Captain Quicho mustered everyone up bright and early the next morning, which was usually a cliché but in this case—as Keita damn near glowed, strapping a huge tan tool belt around her waist, and Neon and Yvonne hauled drywall and lumber in a ballet of Tetris pieces—it was solidly true. There was an energy to the site that each person passed on to the next, wordlessly for the most part except when a question came up or someone had an idle thought pop into their head.
Once materials were apportioned, Neon screwed drywall, she and the captain a blur of hanging-fastening-shifting-over. Shig followed with wall tape and plaster, the slower job. Wide-eyed Keita and sensible Yvonne pulled measurement and sawing duties at the lumber pile. Neon’s hair was pulled into two puffs. Each breeze across her sweaty neck felt glorious.
Idle thought: “You could call the place Water’s Edge,” she said to Desiree. “Kind of a Helm’s Deep feel.”
“Literal and poetic. I like it,” said Desiree.
“Is it official?”
“Won’t be official till somebody burns it in wood,” said Desiree.
Water’s Edge. Water’s Edge Community. Water Park.
Jurassic Park.
Leviathan Meadows.
Neon decided she wanted a home here too. Not a guest shack in Water’s Edge but a home not too far from the captains and their ships. She hoped Yvonne did too, ’cause there was no way in hell she was living anywhere without Yvonne. Ohana meant family, and though there may not have been a Hawaiian within five hundred miles, she’d seen Lilo & Stitch enough times to know in her deepest bones that friends didn’t get left behind.
“Aye, captain,” Neon said. She liked saying aye. Folks needed more reasons in their lives to say aye. Truly. “Written in fire, framed in stone.”
“You’ve become quite the poet lately,” Desiree noted. “You’ve been in Kichi’s book.” An ancient book of poetry bound in the hide of the toughest animal on Earth.
“Milo left it with me. Said it’d be good practice for my latent psychic abilities.”
“You’re careful with it?” A book of poetry bound in singularity hide was no mere trifle.
“Nobody but me,” said Neon.
“Van Morrison got happy with his. Poetic Champions Compose. Had every soulpatch and moonbeam thinking they could open portals and locked doors.”
“Don’t know him,” said Neon.
“Thank you,” said Desiree as she raised a grey slab into position, “for making me feel old as fuck.”
“Can’t help it if I’m still vibrant. So, would it be cool if I built out here too?” said Neon.
Desiree frowned. “You mean like here here?”
“Not close enough to hear any freakiness.”
“Thank you, ’cause we’re freaky as hell,” said Desiree.
“But y’know, there’s a lot of land here, and if you already own it…” The wind shifted suddenly, throwing sawdust into Yvonne’s face, which explained why Neon and Desiree were interrupted by “Sons of fuck!” coming from the sawmill.
“We’ll see what Shig says,” said Desiree.
“It wouldn’t be till after you retire and Yvonne and me take the ship to save the world,” said Neon.
“The lady’s got jokes,” said Desiree.
“Nah, just hopes and dreams.”
Water’s Edge Rest Home for Retired World Savers, Desiree thought. Then: Jesus Christopher Christ. Her partner being somewhere out in deep space made the section of drywall in her hands feel foolish for a moment. That happened in this life, that feeling of foolishness. The young lady beside her—well, not that young: Desiree was forty-two, Neon twenty-six; Desiree could have been her aunt in another life—but this woman, she had hopes and dreams, even knowing what was out there: battles, demons, dragons, campaigns, political and otherwise. Desiree, hardly a cynic, had made immediate plans for this structure not two moments after her first adventure into Atlantis. Neon had probably been suffering through geometry or history at that time—who didn’t?—but it had been a time of hopes and dreams just the same for Desiree Sandrine Quicho, who saw in herself and the world a reason to fight for better for all. For the Better had been the name of her first ship (Yvonne sucked up more sawdust; “Shut up!” she shouted to waylay comments from the peanut gallery), a schooner that showed Hawaii’s glories off to eager tourists. So, she knew the power of hopes and dreams. No matter how slippery they got, they were to be held to. That was the mission the act of being born automatically made Life accept.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Desiree said, surveying her land. It was open and green and beautiful. After the things she’d seen and done—and the things Neon would—it wasn’t possible to deny a request for beauty.
Neon appreciated the view as well. She’d had the worst the United States of America had to offer her entire life—which, for most poor people, was an everyday thing. The inner city. “For the World Is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky.” She remembered that episode title from Star Trek because (a) it was beautiful, and (b) she was a geek girl through and through. From living across the street from dealers and gangs to considering property in Atlantis. Yeah, she had hopes and dreams. Hopes and dreams for the motherfucking win. “Can you picture Milo in a little shack out that way?” she said with a grin.
“Him and Ramses with pants under their armpits?” said Desiree.
“On the porch drinking out of jelly jars,” said Neon.
“The Water’s Edge Rest Home or Commune for Former World Savers,” said Desiree.
“Either way, I like it,” said Neon.
“All right.” Desiree was sure Shig would say yes, and what was the point of retirement if you never got to see your friends? “Let’s build it so everybody comes.”
Two days of quietude, blissful building, and Shig’s food. Meaning, of course, that when shit went down, it went down on the three.
4
Miscellaneous Opportunities
There were three reasons Aileen Stone knew creating a new world fell absolutely within the scope of her birthright: (one) the world ran on pretense way more than it should, and a poker face better than hers hadn’t been invented yet; (two) the current failing systems governing the world’s social orbits had been designed by children who wouldn’t know how to act if a true Mother Lode hit ’em; (lastly) William Fucking Fruehoff, or rather the gulf between what William Fruehoff had been and what William Fucking Fruehoff was now. William Fucking Fruehoff had fancied himself Buford’s right-hand man, which to Aileen meant he was good as a jerkoff and not much else. And the fact that the once-powerful Fruehoff and Fruehoff’s perfect hair were now stuck in research hell, tasked with gleaning all possible information about Kosugi’s setback, meant that there wasn’t a life on this planet, including her own, she couldn’t reshape.
She’d ordered all cloning facilities shut down until further notice. Buford’s genetic material was now under her exclusive jurisdiction until such time as he either resurfaced or she resurfaced him.
Neuter the dogs before we let ’em loose for war. God, she even sounded like Buford now. The universe, it seemed, shaped life accordingly.
With the Thoom on high alert and in heavy disarray thanks to whispers and lies (her own and, apparently, some other beneficent source) planted where Kosugi might unearth them, such dogs might fight and chew themselves to exhaustion, in which case anyone appearing with a bone would seem holy. Fruehoff’s report on her desk outlined several attacks and thefts carried out by Kosugi and his allies against various Thoom installations. With everyone coming down on the Thoom, that idiot group’s hegemony would certainly be on the retreat. A taint of such magnitude provided very few hiding places.
Which left Atlantis.
Where Commander Sharon Deetz and a tight group, under Aileen’s orders after Fucking Fruehoff’s cock-up last year with the mighty Buford, had splintered from search-and-rescue efforts to anticipate miscellaneous opportunities.
Commander Deetz was a good one for miscellaneous opportu
nities.
Facing a fire at three in the morning killed all moods but bad.
“Who the fuck sold us out this time?!” Captain Desiree Quicho shouted spittle and rage. Yvonne and Neon worked water cannons from the Ann, hitting everything in sight that had any flammable possibilities. Blaze hadn’t reached the main structure, only the lumber mill and its huge saws.
With the fire out, Keita assessed for flashpoint. “I don’t think this fire was suspicious,” she said.
“There’s nothing in our lives that isn’t suspicious,” Desiree corrected. She wanted answers. “Find me a reason we can sleep with.” Angrily, she headed for the Ann.
Equally angrily, she returned outfitted with a focum (focused microwave, with only two lethal settings out of seven total) rifle, night goggles, and portable sensor juxtaposed against ratty sleep shorts and a Gojira tee shirt a size too big for her. The dark of Atlantis surrounded them; half a football field away, a copse of trees enclosed the compound, with nothing but darkness beyond them.
Keita watched Desiree’s approach and sighted Yvonne, backlit by the Ann’s spot, similarly equipped, bringing up the rear.
“Going for a walk,” the captain said as she passed Keita. She and Yvonne moved out.
They were gone an hour. When they got back, Keita showed them what she, Neon, and Shig had pieced together of their interrupted night.
Culprit: yebaum. Indigenous to Atlantis. Generally harmless. Forever hungry.
“Fire spread from the grill,” said Keita, “and moved over here.”
Shig pointed toward the nearest cluster of trees. “Two yebaums have been sitting just out of sight over there. Waiting. They must’ve caught their baby’s scent.”
“You got animals that know how to start fires?” said Keita.
“You don’t?” said Shig.
Desiree stepped away from their lit area and zoomed her goggles toward the treeline. Two large, anxious yebaums pawed at the ground.
“You found the body?” Desiree asked.
“No,” said Keita. “My guess is its fur caught, it dashed, and the family can’t find it.”
“Shut down the lights. We’ll finish up in the morning.”
“What about them if they can’t find their baby? What do we do?” said Keita.
“They’ll leave,” said the captain, and left it at that.
A few days. Just a few days of building something. Was that too much to ask?
One never knew what one would find by putting micro-transmitters on animals. Best recon ever. Beasties went everywhere, saw everything, and were generally ignored.
A yebaum’s hand obscured the view momentarily, but Deetz didn’t have a doubt the first: that was Desiree Quicho. God damn. Deetz had come up a Navy woman. Quite a few who’d seen the light of Buford’s truths were former military. Captain Desiree Quicho and her ships sat legendary among certain sets familiar with the “other” life. Of those who sailed through the eye of a needle, Quicho created embroideries.
Deetz now not only had her location, she had the number in her party, all thanks to one careless primate-thing (yebaums looked like tree-dwelling potatoes with arms and legs). How to capitalize on this? Intel. Watch and learn. Eventually capture. Possibly kill one or two? That’d be a coup and a half. This was inner-circle-level, upped-pay-grade serendipity. Aileen Stone would flip. Initially, Commander Deetz had bristled at having to remain in Atlantis; she’d ping-ponged four tours in various parts of the Middle East, so she knew what indefinite felt like. If she hadn’t had people under her command in this idyllic setting, she might have halfway considered imagining herself in flip-flops and sunhat, but that was neither here nor there. Sharon Deetz had fashioned an orderly world for herself. The job was the job. It got done. It never even needed to ask.
Keita fished through equipment, found the proper scanner, and set to work. She walked a widening spiral around the demolished grill. She wanted to soothe Desiree. She even wanted to soothe the blackened and blistered lumber, which was now bereft of possibilities. First time in Atlantis and she was Keita LaFleur, Arson Investigator. Even though this wasn’t arson. She’d seen the weary look on Desiree’s face nonetheless, same as everyone else in the crew. Keita didn’t like that look. If a negative scan for accelerants put the captain back on even footing, she’d scan away. Her red-and-black boots were comfortable, and it was a good day for walking.
It was Yvonne who had had the brilliant stroke to broadcast the song “Purple Rain” on loop to accompany the cleanup. It was impossible not to re-center oneself, not to sing along, and not to feel something eternal and great in merely existing in order to sing that song, all praises to Prince, may he jam in peace.
Each lady’s voice laid claim to a portion of the song best suited to her abilities: Yvonne passionately ad-libbing, Neon scatting guitar solos, Desiree crooning.
It made not finding any errant accelerants entirely sensible. This wasn’t a mission; there weren’t enemies twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There couldn’t be. Who wanted their life to operate that way?
Accidents happened, and life went on. She had been in space, was personal friends with Silica Elves, and was now in Atlantis. That was the real life, whereas paranoia and constant suffering were strictly sick fantasy.
She’d make sure to conduct a thorough search, present her findings to the captain, then join them in the cleanup, reassessment, salvage (because Keita knew given ten minutes and a single screwdriver, she could repair a third of the damaged power tools), and build, because that’s what they’d crossed the Blank to do: build.
To date, there hadn’t been a person on the planet capable of keeping Keita LaFleur from building cool things.
Sharon Deetz had the most scarred hands of anyone he’d ever seen. He, in this instance, was second-in-command Truman Compoté, who was well aware that his life’s conversation with the universe contained “Oh, you got jokes?” which had driven him to fights in home ec, fights in college nutrition and agricultural planning, fights his first week in military training.
He never stared at her hands. Actually, he was in awe of them. The commander never thought to mention how her hands had gotten so scarred, but it had to have been monumental.
Sharon tapped her map display. She wasn’t drawing attention to anything on it. She tapped when she wasn’t sure of a decision. Truman knew that tap.
“It’s been two days,” she ticked off. “We know where they are. I haven’t wanted to send eyes on them for fear they might detect us.” She glanced at Truman, whose face was always perfectly impassive for bouncing things off. “I have a platoon of thirty trained soldiers sitting on their asses for two days for fear that a group of four women might detect us. What happened to the world, Compoté?”
Not a tic of compassion. Not a hair of concern. Not a softening of agreement. “Speaking freely, ma’am?” he said from his seat across her large fold-out desk.
“Freely,” Sharon said, eyes back on the map’s data stream.
“Music videos.”
“Thank you, Compoté,” said Sharon, dismissing him and his crew cut.
“Yes, ma’am.” Truman Compoté stood, nodded, and left.
Two days. Sharon hadn’t wanted to relay messages through the Blank. In one hand, Captain Desiree Quicho. In the other hand, the Linda Ann. Neither worth rushing, at risk of losing both.
People thought cobras struck indiscriminately. They didn’t. They waited, planned, considered, then moved lightning-fast. Time moved differently for them.
Sharon Deetz would be the cobra here, she decided. Cobra Commander. And if Compoté hadn’t left, she might have tried that name on him just to see if his grizzled, weathered face would have betrayed a momentary warmth. Compoté was a good second, but he hadn’t quite bridged the divide between the military and the mercenary just yet; was still way more military.
Deetz’s hands confirmed beyond doubt that hers was a mercenary path. Mercenaries, unlike soldiers, were allowed to let the persona
l creep in a little on a job, even if there were thirty-two of them hidden away, wearing striking but practical uniforms on a supposedly mythical island.
Commander Deetz may have wanted a successful end to this mission, but Sharon Deetz—to her sudden-yet-clarified awareness—wanted the Linda Ann.
In the span of twenty seconds minus the presence of Truman Compoté, she’d learned something about herself: her wants and needs could kick obligation’s ass in a heartbeat. She was obligated to the Nonrich Corp, as they paid for her lifestyle, the striking-but-practical uniforms, loads of equipment, tech, vehicles, and access to the best healthcare plan on the planet.
Did a word of that mean she would begrudge herself a boat? No, it did not.
She was Cobra Commander. Two days might tick into twenty. She’d wait. To her target, it would always look like the blink of an eye.
On the fourth day: rest. Desiree and crew, that is. In Atlantis. By going to see Guerris.
Engineer’s Log: There are dark-skinned Atlanteans (I do not and will not use the woefully unsexy “Atlantideans” in my personal log), pale ones, olive ones. I say this because people can be basic as fuck and need reminding that life flows ever outward, not constrained into a narrow, fish-dead river. I’ve been assured that thousands of years from now, the LaFleur Scrolls will form the basis of a religion, so heed: This place is absoo-fooking-lutely beautiful. Neon says, “It’s like the Federation, Hawaii, and the Outback had a three-way.” There’s zero reason to think I can add to that description. Plants become walls, flowers—not billboards—enhance sight lines, the clothing is varied and bright, varied and muted, simply varied: this place gives my eyes so much to see, I need new frames.
We’re someplace called Sip to see an artist formerly known as Guerris but now going by the name Guerrilla. Apparently, the Jets’ last foray into Atlantis changed him on a “cellular level” (Neon again). You can’t say that about a peaceful person of art without ramping up expectations.
Afro Puffs Are The Antennae Of The Universe Page 4
