Koko Takes a Holiday (22 page)

“He can bite me. Did Lee mention anything going down over at Wonderwall?”

“Hold on.” A few moments later Heinz follows up. “Negative on Wonderwall, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Mu is flushing her to us.”

“Yeah, or maybe she’s already dead. I’m going to see if my uplink skimmer can probe the security coms. See if anything hinky has gone down anywhere aboard and run it back.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Yeah-yeah,” Wire says. “No other way off
Alaungpaya
unless she comes through here and blah, blah, blah. Just keep your post and stay sharp. We don’t want her slipping through the choke point.”

Someone behind Wire laughs heartily. Wire has the distinct feeling the man is laughing at what she just conveyed to Heinz, so she turns around. She sees a dark-skinned, bare-armed man wearing a white wooly vest and drinking a pint of solar ale.

“Is something funny?” Wire asks.

The dark-skinned man sets down his drink. His head is enormous, like the head of a lion, and he is not the least bit intimidated by the stony look in Wire’s eyes. The man leans forward on his well-developed and folded arms.

“There is always one other way off
Alaungpaya
,” he says.

Wire lets her eyes drift down onto the departure and arrival area.

“Oh, yeah? And how’s that exactly?” She looks back to the man.

The dark-skinned man leans back and makes a sad face and then flutters his thick fingers down through the air and makes a small screaming noise. The amber-colored ale in his glass jumps as he smacks the table in front of him hard.

He laughs even harder.

As Vincent Lee sends his message to the bounty agent Heinz, he tries to put his boss’s warbling moans out of his head. Just behind the polished blonde shine of her wooden office door, Portia Delacompte is going through the required supplication service for the faithful.

Lee frowns.

New One Roman Church of the Most Holy Liberator.

What a friggin’ joke.

Lee has never understood the attraction of religion, particularly fundamentalist, hard-liner sects, and deep down he secretly dreads a future day when he will have to slurp up all the sanctimonious drivel like the rest of the CPB myrmidons with a big ol’ straw. Yes, he realizes it has to be part of his long-term plan if he wants to survive and get ahead; many of his peers at CPB have already entered the NORC/MHL aspirant process and shamelessly adopted the dogma. But to Lee, the notion of turning his back on cold-bath sensibleness, secular reason, and the broader discoveries of universe-based physics sits about as well as a ball of foul cheese in the back of his throat.

The worst part is NORC/MHL’s weaselly metaphysical framework. Sheesh, if you’re going to pick a massive delusional farce to cocoon yourself up in, at least have a backbone. You want to follow Mohamed to Allah? Terrific. Follow Mohamed to Allah. You want to flex your legs, get to know the chunky, mellow-looking guy breathing shallow? Have at it. But from the outset, the New One Roman Church of the Most Holy Liberator recognized the destructive nature of such antiquated limitations. Hell, even the breeziest study of antiquity could illustrate the fact that 99.9 percent of humanity’s blood-spattered plunges down the commode were caused by religious fraction. So, to avoid this, the church founders forged a new path of aggregated non-exclusivity, accepting all arguments, parables, taboos, and truths of convenience. To Lee, the crippling truth is that it’s all a snow job. A con. A ruse of solace designed specifically to justify the intentions of greed and power and to bless those in charge with the ability to shape and manipulate the future.

The most encompassing credence for peace and success?

The right way and the life?

People can be so stupid, Lee thinks. Like a flock to slaughter, like a flock to bloody slaughter.

Just beyond the door, Delacompte brays and Lee’s chest spins out a sigh. It’s all so ludicrous. Delacompte going through that crazy medallion ritual? Of course his boss is totally faking it. She’s a former mercenary, and she has a ridiculous tolerance for pain. Lee has personally seen the woman take an incredible beating in CPB fitness center’s sparring octagon and brush it off with indifference.

Still, he supposes, Delacompte has to sell it. The myopic, self-righteous NORC/MHL officials would only believe her if she quaked daily for absolution.

Bunch of masochistic maniacs.

Anyway, what on earth is taking these bounty agents so long? Why won’t Heinz answer his messages? This whole affair should be completed by now. Where is this Koko Martstellar?

Lee tries to send another message to Heinz but the transmission again goes unanswered. He attempts secondary priority communications with both Mu and Wire and still receives no response.

In disgust, Lee pushes away from his desk, stands, and proceeds down the hall toward the floor’s break room. His status as Portia Delacompte’s right arm has always given Lee a slight edge over his fellow office workers, but the day’s souring events have sucked all the haughty marrow from Lee’s usual smugness. Avoiding others’ eyes in the break room, he makes himself a large green tea and then heads back to his desk as quickly as possible.

Upon his return Delacompte’s cries are in full swing, and he gulches down a burning swig of tea. Not that he’d know, but from the sound of the woman’s histrionics if someone were to pass by just then Lee is sure they’d think his boss was thrashing through one very intense and protracted orgasm.

Lee shudders and tries the
Alaungpaya
team again.

In a half-squat, Flynn leans his back against a wall next to a smudged metal door that opens out onto the
Alaungpaya
’s main arrival and departure terminal. Koko squats next to him in a
wushu
rest stance.

“Let me see that strat-sled coupon you told me about,” Flynn says, pulsing his fingers.

Koko removes the coupon Juke Ramirez gave her from her borrowed jumper’s breast pocket and hands it over. Flynn examines the logo lettering on the chit:
DropSledz
. Flynn recalls seeing the strat-sled rental company’s advertisements on the feeds. Smartly groomed, sophisticated men and women encapsulated in the personal propulsion crafts winging through a graphically enhanced atmosphere like angry hornets. Flynn slides up the wall and drops his hand to a bar that opens a perpendicular slit in the doorway just off to his left. He scans the view and eases the door closed again, keeping it slightly ajar.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Koko clutches his arm.

“Wait a second. Wait here? What do you mean, wait here? No, no, no. Uh-uh, I’m going with you.”

Flynn eases the gap in the door closed and leans toward her. “They’re looking for you out there, Koko, not me, remember? Me? They probably don’t know about me or what I look like yet. Listen, I’ll just go over and secure your strat-sled rental with this coupon. After the Embrace lockdown is lifted, you can take a strat-sled and take off out of here.”

“Maybe we should think of something else,” Koko says. “There might be a better way.”

Flynn shakes his head. “Not unless you want to join me at the sunrise lemming ceremony. Shuttles are too conspicuous and freighters are completely out of the question. Too many tracer scans and cross-checks. Trust me, a strat-sled is the call.”

Koko looks down. She wrinkles her brow and frowns.

“So, just how long is it until the… um…”

“What?”

“You know.”

“The Embrace ceremony?”

“Yeah. When do you need to check in for your jump?”

In his head, Flynn tallies. He estimates the time since they left the dead agent down in his quarters, plus their interrupted lengthy climb out near the vessel’s hull and their hiding out in the custodial closet.

“It’s probably just over twenty minutes before they release the first wave of jumpers, give or take. The Embrace organizers are pretty flexible on participant check-ins, and they’re supposed to stagger the jumps. I’m probably late for the first and second calls and dosage allotments, but they’re kind of used to people dragging their feet at the last second.”

Koko closes her eyes and slowly shakes her head. “Man, that’s so
weird
.”

“What now?”

“How can you be so laid back about ending it all?”

“Hey, it’s not like I haven’t been thinking about this for a while, you know. Embrace is not some random impulse buy. After you make your initial commitment and encode your personal contract, you sort of get used to the idea of your death just being out there. Like a big clock winding down.”

“Oh, give me a break. Listen to you. Like a big clock winding down. Could you be any more unoriginal?”

“It’s just a simile.”

“Simile, schmimile. Here’s a feed flash for you, Flynn. Everybody’s big clock is winding down. The thing is most people just choose to ignore it. Anybody who isn’t aware that their life can end at any second, that their tenuous existence is nothing but a fleeting notion, is a fool. You know what? Under different circumstances and if we had more time, I bet I could cure you of this big bad Depressus you allegedly think you have.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me, Doctor Koko, where did you go to medical school?”

“Oh, get over yourself. I’m talking about living here. I’m talking flat-out
joie de vivre.
I mean, look at you now. Just look at you. Mister Action Man. Mister All Chivalrous and Rising to the Occasion. And why? Just because I decided not to kill you and asked for your help? Before I told you my idea of using your knowledge to get off
Alaungpaya
you were a blubbering mess. And you could have blown off my idea and taken a quick shot to the head back at your quarters. But you didn’t. No, you made a choice. You decided to help me, and that, my man, took will. That took guts. Not to mention you’re a former security officer. Hell, I half expected you to try to make a stand against me, but again you didn’t. Do you know what I saw in your eyes back there when I asked you to help me out?”

“No, what?”

“I saw a light, Flynn.”

Flynn snorts.

“A light.”

“Yeah, sure, it was kind of dim, but I know I saw something. I saw somebody who wants more and no doubt deserves more, but somehow thinks big bad fate has dealt him a crappy hand. My hunch is that maybe you’ve just been up here in the Second Free Zone for too long. This whole weirdo Depressus thing? Sounds like a big scam to me. If you were anyplace else down on Earth, I’d say all you have is a mere spat of the blues.”

“It’s not a scam.”

“Really? So, did you actually go to medical school?”

“I really don’t want to get into this.”

“Tough,” Koko says. “I think like some dope you took those doctors’ words as gospel and just gave up. Where’s your self-respect, man? Where’s your freakin’ dignity? Have you even considered that maybe your problem is that no one has ever taken the time to show you how to stop taking it all inside? Hell, I’ve never met anyone worth a damn who hasn’t at least once contemplated suicide at some point in their lives. Seriously, if you really sat down and thought about it, I bet you’d be surprised to find you don’t really want to kill yourself at all. You only want to end your life.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Hell, yes, there’s a difference. I’m talking about change. I’m talking about pride and taking charge of your destiny. Doctors are human too, you know. They can be wrong like anybody else.”

“You’re entitled to your own opinion.”

Koko’s face sours. “You’re damn right I’m entitled to my own opinion. Stodgy shrinks and pompous quacks, I’ve seen my share of those flim-flam artists, and you know what I think? I’d say the vast majority of those self-aggrandizers were only good at three things: making junkies, lining their own pockets, and shoring up the aura of their precious profession. Cripes, Flynn, if I wasn’t in such a jam here, I could show you a thing or two about really living.”

“I bet you could, but like it or not it’s too late for me now.”

Koko harrumphs.

“Look, Koko, we just met. You really don’t know anything about me or what I’ve been through. Don’t give me that look, I’m serious. This condition has taken a real physical toll on me. You want to call it some half-baked conspiracy? Fine, get in line. There’s plenty of people who argue that Depressus is some way of curbing the Second Free Zone populations. But I don’t care at all about conspiracy theories. I’m just tired. I’m just sick and tired of suffering day in and day out. I’m tired of all the drugs that make me feel like I’m drowning in mud, tired of being irritable and angry, tired of seeing nothing good in this world anymore. The stagnant meaninglessness of it all. How today feels like tomorrow and spins around and feels like yesterday. How it’s all so… fruitless. My life is over, so deal with it. I certainly have.”

“Man, you
do
need to get laid.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Not in my nature.”

“Well, could you at least try? God, if there was any proof of me actually being off my rocker, helping the likes of you with a cockamamie plan like this definitely takes the cake. I must be off my nut altogether.”

Flynn widens the crack in the door and peeks out. Koko chews her lip.

“I still don’t like this,” she says.

“What is wrong with you? I’m trying to help you here. Stop worrying. It’ll be fine.”

Koko gets to her feet and pulls both the Sig and Flynn’s Beretta from her belt. “I’m going to cover you anyway.”

“No!” Flynn scolds. “Just stay put. I’ll be back in a minute. And put those guns away. If someone comes by, just pretend you’re sick or something. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Before Koko can object further, Flynn pushes open the door and slips through. Picking his way through the crowds, he breezes up to the DropSledz rental counter centered in the terminal.

“Welcome to DwopSwedz, twhere convenience twis our motto, thwherever your twavels may lead. Hi, may I help you?”