Koko Takes a Holiday

by Kieran Shea

  Flynn takes another slurp of sake. “Oh, I think I’m all done with that sort of thing.”

  Koko nods her head approvingly. “That’s cool. Setting out as a full-on lad of leisure, I can dig that. Kick back and take life as it comes at you for a while, right? Hell, you’re still pretty young. What’re you? Thirty-six or something?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Still a pup. You’ve got plenty of time to work out what you really want to do.”

  Thinking of how young he actually is and how little he has accomplished with his life causes a small hitch of gloom in Flynn’s chest. He debates whether he should take a moment to sneak some more of his Depressus medication, but decides instead to will himself past it.

  “So, you have any travel plans with your free time?” Koko asks.

  Flynn looks away. “In a manner of speaking you might say that…”

  “Hey, if you really don’t want to talk specifics that’s fine by me. But if you haven’t noticed, I’m a pretty good listener. Hell, in my business it’s important to lend a generous ear from time to time.”

  Flynn looks confused. “Private mercenaries lend ears?”

  “Oh, that. I told you, I used to work for the syndicates, but I don’t really do that stuff anymore.”

  “Oh. So, um, what is it you do now?”

  “Promise not to laugh if I tell you?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’m in the hospitality business.”

  Flynn laughs. “Get out.”

  Koko shakes her head. “You said you wouldn’t laugh! But it’s the truth. I’m up here on holiday from other people’s holidays.” She looks around and adds sarcastically, “Hitting the atmospheric glamour of Second Free Zone to get away from it all.”

  “But here? On Alaungpaya? I mean, it’s nice enough, but it’s not exactly a raging party vessel.”

  Koko prods a chopstick into the air to accentuate her point. “Yeah, but we seem to be having a good enough time. Alaungpaya isn’t all that bad, and anyway it’s just a stopover for me. Freebooting my itinerary, you know. Making things up as I go along.”

  “Ah, an organic holiday method.”

  “Exactly.”

  Flynn scoots forward a bit. “I see. Well, if you don’t mind me asking, what part of the hospitality business are you in now? I mean, with your militarized background one could only wonder. Are you in executive protection? Site defense? Something along those lines?”

  “Not really,” Koko shrugs. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, I used to teach a few classes on the side—you know, resistance training and such—but I kind of got tired of greenhorns accidentally shooting themselves and blowing themselves up. Mostly I just work as a bartender these days.”

  “A bartender?”

  “A bartender and a manager.”

  “Wow, that is different.”

  “Hey, I kind of like it. It’s fun, straightforward work. And it’s a whole lot better than stomping out de-civs on directives for the man, that’s for sure. Pour somebody a tall one, listen to his tales of woe. Plus, I’m pretty handy with a shaker. The Blue Fist, that’s my signature drink.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “One hundred sixty proof rum, mango extract concentrate, and coconut milk. I use a couple of drops of narcotic dye to give it a blue tint, but that’s just between you and me. It’ll knock you on your fanny, that’s for sure.”

  Flynn rotates his cup of sake between his palms. “Kind of a big downshift from gun slinging for the multinationals, but I guess a good ear is important, then.”

  “You can’t imagine,” Koko says. With a flourish Koko throws back the rest of her rice wine and sets down the cup. She rubs her hands together and dips her head. After a short, awkward pause she lowers her voice. “Hey, Flynn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry to bring this up, but um… I really have to go.” Despite his intentions to play it cool, Flynn feels his face cave into an exaggerated look of disappointment. He strokes his beard.

  “You need to take off? Damn, I knew I was boring you and this was too good to last. I suppose you want to head back to the casino, right? Try your luck some more. That’s cool. I mean, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I understand.”

  Koko pokes his shoulder. “You’re not boring me, Flynn. It’s just that, well, I need to use the restaurant’s head for a minute.” Koko points left and right, miming for directions to the bathroom.

  “Oh!” Flynn can’t help but perk up, and he indicates right. “It’s just around the corner, past those two potted plants over there.”

  “Thanks.” Koko pats his arm and climbs off her stool.

  As Flynn watches Koko leave, he lifts his sake cup to his lips and the glum swell of despair that bubbled up earlier washes back. She’s probably just lying to him, looking for an easy exit. What did he expect? Give away his credits and buy her dinner and drinks? He feels awkward and foolish. Goddamn, he wishes he was drunk.

  Above the bar, the feed screens have been streaking constant advertisements for the upcoming event broadcast of the Embrace ceremony. During dinner Flynn has done his best to ignore the glossy feed images, but now he finds his eyes glued to the screens. He watches footage of bodies falling through the digitally enhanced heavens, intercut with shots of faces showing expressions of blissful relief, all of it soundtracked with calming songs. Flynn doubts the glossy depictions are accurate. Sure, barge doctors are supposed to inject Embrace thanatophobics with anodyne psychopharmaceuticals to make the jump all the more enticing. And there’s been no shortage of assurances that there is no real terror at all. But despite his knowing all of this, doubt nags at him.

  Really? No fear? Falling to your death from a ridiculous altitude?

  Whatever drugs they use had better be really good.

  Flynn’s thoughts switch back to Koko. Well, he has to admit, she is really something. Pretty and provocative as hell with a ferocious appetite. Quite engaging despite their clumsy start and his hokey, aw-shucks-miss ploys. All in all, a hell of a way to end things. A dinner date before doom.

  Flynn sullenly recalls when the first of several ship physicians advised him of his Depressus condition. It would be untruthful to say he didn’t have his suspicions that something deep down was wrong for several months before he finally worked up the courage to make an appointment. The crashing mood swings and rattled nerves plagued him daily, and he prepared himself for the worst. But even with all that, the acute demoralizing blow of the final diagnosis unhinged his knees.

  * * *

  “I’ve found it’s better to be forthright with information like this…”

  Flynn plunked himself down in a chair next to an examination table and let the doctor shoot him up with a sedative. After the sedative had dulled and relaxed him enough, Flynn willed himself to speak.

  “Are all Depressus cases terminal, doc?”

  The doctor looked up at the ceiling and then dropped his eyes.

  A warm, practiced smile.

  “As far as we know, yes. Naturally, with proper medications we can blunt and pacify your more troublesome symptoms as your condition progresses.”

  Flynn’s throat swelled shut. God, it was all so unfair. What did he do to deserve this? Him? He’d been healthy his whole life. Flynn took care of himself, damn it. He really didn’t but he told himself he had plans. He deserved better than what this doctor was telling him.

  “So what do I do? I mean just how long before it… you know?”

  “Before it becomes intolerable? Well, that depends. From the tests and lab work it appears you’re just a few nudges beyond Stage 2. You explained you are somewhat active and stay fit because of your security deputy responsibilities, so that probably has helped mask your initial symptoms for some time.” The doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe a month or so?”

  “A month?”

  “Mmmhmm. Would you like some more sedative?” the doctor asked quietly.

  The
guy had to ask? The doctor juiced him up, but good.

  * * *

  Flynn’s mind lurches back to the present.

  He debates whether, if and when Koko does return from the bathroom, he should tell her about his diagnosis. Maybe then she might understand why he wanted to give his credits away. A genuine medical condition. Makes more sense than all that karma babble.

  No, he decides. Just leave it alone. If Koko doesn’t ditch him, just try to have a good time. Maybe go and order something obscenely calorific for dessert. Keep things light. She already thinks he’s a bit off as it is, why ruin her evening with his psychosis?

  KOKO, INDISPOSED

  Meanwhile, alone in the restaurant’s bathroom, Koko flushes a steam toilet and cleans her hands at one of two metal trough sinks.

  Looking at her reflection in a gilded teardrop-shaped mirror, she barely recognizes herself as she works tiny yellow disinfectant crystals off her hands.

  God, she thinks. Hate the hair. As soon as I’m clear of all this craziness I am so going to shave this spiky blue mess right off my skull and go basic. Jeez, what was she thinking? Blue? She should have gone with white or blonde or maybe even pink. Pink is all the rage these days, isn’t it? Really, really hate the hair.

  Koko shakes off the excess moisture and dries her fingertips under a sanitizing heater. As she readjusts her folded back gloves over her hands, she studies her face in the mirror some more. She toggles the zipper fob on her bodysuit beneath the flaps of her new jacket. Turns sideways.

  And these clothes? Yuck. Juke was right. These clothes make her look like a preacher.

  She closes her eyes and settles herself with a breath.

  What is she doing? She must be out of her mind. She should be gone by now. Gone. She should be in hiding, in motion, or at least be figuring out how to drop off Delacompte’s scope altogether. And she’s, what? Allowing herself to get talked into dinner with an ex-sky cop who’s throwing money around? Slamming back free sake? Yeah, okay. Not the smartest thing in the world, but she did crater on that last hand and then there Flynn was, offering her all those credits. Hard to run without bank, so where’s the harm in a little free dinner and conversation? Flynn seems easygoing enough. But that whole karma line, that sounded more than a little cornball. Perhaps he’s overcompensating. Now that dinner is over she suspects Flynn will change his tactics and make some feeble pass at her for sex. Koko decides if Flynn does go all horndog on her, she’ll just say thanks for everything and bail on him.

  Koko opens her eyes. She runs a thumb over her lower lip, and sucks off a dab of garlic sauce sticking to the back of her glove. The gingery hot flavor lights up the taste buds in her mouth.

  Oh, man. This stuff is just amazing. Maybe Flynn’s chef buddy will give her the recipe. Yeah, drizzle that on some braised suckling boar? Koko bets she could move the living hell out of that back down at her—

  Memories of her bar in flames seize her.

  Goddamn it.

  Goddamn Delacompte. Goddamn her and her stupid corporate ambitions. Koko swears an oath that when she finds Delacompte again she will definitely take both of that woman’s eyes. Fry that goldbricking backstabber over an open pit and feed her charred flesh to the fucking Komodos. Make a picture frame with her bones.

  Then again, Koko realizes her present predicament is all her own fault. She is in this mess because she went against her gut and trusted Delacompte. She should have known better. She used to be smarter. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She thinks back to when Delacompte first contacted her about the opportunity on The Sixty. Koko was in Manitoba on an assignment quelling re-civ rioters up in the re-established Canadian territories. The incident back in Finland had been a few years prior, and in the time that had gone by Koko had done her best to put the mess behind her and get some distance. Standing there in front of the mirror, Koko replays the precise moment when Delacompte patched into her ocular with the offer. Koko was hoisting a bazooka to her shoulder, and she thought it was some kind of a joke.

  * * *

  “Hey, Martstellar! The hell you up to, girl?”

  What the—Delacompte? How the hell did Delacompte get access to my ocular frequency on assignment?

  Okay, yeah, it wasn’t a clandestine or covert operation, but this was just plain sloppy. Of course, then Koko reminded herself who she was working for.

  Frigging nouveau riche Canucks.

  Koko peered down the sights of the bazooka and tapped the side of her head to respond to the audio stream.

  “Same shit, different part of the planet, Big D,” Koko said. “Been a long time…”

  The transmission in Koko’s skull squelched and crackled. “That it has,” Delacompte replied. “That it most certainly has. Can’t believe you’re up in the territories, though. So depressing. You’re telling me you’re that hard up for a little scratch these days?”

  Truth was, Koko was always hard up. Fiscal responsibility had never been part of her mindset. She couldn’t believe she’d taken the shitty assignment either.

  “Hey, we can’t all be so business-minded like you,” answered Koko. “So, what can I do for you, D? I’m kind of busy here. Rioters getting ready to pop.”

  “I had the hardest time tracking you down…”

  “Well, I figured, you know, maybe it was for the best, considering.”

  Delacompte’s response muted as contractor oversight interrupted their patch. Operation command informed Koko that she needed to move to the south end of the roof, stat. The rioters were taking up a cornering position and command wanted to squelch that advance first. Koko confirmed the order, and Delacompte’s patch resumed after another garbled burst of static.

  “Considering?” Delacompte asked. “For the best considering what?”

  Delacompte couldn’t be serious. Considering what? Hello? Your gargantuan screw-up back in Finland, you dumbass.

  “Look,” Koko answered brusquely, “we’re cool, D, okay? Everything’s cool. Just forget it. All that stuff that happened back in Helsinki was just one of those things, you know? Some BSGD.”

  Bad shit, going down.

  Delacompte squawked. “Helsinki? What the hell are you talking about, girl? By Helsinki you mean Helsinki fucking Finland? When were you in Finland? Sorry, I’ve had some SMTs recently, and there’s a whole bunch of stuff I can’t recall…”

  SMTs? Well, shit, Koko thought. Selective memory treatments. That explained Delacompte’s confusion. Not that Koko blamed her. Hell, who wouldn’t sign up for selective memory treatments given the fact that Delacompte—

  A massive, rolling explosion shattered to the right of Koko’s rooftop position. When Koko turned her head back, she saw that the explosion had taken out an entire floor of an adjacent office building. Crouched with her bazooka, she duck-walked to the south end of the roof, a silhouette moving fast and low in the smoke.

  Another follow-up fizzle of squelching static and Delacompte’s voice sliced into her skull again.

  “Take a guess where I am now,” she teased merrily.

  “I really don’t have time for this, Big D. Could I, like, patch you later to catch up or something?”

  “C’mon, take one little guess.”

  Koko leveled the bazooka in her arms on a ventilation unit. She aimed at the advancing throngs below and fired.

  “I don’t know. Mombasa?”

  “Try about ten thousand kilometers east-northeast. You remember that time when you said you thought you could run a bar?”

  * * *

  Oh, yeah.

  I so remember now.

  Bitch.

  In a burst of speed, Koko cross-draws the Sig from the holster inside her jacket and levels the sights at her own reflection.

  Daring and staring back.

  COVER ME

  At the bar, Flynn looks relieved and positions himself next to his stool as Koko makes her way back across the room. Cheerfully, Koko holds her chin high.

  “Well, eith
er you aced your civil courses at whatever passes for a security academy up here,” she says, “or whoever raised you had a shred of class.”

  Flynn laughs. “The latter. I’m one of the engineered populace.”

  As she takes her seat, Koko’s eyes widen. “Oh, yeah?” she says. “Engineered? Hey, me too. Were you bred up here or in one of the collectives down below?”

  “Up here. Been skying in the confederacies most of my life. How about you?”

  “Came out of one of the Oceania cooperatives. Humble beginnings—rolled right into basic at seventeen and never looked back, really. Count yourself lucky you were bred up here. Not a lot of exciting labor options for conventional re-civs bred down below.”

  Flynn wags a finger. “Ta, ta, commercial efficiency is for the greater good…”

  “Yeah, yeah. You sound like a public service announcement on the feeds. Given the choices for menial waging down below, a life policing re-civ order seemed the best option for me.”

  “And now you’re loving life as a bartender. Wow, life sure does have a way of working itself out, doesn’t it?”

  “That it does.”

  “More sake?”

  “Please.”

  Flynn picks up the white bulbous carafe from the bar and pours a generous dollop of the rice wine into Koko’s cup. Placing his hands together, he mutters something and bows slightly over her poured drink. He picks up the cup and hands it to Koko.

  “What was that?” she asks.

  Flynn gives the carafe to Koko, and she pours him a serving.

  “What was what?”

  “That bowing stuff.”

  “Oh that. It’s supposedly Japanese. My cook buddy over there, he’s a stickler for dying languages. He told me I’m supposed to show sake a little more respect and say something profound. Gave me a whole spiel of grief while you were in the head. Apparently he thinks I’m not reverent enough.”

  “So, what does it mean?”

  “What? Oh, honestly, I forget, and he just told me a minute ago. Hang on a sec, and I’ll find out.”