by Kieran Shea
Trick has had enough. In a screaming burst, he launches himself off the bricks and tackles Shirley to the ground. At first there are so many thrashing arms, kicks, bites, and punches, it’s hard to see who has the upper hand, but soon Shirley starts to buck as if she’s having a seizure. When everyone sees Trick jiggling his jackknife across her neck, the entire camp lets out a collective gasp.
It’s been some time since Trick took someone’s life, and the great runny necklace of blood that pours out of the carved gash startles him. Stumbling backward, he catches his wind as Shirley desperately tries to stem the hot flow of life leaving her throat. When she finally goes still, Trick wipes the jackknife on his pants.
“Well, now. I guess that settles it then,” he says.
THE INTERMENT CONTINUED
After Dr. Corella hands over the medical materials she demanded, Koko checks in on Flynn once more and finds him snoring peacefully. She needs him well so they can make tracks as soon as possible, so she leaves him and steams out of the infirmary and administration building to clear her head.
Once outside, Koko crosses the courtyard. Finding a low granite bench and with the data plug with mirroring information shoved into one of her pockets, she sits down and begins sifting through Dr. Corella’s printouts.
All in all the medical nomenclature is insipidly dry, and it’s difficult to make sense of the curative mumbo-jumbo. Subcutaneous and intramuscular dosage amounts, perplexing nano-surgery and grafting procedures, flesh mending accelerants, and lengthy compound descriptions that read like numeric and alphabet soup. When Koko demanded to know why he gave Flynn a shot in the eye, Dr. Corella quickly explained that the sepsis from Flynn’s wound had swollen a forward portion of his brain and to relieve the pressure within, an invasive craniotomic procedure needed to be performed to relieve the edema. The doctor guaranteed Koko that, despite the slight discomfort, Flynn’s eye was not affected by the injection. Koko doesn’t like it (or Dr. Corella, for that matter) but in the end, in the cold light of day, she supposes the plus is in the upside: it looks like Flynn is back from the brink.
Taking a break from her reading, Koko raises her head and notices a group of twenty people walking in two lines several hundred meters away across the compound. It’s a solemn procession and at once she realizes it must be the burial for the dead girl. A self-propelled wheeled plank bears a shrouded body, and there are about six in the lead portion of the procession, with Sébastien in front along with a bereft-faced man and woman. Middle-aged, Koko figures the couple must be the dead girl’s parents. Born in the collectives and technically hatched in laboratory conditions, Koko’s biological progenitors were nothing more than a deliberately selected helix cocktail of genetic code. Searching, Koko comes up short on sympathy.
Recent emotional growth spurts with Flynn notwithstanding, she still finds she cannot break free of some deep-seated personal convictions, one of which is that she utterly despises funerals. Death—she’s seen more than her fair cut, inflicted much more for her bread and butter, but the archaic necessity of such ceremonies escapes her. Sure, she admits, you grieve for the loss that someone’s death tears into your life, but she’s always been of the mind that you beat the ground privately and you keep the orb of your sorrow brief. Taking the whole ghoulish spectacle public moves into some sort of maudlin narcissistic realm, so go ahead and ask the dead. If the dead could speak they’d probably look at you askance and say, why bother? Dead is dead, and gone is gone. They’re not coming back. Let them get back to the primary six elements as quick as possible. Whatever… at least they don’t draw things out here.
A voice, calm and observant, speaks beside her.
“Such a sad thing…”
Koko looks up. It’s the t’ai chi instructor she met earlier, the tall woman who introduced herself as Pelham. Koko brushes a nonexistent piece of lint off her pant leg and folds up the medical printouts of Flynn’s treatments. She stuffs the papers into one of her pant pockets, the one with the data plug.
“I wouldn’t know,” Koko says.
Pelham motions to the granite bench. “Do you mind?”
Koko makes room and Pelham sits down. “She was a rosy, creative spirit in every sense. Vivacious and wicked smart… her mother and father were some of the first to join the Commonage, back during the recruitment phase. Sébastien was her tutor.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. And she was an only child too.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s all such a mystery,” Pelham continues. “Honestly, why would she be out along the cliffs during such bad weather? We’d all known for days the storm was imminent. Her parents are heartbroken.”
“Got a name?”
“Didn’t Sébastien tell you? Her name was Kumari.”
“Pretty. I guess I owe her.”
“Owe her? In what way?”
“Well, the search party. If they hadn’t been out looking for her, Flynn and I might not have made it.”
“Ah, I see. I suppose fate does present its roundabout gifts now and then.”
Koko suppresses a short laugh, and Pelham turns.
“What’s so funny? You’re not the type who believes in fate?”
“Gee, whatever gave you that idea?”
Pelham looks back and regards the procession. “There’s no need to be so cold, you know.”
Koko composes herself, and together they watch the procession move off between two larger, oblong Commonage buildings.
Cold? What would you know about being cold?
If Pelham wants to see Koko cold she should try a stint looking into her eyes when she’s really good and mad.
Still, however casual, Pelham’s observation irks. Is she really that insensitive? Life has schooled Koko in harsh truths. Her thoughts skating back to Flynn, Koko supposes Flynn’s outward considerate nature is similar to Pelham’s. Always thinking about others, always flexibly giving people the benefit of the doubt. She’s a little ashamed to admit it, but Koko has never been so taken with someone with such naïve convictions before. With Flynn (well, at least before that stupid bounty hunter showed up and everything went straight in the proverbial shitcan) it’s been different. Real different. With Flynn it’s as though everything in Koko’s life has suddenly fallen into place somehow. Despite his softer gullibilities, life with him actually felt good for a change. She wonders if she was unhappy before Flynn dropped into her life. She doesn’t think so, and frankly, she isn’t sure what real happiness is. Weighed against everything that has fallen apart for her before, she imagines the ease she feels with Flynn could be called happiness. Hell, all the damages she’s endured, the years of inexplicable destruction and horror, all for nothing but a stingy paycheck. But now with Flynn it feels like going through all that has been somehow worth it.
On more than one occasion Flynn has told Koko he could give a hot, high-flying hoot about her lethal history. Not only that, but he’s always made a big effort to equalize and soothe the darker voids she tries hard to keep inside. Naturally, all this introspection begs a bigger question.
Does she love Flynn?
Koko loathes the conceptual underpinnings of love, seeing such declarations as lies of convenience to gussie up hot-to-trot chemistries. She’s always been mortified to cop to such sappiness. However, what Koko does believe is that with Flynn these past several months she’s felt like a better person with a shot at a more productive future.
The truth is, Flynn is kind of a fun guy. He makes her laugh, calls her out on her shortcuts, and tries with every sort of silly, awkward kindness to please her. Koko knows there are always risks with personal attachments, and sadly those risks tend to teeter you on a precarious verge. It makes her wonder. Would she be projecting such chilliness now if things had turned out differently? What if these people at the Commonage hadn’t found them or given Flynn the medical attention he needed? Hell, Koko thinks, maybe I should stop being such a frosty fish.
“Look, Pelham,�
� she says. “I know I come off hard, but I’m just used to seeing things black and white. You really don’t know the first thing about why we ended up here.”
“I’m willing to listen if you need a friend.”
Koko looks at her.
Pelham smiles shyly. “So, did you find the infirmary all right?”
“Yeah, I did. Thanks.”
“Not a problem. Glad to help. How is your friend Flynn doing?”
Koko stands. “He’s conscious, but he’s still a bit out of it. Dr. Corella claims he’s making significant improvement, but then again I’m not the sort who trusts doctors.”
“Oh, but Dr. Corella is an exceptional practitioner. He wouldn’t tell you something if it weren’t true. Before the Commonage, he was lauded as one of the world’s leading authorities in muscular and regenerative neuropharmacology therapies.”
Regenerative neuropharmacology therapies?
“Huh, and now he’s here doling out aspirin in nowheresville.”
Pelham shrugs. “I know the Commonage might seem peculiar to an outsider like yourself, but Dr. Corella believes in it. Anyway, it really is quite lovely here.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Kumari didn’t think it was so hot. Have you considered that maybe she was running away?”
Pelham brushes off this observation. “Don’t be silly. Kumari was a mere child. They can be so impetuous. When they’re older, eventually children do adapt.”
Koko gives Pelham another wry look and shakes her head, thinking, Wow, just when you think this wishy-pishy weirdness is getting to be too much. Goddamn, is everybody here completely off their friggin’ rocker?
Pausing, Koko then has another thought. Maybe if she warms up to Pelham, double-X chromosome to double-X chromosome, perhaps she can glean some more information about whatever transport options they’ve got at the Commonage. The angles… there are worse lengths to go to.
“So exactly how many Commonagers are there?”
“Close to two hundred.”
“Wow. I guess your logistics must be a huge pain in the neck then.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, with two hundred heads I’ve got to assume you have ground or air craft to secure enough provisions.”
Pelham hesitates. “Are you being sincere with me or are you just fishing for information?”
“Maybe a little of both.”
“I see,” Pelham replies. “Well, by and large we try to grow everything we need within the Commonage boundaries.”
“You mean food.”
“Correct. Newer strains of improved micrograins, vegetables and fruits—with all the imported soil, at first we encountered sclerosis and mold infestations, but we’ve built up genetic resistances. And we have lots of animals too, and none are synthetics. Well, except for Gammy.”
“But what about the rest?”
“The rest? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“The infrastructure,” Koko clarifies. “You can’t possibly forge metals, construction materials, or rudimentary circuitry without advanced technology, so where does all that come from? Sébastien said this place was once a reservoir. Obviously it’s been altered to suit your needs, so what about tools and such? What about Dr. Corella’s medical supplies? Look, self-sufficiency is commendable, but be realistic. There must be ground vehicles or flight craft to support your efforts.”
“Oh,” Pelham says quietly. “We don’t have any here.”
As when Sébastien told her about the lack of defense, Koko is thunderstruck.
“But what if there’s a crisis?”
“We haven’t had any major issues since I’ve been here.”
“But c’mon, there must be something.”
“We’ve committed to being here, Koko, to forge a new way of life. Naturally, the Commonage’s charter does stipulate we can retain outside assistance and even transport if an emergency warrants, but Sébastien or Dr. Corella would handle such a thing if an issue came up. And to your question of outside supplies, we get minimal materials and normal shipments arrive every two months.”
Koko rocks back. “Every two months? You’re joking.”
“As I said, we strive for autonomy.”
Autonomy? Herr Spent Capital and his doctor have these people at their mercy.
Creating a positive social initiative in the big, bad world, something is definitely off here. Communal ideal or not, the whole boondoggle doesn’t make a lick of sense. And all that Special Economic Zone claptrap—free from governmental, political, and transnational corporate intrusion? That really gnaws. Why not set up the Commonage someplace more habitable if Sébastien and the doctor had the wherewithal? Pelham picks up on Koko’s barometric swing and goes on soothingly.
“Sébastien and Dr. Corella are so kind and generous. They truly believe as I do that the Commonage is a saner model for how life should be.” Pelham reaches out to give Koko’s arm a light, solicitous touch. “You know what? I think you should take a closer look around and talk with some of the others. I believe if you open your mind and let go, you’ll see the Commonage differently.”
And with that, Pelham takes her leave and slowly walks away.
Koko sits back down on the bench.
Two months?
No way are she and Flynn staying here in this booby hatch for two months.
Flynn, baby. Get better.
Fast.
WITH THE WEE ONES
“Time to speak up if you got questions,” Trick declares. “Otherwise I’m assuming you got it down crystal-like.”
Kneeling on single knees beneath the trees on the edge of the weedy fields surrounding the compound, three of the camp’s youngest cower before Trick and Grum. It’s now early afternoon, and the children’s faces are studies of relentless malnutrition and disease. Two boys and one girl, all are dressed in similarly tattered rags, so to identify them at a distance Trick has them tuck up their greasy hair beneath bandannas marked with wet soot. While Grum knows the children’s names, Trick has no patience for such things. The soot markings are A, B, and C.
“Remember,” Trick says, “don’t skip at the first sign of static. You be de-civs, but them’ll give in if you stick to the script.”
One of the children, the same red-haired girl that Trick believes Grum is partial to, fidgets.
“The script?”
Trick cuffs her ear. The girl lets out a pained yip and Grum winces.
“The plan,” Trick seethes. “Any damn fool can put their hand out and ask for rain. I chose you runts ’cause you got presence. You want to eat or not?”
The three nod and then look to Grum. The boys and girl like Grum. Over the past few weeks on the trip to Sin Frontera, Grum’s pranks and antics have made their day-to-day trials bearable. Shirley’s earlier talk of concussion mines weighs heavily on their fledgling minds.
“Nothin’s going to happen,” Grum says. “Just do as Trick says and you’ll goon it, right-right. You’ll come back to camp heroes.”
The little girl adjusts her bandanna with a hand, her voice faltering.
“A-a-and you’ll be right here? Waitin’?”
Trick glares menacingly at the child as though he’s thinking about smacking her again. Grum speaks softly.
“Of course. Trick and me be right here. No fret, you bet.”
“Just remember,” Trick says. “Get a feel for the place, what it’s made of. Goon for niches on the walls. Power lines, that sort of thing. If you end up gettin’ nothin’, you best be comin’ back with some valuable info.”
The three children stare out at the open field. Grum then gently places a hand on the little girl’s shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
A minute later the three children slink out of the trees and troop their way across the open fields. Trick and Grum carefully track their progress from the trees.
“I sure hope they get some rice,” Grum says. “Rice goes a long way makin’ g
rubs taste better.”
Trick sniggers, “Rice nothin’. You best hope Shirley be wrong about concussion mines.”
* * *
As the children get within eighty meters of the compound, one of two men atop the walls calls out.
“You there, please do not advance farther.”
Fanned out with twenty paces between them, the children stop obediently as directed. The ginger-haired girl is between the two boys because that’s the way Trick wanted it. Play up the pity, all waifish and framed. Straight ahead, the children can make out an arched entry and gated tunnel.
“Please, sir,” the girl calls out. “We don’t mean no trouble.”
The first man looks to the second, who has stepped over to his side. There’s an exchange between them that none of the children below can hear, and then the first man addresses the children sternly.
“This is a private facility,” he says. “We’re aware of your camp’s presence out in the woods, so please turn around right now and go back the way you came. There’s nothing for you here.”
The girl looks at the boys on either side of her. She recalls Trick’s warning about sticking to the script and how he hit her. The girl trembles forward on watery legs.
“We’re just hopin’ you could spare some tasties.”
“I said, there’s nothing for you here. Please, go back.”
“But we haven’t had any real tasties for weeks, sir.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but please do as you’re told.”
A third man with a small beard appears on the wall and sees what’s happening. He crosses over to the other two men authoritatively and says something that none of the children can hear. All three children look up at the men desolately. Just as Trick predicted, when they start to tear up the combined theatrical impact is sucker-punch perfect.
* * *
Grum whispers, “What’s goin’ on?”
“Shh. Somethin’s happenin’.”
