Koko the Mighty

by Kieran Shea

  The male prostitute holds his female counterpart around her shoulders. Both have bloodstone-bruised jaws, and one of the female’s eyes is completely puffed shut like a rotten fig. Fear bleeds the remaining color from their faces, and they scrabble out of the bed like a pair of frightened rabbits. Heartlessly aloof, Wire follows them as they pick up their flimsy clothes. She points to a credenza by the suite’s door.

  “There’s extra credits for both of you in the envelope. It should cover whatever medical treatment is necessary. Please tell the concierge my compliments. Your stamina surpassed my expectations.”

  As if he’s seizing a written stay of execution, the male snatches up the envelope, and the female flings open the suite’s door. Seconds later, both of the prostitutes take off down the hall, running.

  Wire chuckles and closes the suite’s door. Cracking her neck, she unfastens her robe and lets the thick cover-up slip to the floor.

  Wearing black compression shorts and matching sports bra, Wire begins her daily workout regime: a quick, brutal set of calisthenics that includes lunges, deep crunches, and two hundred straight pushups as well as twenty-five additional pushups, one-handed. Her goal is to max out her heart rate at one hundred and seventy-two beats per minute, and a short time later Wire feels fully limber and ready to rock her day. Admiring her sweaty, jacked build in a wide mirror affixed to the suite’s far wall, she gives her nipples a brief, playful tweak.

  Damn, girl, looking gooooooood.

  After peeling out of her sweat-moistened garments, she then takes a ridiculously long steam shower, replaying her activities thus far.

  Once she booked her room at The Grand Monggo-Monggo, Wire used the hotel’s secure data-uplink amenities to kick her personal reboot into a higher gear. Her first matter of business was accessing her credit balances and investments holdings to see what she could quickly offload to get her back in the game at full strength. Of course, she immediately checked the status on the gnaw-ware program embedded in her shadow flowcode address. With the poison Britch injected her with, she may have been at death’s door, but she wasn’t stupid. She gave him a shadow flowcode address used for covert black-ops. Once entered, it launches an undetectable gnaw-ware program. When Britch eventually accesses his off-world accounts, the gnaw-ware will activate and present a ‘dummy’ account with a few thousand credits as a diversionary ploy. Meanwhile the rest of Britch’s off-world savings and associated investments would be transferred into Wire’s own accounts. As a bonus, the savage piece of programming would subsequently reach out, infect, and plunder any and all mainframes connected to the data tab before it vanishes completely. Sadly, when Wire discovered the gnaw-ware hadn’t launched yet it made her wonder. Could Britch have figured out the devastating back-end embedded in her uploaded address? No, that would be impossible. Once more, she felt stung at being compromised, but then when she noticed a message in her inbox from Britch with attachments she actually laughed out loud. What do you know? The fat tub of pus held up his end of the bargain!

  Lord, Britch, what kind of dipshit honors a deal?

  A dipshit sucker, that’s who.

  The data from Britch indicated that Martstellar intended to make a serious break for the flooded coastal fjord metropolises east of the Hecate Strait. Located just west of the Kitimat Ranges of former British Columbia, and well north of the deplorable New Vancouver supercities, the region was a twisted maze of strip mines, platform derricks, and mineral refineries primarily owned and operated by the new Canadian government’s resource alliance—C-GRAP. Not exactly a hospitable destination given the unruly arbitrage fluctuations and governmental infighting, but when Wire thinks about it she suspects C-GRAP’s bustling maritime ghettos are at least a decent place to go to ground. The real dripping cherry on the cake from Britch was that Martstellar downloaded a list of shipbrokers and recycle specialists in the region. Damn. Britch’s speculations were on target: Martstellar and her cohort aimed to offload the stolen sub to keep their pockets flush.

  With her mood significantly improved, Wire then forwarded a series of encrypted flowcode communications across her network to see if any of her contacts knew who was running the show off the books in Surabaya. This took a little more time, but within a few hours she had a bead on the whole degenerate briar patch. An associate of hers was well-connected throughout Indonesia, and he owed Wire plenty. The associate delivered new clothes via courier and put Wire in touch with a black market outfit that had a long-range personal propulsion aircraft for sale.

  Used in Chile’s Atacama Desert during the recent restructuring engagements, the bird for sale had some wear and tear indicated in its schematics, but was fully equipped with serious weapon capabilities. It did strike Wire as a bit strange that such an aircraft had ended up in Surabaya, but then some 3-D-rendered cross-referencing on conflict trade activities revealed the aircraft had been part of a larger geo-political transaction. Wire placed a deposit and made plans to check out the aircraft later that afternoon. If everything appeared to be on the up and up, she’d fly the hell out of Surabaya as soon as possible.

  While she towels off, the suite’s augmented intelligence screens engage and advise Wire that she has a visitor waiting for her downstairs in the hotel’s lobby. After quickly selecting one of her new tailored tactical suits (the one with climate insulation settings and environmental recognition software), Wire dresses and pulls on her new field boots. She stuffs her pant cuffs into the boots’ tops and pockets a new handheld uplink. Not one to take chances, she takes a steak knife from her room service tray and tucks the long serrated blade down her right boot.

  After a plunging glide in a glass-walled lift, Wire arrives in the gleaming, marbled lobby. The Grand Monggo-Monggo’s lobby is heavily palmed and decorated to a T, and as she looks around she identifies her visitor. Much older than expected, the visitor is a man of medium build who carries himself with a small, hidden defect in his step, as if he is attempting to hold in a fart. As he draws closer, the man’s disturbing personal disfigurement becomes apparent. Wire assumes radiation scarring, but there’s so much ulcerated scar damage on his face that his features resemble the bumpy, jaundiced texture of a dried apricot. He holds two gunmetal attaché cases and wears a plain collarless black linen suit over a white silk shirt. An old school, inert-connected translator is secured to the man’s mouth and left ear with lamprey-like barbs.

  “Hpphshh—Jackie Wire?”

  Wire almost puts out her hand in greeting, but she notices the man is not making a move to offer one of his own.

  “That’s me,” Wire replies. “The one and only. So, you got my shit?”

  The scarred man lifts up the two cases, and Wire is immediately suspicious. If all the weapons she requested were present, the two cases would be heavier than her body weight on Jupiter. There might be nothing inside them at all, and this could be a shakedown. Then again, the man’s ease at lifting them could mean his clothes are concealing powerful hydraulic prosthetics. Both cases are armed with tiny winking clip-on detonators.

  “Hpphshh—follow me, please.”

  Wire holds up a hand. “Hold on a second there, sport. I thought we were going to go someplace for the transaction.”

  A long sputter riffs through the translator speaker as the man stares at her and then brusquely turns. Wary and checking her surroundings, Wire follows him and a minute later they enter a windowless conference room down an adjacent hallway behind the hotel’s reception kiosks. The conference room is bare except for a long glass table with eight high-backed chairs lined up on one side. The man gently sets both of the cases down on the glass table, while Wire’s eyes scour the room’s corners for hidden visual receptors, listening devices, and possible weapons. The man’s translator whirs.

  “This room is safe. Please transfer the credits as discussed.”

  Man, Wire thinks, all this overt pushiness is feeling a bit shady. She wonders how quickly she could grab the steak knife tucked in her boot.

&nb
sp; “Mind if I inspect what I’m buying first?” she asks.

  The scar-faced man shakes his head. “When your credits are transferred and the receipt is substantiated, only then am I authorized to disengage the security measures on the cases. This was outlined in our flowcode message—hpphshh.”

  “Yeah, I know, but normally…”

  “Please initiate transfer or this transaction will be terminated.”

  Fucker. Wire tries to read the man’s flat eyes.

  “You ripping me off? Feels like I’m sticking my neck out.”

  “Hpphshh—nature of risk. Need I remind you, you are the one who reached out to us, not the other way around.”

  Okay, Wire thinks, so prune-face here is all business and a major-league dick. Chest puffing and skepticism is getting her nowhere, so she unzips a pocket on her new tactical suit and retrieves her new handheld. Pulling up the interface, she lifts her eyes and asks the man for the transaction code—a twenty-seven sequence of characters interspersed with universal credit modifiers and numbers. She reads back the numbers, characters, and modifiers in order and when the man’s head nods she engages the transfer icon.

  The man touches the left side of his head as he receives verification via the translator’s connecting earpiece. Without a word he then bends forward, disengages the clip-on detonators on the two cases, slips the detonators into his suit jacket, and leaves.

  Wire opens the cases. Packed in several layers of gray ballistic memory foam are enough weapons to wage a small war. Pulse pistols, integrated ammunition sleeves and stocks, electronics, grenades, and combat field supplies, all polished and pristine. She may have gone overboard a little to round her barbarous accouterment, but Wire is the type to go big when she goes hard.

  She shuts both cases, removes the steak knife from her boot, and tosses it on the glass table.

  Carrying the heavy cases out into the lobby, Wire takes the lift back up to her room.

  It’s time to pack the rest of her things and get the fuck out of Dodge.

  THE COMMONAGE III

  BRAVING THE PARENTS

  “Words cannot adequately express my sympathies,” Sébastien says.

  Regardless of his orders to keep the news of Kumari’s death quiet, reports of the strangers returning with the search party and an unknown covered body swiftly flourished through the Commonage. Restless with speculation, a neighbor of Kumari’s family knocked on their door close to dawn and asked if they knew anything about the mysterious goings on. Kumari’s mother and father confessed they’d heard nothing, and after closing the door the unhealthiest imaginings froze their hearts.

  Kumari’s family had joined the Commonage shortly after Kumari’s ninth birthday, just when the girl’s precociousness and raw intelligence had started to burn bright. Insatiably curious about everything, Kumari soon lapped her young peers at the Commonage conservatory in nearly every conceivable subject. With her feeling marginally ostracized by the other conservatory children for her gifts, once she turned eleven, her parents thought perhaps private tutorage might be the better option for her, and they sought Sébastien’s guidance.

  Sébastien was familiar with the child. After giving Kumari a series of tests he was so impressed by the girl’s aptitude and IQ that he told her parents he would be delighted to attend to her studies directly. Like most who discover their child is gifted, Kumari’s parents were thrilled, and together they made sure the girl took her additional academic responsibilities seriously.

  When they didn’t find her in her room, Kumari’s parents fell into a stasis of dread, until Sébastien came to their door and ripped their world to pieces.

  “We’ve no idea why she was out along the cliffs,” Sébastien continues as he sits across from them. “Of course we’re looking into it, but tell me, did Kumari—”

  Kumari’s father looks at him blankly. “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, we’ve no idea why she was out there. Climbing gear you said?”

  “Yes. Hooks of hammered metal and line.”

  “But Kumari doesn’t do things like that.”

  “I know.”

  “Of course, rope is easily had around here, but she’s never been a physical type of girl. When she was small my daughter was always afraid of heights. I couldn’t even lift her onto my shoulders without her throwing a fit. Why would she—” A raw impatience briefly coagulates and then passes. “After dinner, we talked about her lessons, what she’d been reading, you know, things that you’ve given her, but she told us she was tired. She said goodnight and went straight to her room.”

  Sébastien looks to Kumari’s mother perched on the edge of her chair. Earlier when he arrived and shared the horrible news, naturally the woman broke down. It’s strange, but now she manages her shock by silently knitting from a woven reed basket of yarn on the floor. They talk over the fervid clicking of knitting needles.

  Chick-a-chick-a-chick-a…

  Sébastien desperately wants to examine Kumari’s room to pick through her things for clues or a secreted-away journal or perhaps even a second needle drive. Kumari’s father cups the back of his wife’s head.

  “For her to run away like this…”

  Sébastien bends forward. “We don’t know that she was running away.”

  “But you just said she had supplies,” Kumari’s father says.

  “I did. But if she was running away, she must’ve given you two some inkling.”

  Kumari’s father quells a creeping palsy in his voice. “We had dinner together like we always do in the commissary. Nothing seemed wrong. No, I don’t think we had any indication at all.”

  “Did she seem upset lately?”

  Chick-a-chick-a-chick-a…

  “No.”

  “More reserved?”

  Chick-a-chick-a-chick-a…

  “Not at all.”

  Sébastien stands. “Well, then. As our operational guidelines stipulate, I’ve scheduled Kumari’s interment for later today so now might be the appropriate time for you to go and see her before Dr. Corella prepares her.”

  Chick-a-chick-a-chick-a—the knitting stops.

  Kumari’s parents look up.

  “Go now,” Sébastien says.

  There is no reluctance. With venerate and almost liturgical meekness, Kumari’s parents rise to their feet and do exactly as instructed. When they leave, the two don’t even bother with a final look back. As soon as they close the outer door, Sébastien rubs his face and groans.

  Thank God for TAM, he thinks.

  It’s been a night for the ages.

  Working with sensible care and reminding himself to think craftily as a young girl might, Sébastien spends the next half hour methodically probing and examining every square inch of Kumari’s bedroom and the rest of the family’s quarters. He looks beneath rugs, unscrews and peers behind each switch plate on the walls, and opens every cupboard and container he can find. As with all Commonagers’ quarters, the rooms and cupboard materials are frugal and orderly arranged, but he is unable to locate any incriminating evidence whatsoever. In her parents’ bedroom, he notices a jewelry box on a bureau and replaces the necklaces, bracelets, and rings Kumari took, and checks the time on a clock. Thoroughly frustrated, Sébastien is about to head out, when he sees something he hadn’t noticed earlier and stops. Slipped between the balls of yarn in her mother’s knitting basket is a small folded slip of yellow paper.

  Sébastien crosses to the basket and snatches the paper up. A part of him hopes it’s a pattern instruction or some sort of darning guide, but when he sees that the yellow paper has an unmolested seal of tape with a heart drawn on it, he hooks a finger and rips the paper open.

  Papa, Mama

  There is so much to say, and I don’t know where to begin.

  Remember when you told me how Sébastien recruited you to join the Commonage? How you believed, deep down, that his intention was to design a place for people who yearned for a fresh start and for those who beli
eved the world had gone mad? None of that it is true. Sébastien and Dr. Corella have lied to you… to everyone.

  I know it sounds crazy, but the Commonage is being used as a five-year early trial facility for a drug compound called TAM. Unable to ethically or legally study the applications of TAM because of its brain-altering properties, Dr. Corella and Sébastien have been using adult Commonagers as test subjects. Within months, if not sooner, their plan is to sell their findings to the highest bidder. It breaks my heart to tell you that both of you’ve been exposed to the TAM compound under the guise of a vaccination series just after our family’s arrival years back. All adults have been exposed to it, and once the second treatment is administered the effects are irreversible.

  I know you’re confused, but I’ve never lied to you. I’ve copied all the TAM materials, Sébastien and Dr. Corella’s findings, etc. and my plan is to expose or find someone who can put a stop to all this before it goes too far. I’d hoped there was another way, but since my body is changing and soon I will be considered a mature adult, time is running out.

  I can’t stand by and do nothing.

  I love you.

  K

  THE PARTNER DOCTOR

  “He kept mumbling her name.”

  Dr. Corella inspects Flynn’s dressing and doesn’t look up at the attending assistant. Flynn’s wound is healing quickly with the deep muscle accelerants.