Koko Takes a Holiday

by Kieran Shea

  Waste cargo? Flynn thinks. Well, that certainly explains the horrible stink in the hold: human waste recycled for methane energy pumps in industrial farming cooperatives and power-grid interests worldwide down on Earth. Boy oh boy, he sure knows how to pick them.

  Flynn looks out the bow’s bubbled window. Ahead of them, like a great clattering jaw mucused with cascading jets of steam, Alaungpaya’s heavy hangar gates yawn inward from the recessed storage wings, port and starboard. The flight deck’s protective pressure membrane crackles in the narrowing gap, and rapidly shifting fluxes of air shake the vessel from side to side as they drift toward the light. Beyond the membrane, boulderish outlines of knotty, dark clouds can be seen. Flynn tries to do the math on the closing distance, taking in the ship’s size, the refuse cargo weight, and the perilous opening before them. It doesn’t look good, and he gives them shattering odds.

  Once again Flynn is utterly flabbergasted at how calm Koko is despite all the craziness. Her gun is still trained on the captain’s head and a single finger curls around the weapon’s trigger.

  “She may be a cow, captain,” she says, “but the thing is—me and my boy here? We’re both ready to die, and you’re not. Make it.”

  The captain secures a set of flight goggles over his eyes and jams the throttle forward with the butt of his hand. The sudden accelerative force is so strong it knocks Flynn backward against the cockpit hatch, and he topples down onto the legs of the unconscious first mate, biting his tongue. The engines bawl louder and louder, and a blasting flare from one of Alaungpaya’s sweeping outer klieg lights pours through the cabin windows, whitening them all.

  Their airspeed increases, and the flight deck below recedes faster and faster behind them. Three hundred-plus meters ahead, the light of the pressure membrane dazzles.

  “Fifteen seconds to full depressurization… Thirteen—”

  Flynn spits strings of blood from his mouth, and when he raises his head Koko gives him a “better hold on” look from across the cabin. Flynn wipes his mouth and reaches forward, gripping the fittings on the base of the pilot’s seat as if they can steady or even save him. Swirling dust and debris reel past the windows, and from the rapidly changing pressure Flynn knows the outer hangar doors are close. Flynn’s stomach sinks as Koko puckers her lips and blows him a parting kiss.

  Unbelievable.

  Flynn shuts his eyes, resigned for a quick, explosive end.

  A sharp bang and a brassy squeal cut through the rumbling engine noise, and the ship swings hard to port.

  For the ten thousandth time in his life, Flynn flashes on the prospect of his own death. From his study of history he knows that some ancient cultures believed if you died in an act of desperate evil you were destined to repeat and suffer through that same evil death over and over for all eternity. Crashing a septic freighter on takeoff? Man, that’s really going to trump the karmic suck.

  But they don’t die. To their collective amazement, they are still alive and propelling forward, gaining more critical speed. Seconds later they punch through the pressure membrane, whisking through by mere fist-sized fractions on either side. Sudden moisture sluices over the bow window as the sky opens up, and then—

  WHUMP!

  A robed body slams into the cockpit bubble and tumbles away. A second later, two more screaming faces fly past the bow’s view, and Flynn glimpses hands inelegantly clawing the air.

  Koko cries out. “Holy shit! I thought they canceled Embrace! Look! They’re jumping, Flynn! The Embrace jump is happening!”

  Flynn forces himself to raise his head and look out. The horror is everywhere. Scores and scores of Depressus-afflicted citizens are leaping to their stoned-out deaths, their ceremonial robes snapping back behind them like so many broken wings. Tucked in a cannonball, one of the jumpers plunges past and actually waves. Ten more follow in free fall, locked in a brave chain and spilling end over end.

  Oh God, Flynn thinks. They must have taken matters into their own hands. They must have bypassed the Embrace protocols.

  The ship’s air speed continues to increase, and—to all of their dismay—the captain, Koko, and Flynn realize one terrifying fact as the bodies plummet all around:

  The frigate is falling too.

  TAKING LUMPS

  In her office, Portia Delacompte disgracefully hangs her head before the floating board member faces. The projections streaming in from Rome, Caracas, London, and elsewhere are beet-faced and beyond apoplectic. Delacompte endures it all. All the degrading condemnations, belligerence, screams, and insults.

  BSGD.

  Bad shit, going down. “Have you anything to say for yourself?” the jowly director from Buenos Aires asks.

  Delacompte attempts to find some placating words but fails. Across the room, CPB cleaning personnel roll up the sections of Lee’s body like links of milled sausage in the ruined carpet. Delacompte can see the priggish smirks behind their transparent bio-hazard masks, and it makes her blood boil. Bunch of peons. She wants to yank the New One Roman Church of the Most Holy Liberator medallion from around her neck and flog each of them to pieces with it.

  “I shamefully accept full responsibility for this matter,” she says quietly.

  The jowly director puffs his cigar. “Of course you do.”

  A flickering translucent forest of held up V-ed fingers lingers for a moment before all transmissions cease.

  Reaching into her jacket, Delacompte takes out her vial of Q, shakes out a double dose, and slaps the capsules into her open mouth. One of the cleaning crew, apparently the group’s supervisor, steps away from the rest and presents his data recorder for Delacompte’s authorization.

  “Looks like we’re done here, Madam Vice President. If you’ll just input your code, we’ll be out of your way in a jiff.”

  Delacompte snatches the data recorder from the man and swallows some spit to chase her Qs. She enters her authorization as the supervisor glances around the office. Delacompte hands back the recorder.

  “Um, I hate to be a stickler—” the supervisor says.

  “What?”

  “Did Mr. Lee have any personal relations who might want to be notified of his termination? It’s standard CPB personnel procedure to notify significant relations, you understand.”

  Delacompte waves a hand. “I don’t know. I think he lived with someone. A man. Some merchant sea hand or something.”

  The supervisor nods. “I see. So, I assume you’ll be forwarding the termination notice to this individual? Um, hello? Excuse me, Madam Delacompte?”

  Delacompte hatchets an arm through the air. “Just handle it! Somebody around here knows who Lee was better than I ever did. Just copy me on whatever you need to copy me on, all right?”

  “Roger. Copy you. Got it. Absolutely.”

  A few minutes later the cleaning crew lift Lee’s body onto a hover gurney and haul him out to a service lift down the hall. As the group waits for the lift to arrive, the supervisor opens a boilerplate notification on his service recorder.

  CPB Resource Realignment Services

  Date/cycle: [Insert]

  To: [Name, Address]

  Staff: [Insert Name/Title]

  Subject: Employee Termination—[Insert Name, CPB Employee ID Code]

  CC: [Insert]

  To Whom It May Concern:

  It is with great regret that we must advise you that, due to unforeseen circumstances and/or significant dereliction of duties, [Insert Name, CPB Employee ID Code, Office Location], has been eliminated. This notification is being given to you pursuant to the Custom Pleasure Bureau and The Sixty Islands’ Worker Adjustment Contract of 2509 and as an official courtesy, and senior staff lament any hardship this action might cause you. Final balance of CPB credit pay and/or personal effects of [Insert Name, CPB Employee ID Code] will be forwarded once approved. Again, The CPB and The Sixty Islands wish you the best of luck with your grief and transition. [Insert Staff Authorization, CPB Employee ID Code]

  RIGHT-RIG
HT THE COURSE

  Koko hikes a boot and braces her footing against the back of the empty co-pilot’s seat. The ship’s steep forward dive has her practically toppling forward into the bow bubble.

  “Hey, captain?”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to pull out of this, right?”

  The captain’s whole body shakes from head to toe as though he’s been stuck with a cattle prod. He desperately tries to steady the oval insect-looking yoke in front of him. The sky is now a pearly wash of fast-moving clouds, and the shrieking creaks overwhelming the small cabin are too numerous to count. Through clenched teeth and acidic spittle, the captain despairs.

  “Those poor souls! Oh, why? Why? Who hijacks a waste ship? Who are you people?”

  The captain lets one hand leave the yoke for a split second to adjust a dial nearby, and the repercussions of this seemingly insignificant move are instantaneous. Navigation gyros whirl; the vessel banks radically and nearly barrels. The captain regains his grip and strains backward on the yoke. Like a waking monster, little by little the nose of the frigate lift s, but then suddenly it falls back.

  “We’ll be lucky if we don’t collide with something,” the captain cries. “This rate of speed, the lower heavily traveled flight paths? No-no! This vessel, she is not meant for such recklessness. Eight hundred seventy-three kilometers per hour now, mach tuck stall imminent!”

  The bottom of Flynn’s stomach falls out, and he hangs on.

  God, how he wants it all to be over.

  Koko shouts over the surrounding noise. “Do you need a hand? Hey! What’s your name anyway?”

  Behind the flat glass of his goggles, the captain’s eyes go saucer wide.

  “Me? I am Jot! You know how to fly?”

  Koko doesn’t answer the captain and instead crawls over and drops into the co-pilot seat. A fierce jolt flies her face down onto the controls and lacerates the thin skin on her left temple. She recovers quickly and reaches behind herself for the safety harness. Koko pulls the belt over her shoulder and thrusts the clip home. After locking in, she stuffs the Sig under one of her legs and seizes the second jiggling yoke rattling in front of her. Between Koko and the captain, iridescent green airspeed digits gleam from a three-dimensional rectangular projection.

  (AS889km.h)

  (AS941km.h)

  (AS954km.h)

  (AS960km.h)

  Together, they fight the beast.

  The captain blabbers, “No-no-no-no-n—”

  Koko cuts him off. “Hey, Jot, do me a favor, huh? Tell me where the stupid stabilizers are on this thing.”

  “Power stabilizers, starboard top!”

  Koko finds the controls and quickly inputs the adjustments. With a chattering rock and roll, the ship responds instantly and the nose starts to rise. Soon the tumult of sounds all around them begin to quiet and even out.

  With more than a little wonder, Jot says, “I think we’re pulling out of it.”

  Koko rolls her eyes. “Duh…”

  Jot risks a hand and tenderly strokes a thumb on the small multicolored Ganesha statue taped thickly to the cockpit console. The arms and the elephant-like trunk of the statue are animated, and the statue responds to the touch with barely audible stick drums and sitars.

  The nose continues to rise, and a minute later they level up to a manageable cruising altitude and airspeed. Koko lets out a self-assured laugh, and Jot looks over and scowls at her.

  “This is not funny,” he says. “No-no. You two people hijack my ship, you kill my co-pilot, you two are not funny people at all. You two are evil, yes-yes. Hijackers. Terrorists. Sky pirates!”

  “Relax, Jot. And for the record, I didn’t kill anyone.” Koko throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Little Miss Flyweight back there is just taking a nap. By the way, your co-pilot sweetie got a name?”

  “Helmsman First Class Hoon.”

  “I think you and Hoon should be grateful, seeing as how I just saved your asses from meeting whatever supernatural pachyderm you think is watching out for you. So, tell me, captain. Where were you two headed in this stinky bucket of bolts anyway?”

  Jot grumbles and draws up a screened monitor on a retractable arm mount. He punches a few buttons and pulls up the ship’s intended flight plan and then swivels the monitor to face Koko, shoving it in her direction with a repulsed huff. Koko pulls the screen closer and settles back in her seat, her face illuminated by the screen’s yellowish glow.

  “One hundred forty-seven east and forty-two south? No way.”

  “This was our destination had we not been hijacked by you two savages.”

  Flynn finally gets to his feet and sways his way across the cabin. He looks over Koko’s shoulder as she pores over the arrays and motions with his finger to the leaking cut on Koko’s forehead where she slammed into the console earlier. Koko smears the blood up into her blue hair like styling gel and mashes her fingertips on Flynn’s sleeve.

  “So what is it?” Flynn asks. “What’s at one hundred forty-seven what-do-you-call-its?”

  “A place you may have heard of. Ever heard of Papua New Guinea, Flynn?”

  “Papua New Guinea? Yeah, sure, I’ve heard of it. The flooded platform settlements. Nasty place, if I remember correctly. What’s the deal with Papua New Guinea?”

  Koko hums happily to herself. “Oh, nothing,” she says. “Just that we’re a couple of lucky hijackers, that’s all.”

  Koko unclasps the safety harness. She tilts the screen back, pulls up the navigational inputs, and gets to work. Jot starts to protest but Koko fires him a look like she plans on punching him in the face. Jot glowers straight ahead, and Koko busies herself with the recalibrations.

  “New course, captain. A whole ream of extra clicks northwest toward the East Mariana Basin. Micronesia. Damn, I need to pull up the weather scans on this thing.”

  Flynn and the pilot both look at Koko and say simultaneously, “Micronesia?”

  “No,” Koko answers. “Not precisely. Just north of there and due west of the sub-ocean trenches. It’s a re-stabilized Ring of Fire fault locale. Hey, I trust this ship transmits an identity beacon, right? Cool. They make contact with us, I want you to hail them and ask for an emergency forfeiture and offload.”

  The captain tears off his goggles. “Emergency forfeiture and offload? But-but… I will lose my job.” He indicates the unconscious first mate Hoon. “We will both lose our jobs.”

  Koko drawls, “Yeah, well, we could just dump you and Hoon out the back and fly this thing ourselves. Horrific death that, just ask my partner in crime here. Hell, he might even join you because he kind of has a hard-on for a big screaming jump—don’t you, lawman? Seeing that you missed your chance back on Alaungpaya.”

  Flynn shakes his head. Captain Jot looks confused.

  “Wait,” Jot says. “You? You have Depressus?”

  Flynn droops, embarrassed. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  Jot reaches across and draws the navigational display’s screen around to his face. After a quick study of the recalibrations and the charts, he peers uneasily over the display at Koko.

  “They need a lot of power down there to make the party rev hot,” Koko says. “Trust me, captain. They’ll pick us up and gladly take the vile stuff you got off your hands. My bet is they’ll prioritize our approach on the service runways and shoot us straight to the front of their queue.”

  “Uh, so where exactly are we headed?” Flynn asks.

  Koko looks at the captain. “Tell him, Jot.”

  “We are headed to The Sixty Islands.”

  DETAILS, DETAILS

  On her feet behind her desk, Portia Delacompte leans on her knuckles and scours the reports on more than a dozen screen prompts projected in front of her.

  Concentrating on the prompt displays makes her eyeballs ache. It’s more than challenging to decipher so much fuzzy nonsensical chatter and bulletin analytics. It appears that none of the freelance bounty operatives Lee dispatched to tak
e Koko out have checked in, which leads Delacompte to believe either (a) they are flat-out ignoring her and still hunting Koko down or (b) they are already dead. Instinct and experience tells Delacompte it’s probably the latter. She pats the pocket on her jacket and debates whether to swallow yet another capsule of Q.

  C’mon, think, Portia. Think.

  From what she can discern, post-explosion on Alaungpaya only one vessel cleared the barge orbital before emergency depressurization was finally initiated. This in and of itself isn’t that unusual. Delacompte knows that most service rig and cargo pilots play loose with procedures and ride it a bit cowboy, especially if the rules eat into their delivery deadlines. There could be a dozen different reasons why this particular vessel broke off when the alarm sounded. But it’s truly odd that the vessel flew through a panicked wave of people bypassing Embrace ceremony restrictions.

  That ship must have had a good reason to high-tail it out of there.

  Delacompte pulls up the flight identification records and notes that the vessel last to clear was a septic G-Class cargo ship on a waste-disposal run to Papua New Guinea. With her security clearance she is able to access the flight plan databases and discovers that, not long after departure, the cargo ship altered its course. Again, a change of flight plan is not all that unusual for freighters, but holy frigging shit unusual is the revised destination.

  The craft is on a course for The Sixty Islands.

  “No, it can’t be…” Delacompte whispers.

  Koko.

  She’s coming back here? Here? The quarry coming for the hunter?

  Well, Delacompte supposes she did ask for it.

  Delacompte immediately secures a patch to ATC at The Sixty Islands’ main tower. Yes, they have the G-Class vessel from Alaungpaya in their pattern and the ship’s ETA before the outer beacons is at forty-five past the hour. She asks if the G-Class has declared an onboard emergency. No, no signs of any trouble other than they left Alaungpaya during a required security activation and changed their course intentions. Two crew aboard and eight hundred tons of solid human waste in the hold. Delacompte advises flight that she needs to meet the vessel upon landing, and flight tells her this won’t be a problem. They have the frigate scheduled for biohazard de-rack on runway nine for offload.