of his milky vision undulated a great white being. Round and long and thick and strong, it moved with the grace of a heartbeat. From one side of heaven to the other, the being rode the unseen notes of the wordless lament.
They were fed through one mouth. Food entered one part of them, but both felt the surge of energy. Both moved their jaws. Both felt the satisfaction of sustenance course through cells new and old.
Gree-gree-gree!
Gree-gree-gree!
Gree-gree-gree!
They both murmured happy happys to the universe.
Content to be one.
Ready to be less.
Wanting to just be.
IVANOV BLEW SNOT out of his nose, wiped it with the back of his hand, and poured himself another glass of vodka. He watched the grue slide down the wall, then chased the outrage with the cool clean liquor. He grimaced, not from any effect from the Vitamin V but from the knowledge of a man who’d lived a life less than what he’d dreamed.
Once he’d been the captain of the Stalingrad, an Akulu Class Submarine from a Russia rising above the cesspool it had become after the collapse of the world’s most powerful socialist union. He’d had the firepower to turn stern gazes into fearful ones. With a finger hovering over the launch button, he could convince third-world dictators and rulers of the free world to do anything he desired; the alternative being wrapped in a nuclear cloud-shaped bow.
He’d had power beyond power. Rasputin never held so much potential in his miserable dwarf fist. Not the sort of power Captain Victor Ivanov of the Imperial Russian Navy had once wielded.