Koko Takes a Holiday

by Kieran Shea

  Koko stared at her boots.

  Man, she didn’t want to die here. Not here. Not in some smoking wasteland surrounded and outnumbered by a bunch of tumor-faced de-civs. Koko expected some kind of fry-out at any second and secretly hoped if an assault did come it would be mercifully quick.

  Once again, Koko admired Delacompte’s absolute calm under fire, her unflappable leadership. Whenever they happened to be paired up on a mission, Delacompte never let even the most lethal of situations appear out of her stalwart control. Her tenacity and élan was something Koko had been trying to emulate ever since she had the good fortune to meet Delacompte. And the ElektroCorp assignment in Sanya was, what? Their tenth syndicate mission in the field together?

  At first Koko thought their crossing paths on so many aggressive actions was merely coincidence, but eventually Koko learned there was no such thing as coincidence on reconstruction and industrialization ops. Too much at stake. And rudimentary examination of such operations showed success was in the statistics, right? So the corporations and syndicates took great pains to build complete, efficient teams. After all, when world conglomerates and their surviving puppet governments are trying to jumpstart commerce after a couple of centuries’ worth of false-start Armageddons, all the deadly ducks needed to be in a row.

  Koko took a quick look at the webbed-out carcasses of the two mercenaries who were with them up until about five minutes prior. The dead faces of the two fallen were so serene inside their helmets, if it weren’t for the blood and pulverized bone you’d swear they were catching a few Zs. Poor bastards never knew what hit them. One minute you’re dittybopping around, collecting operational data and sucking down your morning’s paste rations, the next you’re lit up and deep-fried.

  Delacompte saw Koko looking at the bodies and slapped Koko’s arm.

  “You see that tower structure there?”

  Koko turned her head and peeked over the mound of broken debris in front of them.

  “You mean the one leaning just to the right of the enemy’s position?”

  Delacompte nodded. The condensation in her helmet’s screen made her look almost faceless, like a ghost. “Yeah, that’s the one. Totally weakened base on that sucker. We’re going to discharge everything we got at the foot of that tower and hope she’ll topple right over in front of the Kongercats.”

  “Everything we’ve got?”

  “Yup.”

  “But we’ll be defenseless.”

  “That’s the idea,” Delacompte said confidently. “These de-civs have to believe we’re desperate. Unloading on them full bore like that will convey a sense of panic. If they think we’ve unloaded everything, then maybe they’ll take the opportunity to launch an all-out counter-offensive. If they do, the plan is to have Davidson’s and Kamiński’s crews out-flank them. If we’re lucky and we lure the Kongercats out, only a few of them will be left standing when the smoke clears.”

  Koko motioned to the dead bodies behind them.

  “And what? We just hope they don’t cut us to pieces like these two?”

  Delacompte didn’t waste a look on the dead mercs. Instead she squatted down closer to Koko to make her point clear.

  “Look, Martstellar,” Delacompte said. “I’m real sorry about these two. Hell, when ElektroCorp does our wash-up, I’ll even take the heat, let them dock my credits for their expense. The truth is we can’t wait this out. No way, no how. Those Kongercats are going to make their move, and they’re going to make it soon.”

  Koko dipped her helmet. The rush from the amphetamine chew kicked in just then, and Koko felt the chemical heat burning up her blood.

  “God, I hate this,” she griped. “Why can’t these obstructionist de-civs roll over for initiatives like everybody else?”

  Delacompte laughed. “Hundreds of years of tested living, that’s why. Global contagions, a few centuries of smartwars, all the environmental and geopolitical ruin… like anyone, these pains in the butt are just trying to make their way in the world. Not to mention this is your job, soldier, so quit complaining. This works out and we go one-on-one with these de-civs? You’re going to impress the hell out of them with your moves.”

  Koko grinned. “Didn’t know flattery was part of my compensation package, Big D.”

  “Martstellar, you’re a shit-hot hand-to-hand fighter, and you know it.”

  Koko couldn’t help but feel a small flash of pride.

  Screw it, Koko thought. She cranked the levels on her weapon and armed every last pulse grenade on her rack. Koko then attached a grenade launcher to her own KRISS F9 pulse rifle and fed the grenades into the weapon’s breech. Meanwhile, Delacompte patched the orders to Davidson and Kamiński’s bricks via her own ocular. After some confirmation static, a synchronized countdown began on Delacompte’s mark.

  “You ready?” Delacompte asked.

  Koko sucked in a deep breath. Exhaled.

  “Born and bred, boss.”

  “Then let’s do this.”

  * * *

  Turns out, Delacompte’s plan that day worked out just as she described it. It was as though Delacompte had foreseen every single one of the Kongercats’ useless tactics. Their group didn’t lose another specialist, and none of the Kongercat de-civ militants were left alive. Gutsy-as-hell move was what ElektroCorp called it. Gutsy-as-hell and bonus credits were awarded all around.

  So, yeah, Koko thinks. Portia Delacompte has had her mettle tested with fringe clingers like this before. All in all, she’ll probably finagle Koko a slap on the wrist or perhaps a small fine. Plus, Koko tells herself, be realistic. It’s not the first time somebody stepped over the line on The Sixty Islands and got themselves popped for their troubles.

  Koko picks up a glass and pours herself two fingers’ worth of rail beauty. She hasn’t spoken with Delacompte in almost a year, and when Koko did it was to see about financing a second brothel operation out near The Sixty’s landing fields. Something catering strictly to the merchant contractors and overworked SI staff. When Koko presented her pitch to Delacompte, Delacompte was excessively cool to the proposal and even chillier to Koko. Sure, she and Delacompte move in different circles now, with Delacompte being an executive and everything, but deep down Koko feels that something had somehow changed between them. Of course Koko realizes that even the best of friendships fade, so she attributed Delacompte’s quiet distance to Delacompte’s polishing her image above her bloody past, wrapping the façades of establishment and pretentiousness around her rough edges. Hell, could she blame the woman? Delacompte has been through a lot, and, like Koko herself, everybody reinvents herself some time.

  Koko shuts down the prompts on the register and kills the last of the bar lights except for some piping blue neon looped above the projection piano. Tucking in at the projection piano’s hover bench for a spell, she fiddles on the holographic keys with an ancient tune she used to know and before Koko knows it, it’s a mere three hours before sunrise.

  After taking a final throat-clearing splash of rail beauty on some shaved ice, she yawns and wanders back upstairs to bed. She slides beneath the damp sheets next to Archimedes, and reflexively the young man reaches down between her warm, smooth thighs. Coaxing.

  “Koko-sama…”

  Koko pushes Archimedes’ hand away. Phew, don’t get her wrong. She adores the boy’s panther-like athleticism in the sack and how he spends hours tripping her bells and whistles, but it’s well past late, and Koko is bushed.

  With a sigh, Koko rolls over and quickly falls asleep.

  DISMAL NEWS COMES A-KNOCKING

  A few hours later, Archimedes rouses Koko with a triple-shot cup of hydroponic espresso on a saucer.

  Archimedes is dressed in a red cotton macramé thong and black rubber sandals and gushes a non-stop stream of indecipherable burbles and clicks, the gist of which suggests that a group of six CPB security personnel are downstairs in the main bar and very, very angry.

  Koko rubs the heels of her hands into her eyes and sits up
on sweat-soaked pillows. She takes the offered coffee from Archimedes’ trembling hands and downs the scalding liquid in a string of sharp, wincing slurps.

  “What time is it?” she asks, stretching.

  Archimedes takes the empty espresso cup and sets it on the saucer.

  “Six-fifteen, Koko-sama.”

  Koko’s eyes pop. “Six-fif-what? Goddamn it! Since when do CPB security clowns get their collective acts together before eight? The message on the prompts said they wouldn’t be here until nine. What the—”

  Koko pushes Archimedes aside. Planting her bare feet on the broad planks of the bedroom floor, she searches for her discarded clothes and finds them draped over the arm of a nearby chair. Quickly, Koko yanks on a pair of khaki shorts and pulls a plain white tank top over the top of her head. She jabs her bare feet into a heavy pair of tan utility boots and jerks open her suite’s door.

  On the upstairs landing, Koko finds a group of boywhores huddled and gazing down at the morning visitors in the bar below with awe and fascination. Koko stamps an impatient foot, and the young men quickly flutter back inside their respective rooms.

  A voice calls up.

  “Koko Martstellar?”

  Koko edges forward and peers over the railing. Sure enough, six Custom Pleasure Bureau security personnel are fanned out in an inverted U pattern in the bar’s main dance area. Three men and three women. All are heavily side-armed and grim-faced to beat the proverbial band.

  “Speaking.”

  A tall blonde woman, apparently the group’s senior officer, breaks off from the formation and assesses her with humorless gray eyes.

  “SI Security. Can we have a moment with you, please?”

  Koko sighs, turns, and takes the stairs, making her way down the steps two at a time. When Koko reaches the bottom, she draws back her hair and cinches it off with a rubber band pulled from her front pocket.

  “What can I do for you this morning, officer?” Koko asks.

  The tall blonde officer takes a few steps and speaks as though from a memorized script. “Koko P. Martstellar, you are hereby charged with the following violations of Vendor Operator Decree Measures of the Custom Pleasure Bureau: Article One, Chapter One; Article Six, Chapter Two; and Article Twenty-One, Chapter Three. Are you familiar with revised VDOMs for The Sixty Islands?”

  Koko scratches her chin. Besides not getting enough sleep she’s a touch hung over, and it takes her a few foggy seconds to process the woman’s officious-sounding drivel.

  “The VDOMs?” Koko brews her best pondering look. “Hmm, let’s see. Gee, to be honest, not really.”

  The blonde officer glares disapprovingly.

  “As a pleasure vendor on The Sixty Islands, you should be familiar with any and all CPB updates. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, you should have a complete list of VDOMs displayed for public view.” The blonde officer looks around the room as she clucks her tongue. “Where are yours, may I ask?”

  Koko folds her arms. Koko is a pretty good judge of character and has gone toe to toe with plenty of uppity, by-the-letter authority figures in her past, but rather than push back on the blonde officer’s posturing she tries for an air of nonchalance and moves behind the bar. Picking out a key hidden beneath the register, she unlocks the cage on the good liquor bottles arranged on a tiered shelf behind the bar and grabs a bottle of good twelve-year-old beauty. Koko flips a clean glass from the stacks and pours herself a generous eye-opener.

  “I guess I must’ve misplaced them,” Koko says. “But hey, I’m sure they’re around here someplace.”

  “Are you being facetious with me this morning, Martstellar?”

  “Facetious? Oh, no, not at all. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Because this is not a laughing matter, I assure you.”

  “This time of morning, I’m sure it’s not.”

  “Good,” the officer replies. “Very well, let’s get right to the specifics of the matter, shall we? It is our understanding that you cut down, by last count, two SI patrons several hours ago in a direct violation of CPB policy, is this correct?”

  Koko nods. “That’s affirmative.”

  “So, you’re not denying killing these tourists?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Fine. I appreciate your being so forthright with me. Now, then, if you did in fact shoot and kill these two patrons, where have you stored their bodies?”

  Koko picks up her glass and a bit of the twelve-year-old beauty slops over onto her thumb. She licks the back of her hand and then motions outside.

  “Well, after the Komodos had their fill, I just sort of went ahead and torched what was left out by the waste bins.”

  The blonde officer’s head jerks back as though stung.

  “You burned their bodies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But why? Why would you even think of doing something like that?”

  Koko bunches her shoulders. “Seemed sanitary.”

  “But that’s not SI crisis protocol.”

  Koko shakes her head and downs the rest of her drink. “No offense, officer,” she says, “but SI crisis protocol can kiss my ass. I greased those two troublemakers fair and square and in self-defense. Anyway, re-civ Kongercat truce agreements or not, CPB and SI HQ should have their heads examined, letting trash like that onto The Sixty.”

  “Well, if you’d bothered to read the VDOM amendments relating to emergency management issues, you would have seen that engaging in any and all lethal means against paying customers, including re-civ Kongercats, is now strictly forbidden on The Sixty. And tampering with evidence on top of a violation like this? I’m afraid your actions are completely unacceptable. Have you any idea of how behavior like this can tarnish The Sixty Islands’ overall brand?”

  Koko throws back her head and laughs. “Oh c’mon! Tarnish The Sixty Islands’ overall brand? Seriously, isn’t that blowing the public-relations slant on this a bit out of proportion?”

  “CPB HQ doesn’t seem to see it that way.”

  “Yeah, well,” Koko chuffs, “those two freakshows were threatening my staff. There were other customers present last night too. Paying customers too, mind you. Has CPB HQ even given a thought about their safety and vacation experience? Or to my own employees’ welfare, for that matter? Honey, I did CPB a favor.” Koko spins her now empty glass on the bar. “Look, I know you’re out here this morning just doing your job and all, so why don’t we cut the bullshit, all right? Contact Portia Delacompte over at HQ. Vice President Delacompte is an old friend of mine, and I’m sure she’ll find some way to take care of all this.”

  The blonde officer throws a glance to the other members of the security team.

  “You know, I’ve taken a good look at your file, Martstellar.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes. A fairly impressive career on the mercenary circuits for the multinationals before you downshifted to,” the officer looks around the room until she ogles Archimedes standing by the stairs in his red macramé thong, “the leisure industry.”

  “I take it from your tone you don’t approve of what I do here.”

  “No, I know such lustful pursuits are part of the SI’s overall appeal. However, I also know there are more refined ways to make one’s living on The Sixty.”

  Koko scoffs. “Like what? Setting up massacre simulations so Dick and Jane Deep-Pockets and their spoiled, elitist brats can get their rocks off? Give me a break. You puckered types are all the same. Vacation extravagance in the realm of replicated hyper-violence is fine and dandy, but if someone wants to release her pent-up tensions with a little shift and shake you guys turn into a bunch of right-angled prudes. Anyway, if you say you’ve seen my file, you no doubt noted my employment recommendation. Like I said, Delacompte and I are old friends. I’d be careful where I was treading with that attitude of yours if I were you.”

  “Really, now?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, b
ut we are here this morning on Portia Delacompte’s direct orders.”

  The words sandbag her. Koko does a double take. “Wait. Come again?”

  The blonde officer unfastens a pouch on her belt. She withdraws a data plug and wings it directly at Koko’s head. Koko snatches it from the air just before the data plug tags her on the nose.

  Without taking her eyes off the officer, Koko jacks the plug into the bar register and opens the plug’s file on the projection prompts. She reads the file’s content twice just to be sure she’s not imagining things. It’s unreal. Totally indefensible corporate bullshit of the most bureaucratic order. In essence the file says Koko is finished as an SI pleasure vendor and is to be incarcerated immediately until a penalty hearing can be arranged. In addition, if she is not compliant, Koko is to be terminated—effective immediately.

  A chill spreads out from the pit of Koko’s stomach. When she confirms the indictment’s authorization code she sees that the orders have indeed been encoded by Portia Delacompte herself.

  What the—

  Terminated?

  Terminated?

  Another one of the CPB security detail—a chesty, moon-faced female on the end of the formation—pipes up.

  “It’d be better if you go quietly, Martstellar.”

  Koko shoots the moon-faced woman a black look and then notices with some alarm that the other security team members’ hands have drifted to their holsters.

  The peevish glint in the blonde officer’s eyes grows lean.

  “Your whores will be reassigned, naturally…”

  Koko’s eyes drift left. Archimedes is retreating backward up the staircase, and she can hear his sandals snapping at his heels like small, barely audible kisses. When Archimedes reaches the landing upstairs, he sidesteps over to the large wooden trunk set against the landing’s railing. No one in the group seems to notice his movements or even care. After all, Archimedes is just another boywhore. What threat could he possibly be?