Koko Takes a Holiday (11 page)

Heinz fingers the nylon bandage covering the bite mark around her eye. Beneath the gauze, the laceration froths in a slather of accelerant antibiotics as the torn flesh knits itself back together. Another scar for sure and an embarrassing one at that, but such is life in Heinz’s chosen profession.

Damn it. She was positive she had Martstellar cornered in that tunnel, but the woman’s surprising speed, the volant and sublime ferocity of Martstellar’s countermoves, that really threw Heinz off her game. Yeah, Martstellar had once been a professional like herself, but wasn’t that, like, years ago? Martstellar’s file said she tended to overindulge in drink, plus she lazed around living the indolent good life and banged her own help. Shouldn’t the girl have softened up some by now? Apparently not. Pretty humiliating.

“Just get on with it,” Heinz tells the nurse.

The nurse bows again and jerks out another long pin. Heinz bites her lip.

Clink
.

At least fifty more of these pins to go. Man, if this clown didn’t pick up the pace she’d be here all day and Martstellar could be in the wind. Heinz starts to lie back and an incoming message patches directly into her field of vision via her ocular implant.

Custom Pleasure Bureau Executive Offices
Date: 7.2.2521
To: Heinz, Cleo F. (Faye) Freelance 89713-99220
Staff: Lee, Vincent T. (Tikayama) Employee 01124-18930
Subject: Status Report—Containment; Martstellar, Koko P. (Penelope). Vendor 456712-20189
Trans-feed Code: 12-33-770 Executive Archive Route Lee, Vincent T. (Tikayama) Only—(classified)

Understood. Forget witnesses. Continue pursuit post medical—two additional operatives assigned. Rendezvous 1.5 hours at
Alaungpaya
arrivals with Wire, J. (-Jackie-) Freelance 73213-55110, and Mu, L. G. (-Loa-) Freelance 77788-34562. Reevaluate COA. Bios and files attached.
SPECIAL NOTE:
Updated reward status approved—
ULTIMATE SANCTION
—fixed transfer credits with percentage incentive bonuses secured upon termination of target KPM. End transmission.

Heinz taps the side of her head to terminate the patch on her ocular.
Clink.

In the cloudy and oft en shifting world of bounty-agent work, there are some pretty damaged individuals floating around—bloodthirsty borderline sociopaths who you wouldn’t dare break bread with but you sure as hell would want as backup if things went gonzo on a gig. Heinz hasn’t had the privilege of working with either Wire or Mu, but she knows their names and has heard plenty of unsavory stories. Skimming the attached bios and files, Heinz digests a raft of atrocities so horrific it takes her very breath away.

Like her, after a few years serving for the multinationals, Wire and Mu cycled out of the private army corporate bullshit and turned pro. Their files say that, besides practicing the time-honored tradition of biting out combatants’ eyes, both Wire and Mu take the extra time to remove additional small trophies from their victims, even the ones that are to be handed over alive. Mostly fingers but also pieces of shaved skin, which Wire and Mu allegedly dry into crispy ornaments they wear around their necks. Heinz wonders how dried skin would look hooked to her neckbands. Maybe some earrings made from the bones of Martstellar’s severed thumbs? Beyond the fading twangs of pain in her leg, Heinz feels a flush of excitement swirl in her belly and, not unlike sexual arousal, the feeling is warm and yielding.

Clink.

Even after her first disastrous meeting with Martstellar, successfully completing an erasure assignment with the likes of Wire and Mu would definitely raise Heinz’s profile on the open market. True, in the end she’ll have to split the bounty credits with the additional operatives, but that’s entirely her fault.

For a moment, Heinz relives the blow that snapped her tibia and she swallows. That elbow of Martstellar’s, God, what was it made of? Steel? Stung like a lightning strike.

No matter. If all this Martstellar business finishes clean, Heinz could really make some serious moves.

Plus the transmission from Lee said the bounty status on Martstellar has been upgraded to Ultimate Sanction. Well, hey, now we’re talking. Why didn’t they offer stakes like that in the first place?

No matter what happens, if Martstellar dies today, tomorrow, or ten years from now, with Ultimate Sanction status all credits are now secured with accrued interest and bonuses. The upgrade also means the contract on Martstellar’s life is now permanent and irrevocable.

Guess CPB really wants this Martstellar bad.

Clink.

Heinz smiles slightly and eases back down on the gurney.

Now, if only this nurse here will show a little hustle on the pins she’ll clean up and go meet the pros.

“So, Vice President Delacompte, you’re telling us that this vendor matter is being handled?”

There is a small, penetrating silence as the CPB board of directors’ projections look mirthlessly down at Portia Delacompte. Five men and five women in total; most appear as though they have been rousted out of bed by a bad smell, the jowly director from Buenos Aires in particular. For the last ten minutes the majority of the discourse has been a tête-à-tête with the jowly director.

“I’m expecting an update soon,” Delacompte answers finally. “But I am confident this situation will be resolved within a few hours.”

“How did this even happen?” the jowly director asks. “A pleasure vendor brazenly attacking resort security personnel out of the blue? Impertinence like this is absurd. How did this woman ever escape The Sixty?”

“The vendor in question used a contraband pod,” Delacompte says. “We’re not sure how she smuggled in the parts, but we believe she is now in the Second Free Zone and using the orbits as sanctuary, naturally.”

“What about The Sixty’s aerial defenses? Did you not engage?”

“By the time we realized what had gone wrong, she had cleared the long-range scope of our countermeasures. Nevertheless, I’ve authorized full incident containment and assigned a freelance operative for pursuit.”

The jowly director bridles at this development. “You sent a freelance operative into the
Second Free Zone
?”

“Yes.”

“Need I remind you, Vice President Delacompte, that our charter and commerce agreements with Second Free Zone confederacies stipulate—”

“Sir, I assure you this action will be discreet. You have my word.”

“Your word,” moans the jowly director. “I know all about your word. You know, Madam Vice President, this is by my count the second mismanagement incident on your current cycle.”

Delacompte is taken aback by this accusation.
What? Her second incident?

“I’m sorry, but I think you are mistaken. I believe this is the first incident on my current cycle.”

“Well, then, let me refresh your less than precise memory. The ration hijackings last quarter?”

“Oh… that.”

“Yes, oh…
that
. That disaster took us nearly a month to clear up. If it weren’t for the trade elections clogging the feeds that particular week, international media interests would have had a field day with us. They might have ended up making those bloodsucking pirates into folk heroes. We were practically skinned alive buying up the entertainment rights on auction. And our CPB value hit? I don’t have the numbers up here on my prompts. What did we lose again?”

One of the projections, a withered-looking matron from Rome in a black-lace pillbox hat, mumbles, “Eight to fifteen on worldwide trade markets.”

The jowly director booms. “Eight to fifteen points!”

“Yes,” Delacompte says, “that incident was unfortunate. For all of us. But I believe we rebounded from that hit with a surge a week later, cross stratum. Several points higher than the downgraded analysts’ expectations, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Only because the CPB board here authorized a full blitz on the discounts and adjusted to resort prime fees immediately.”

“I disagree. Once we decided to hold public trials and allowed contest-winners to participate in the subsequent executions—an idea I came up with, I must add—I think the publicity of the whole affair strengthened CPB and The Sixty’s inherent value.”

Another one of the board, a drowsy-looking fop from flood-ravaged London, chimes in. “In Vice President Delacompte’s defense, I believe her assessment of the correction is accurate. We have gotten quite a bit of meat off that bone.”

The jowly director rolls his eyes to make his discontentment known to all.

Beneath the desk and out of the transmissions’ view of her, Delacompte slides out the green vial of Q from her jacket pocket. As inconspicuously as possible, she pries off the lid and pinches out a capsule. Slipping the vial back into her jacket, she rises from her desk and crosses the office to a long wooden credenza braced against the far wall. With her back to the airborne faces, Delacompte pours some ice water from a pitcher into a crystal tumbler and then, faking a curt cough, slides the capsule under her tongue and flushes it on its merciful way.

“So,” Delacompte says, turning, “if the ration hijackings actually helped CPB’s overall value and The Sixty Islands’ brand, wouldn’t this incident be the first blemish on my current cycle?”

The jowly director scowls. “Don’t be glib, Madam Vice President. All incidents affecting our inherent value are serious. You say you were just enforcing new amendments to the SI Decree Measures, the VDOMs, but this vendor… what did you say her name was again?”

“Koko Martstellar.”

“Right. This makebate Martstellar, she just turns around and starts killing our security staff willy nilly?”

“Well, she is former private military. And I mean, I do know the woman. Or should I say I used to know the woman.”

“And how is that again, exactly?”

“We served on several operations together back in my private military career. I was the one who recruited and hired her here, but I think she’s come unglued somehow.”

“Illuminate unglued.”

“Too much vice and ease is my guess. Reports of erratic behavior, other disciplinary issues, and quite a few customer complaints. It is an unfortunate personnel situation. Because she was my recruit, though, I feel a personal responsibility to make certain the entire matter is brought to a close expediently. This is why I approved dispatching an asset into the Second Free Zone.”

The feeds mute abruptly. In the weighty stillness, the board members transmit confidential messages to one another like school children passing notes in class. After a half-minute, the mute on the projection streams is released and the jowly director peers closer, his face looming large.

“Something is rotten here, Madam Delacompte. I don’t know what it is, but I am recommending a full reassessment of your executive commitment to CPB and The Sixty.”

“Wait—my executive commitment? Oh, no, no, no. My commitment to the CPB and The Sixty is absolute, directors. As all of you know, The Sixty is a massive operation and something like this? You must agree, a bump or two in the road with our day-today operations, this sort of thing can be expected.”

The jowly director’s face prunes. “Bump or two in the road, you say? Beyond the pirate incident, we’ve heard other similar dismissive excuses from you not too long ago, if I’m not mistaken. Need I remind you of the monkey attacks?”

Delacompte sighs. “Please, let’s not bring up the monkey attacks.”

“I will damn well bring up the monkey attacks!”

Delacompte squares herself. “With all due respect, director, those monkey attacks were a cybernetic anomaly. The subsequent inquiry exonerated us from all liability and proved this. And the monkey attacks’ relevance to this current situation hardly seem—”

“Oh, just shut up.”

More muted conferring amongst the directors. Delacompte isn’t exactly certain but when the sound is switched on again it appears one of the board members, the foppish one from London, has fallen asleep and is lightly snoring like a dog.

The jowly director’s face swells again as he leans further into the projection to make his point clear. He holds up one plump finger.

“I don’t have to tell you what this means, do I?”

Delacompte hangs her head. “No, sir.”

“Good.”

The transmissions cease, faces vanishing in the air like so many ghosts, and Delacompte plops down in the chair behind her desk. After a troubled minute’s worth of sulking, she picks up the shiny gun left on her desk when Lee reported the Martstellar debacle to her earlier. Giving herself a push with a foot, she clocks around in her chair until she faces the large window behind her. Looking out the thick glass, she takes in the blockish structures and parapets of the Custom Pleasure Bureau’s central campus, the sylvan landscapes and pearly clouds further beyond. Delacompte asks her office’s environmental systems for music, and soon the rich, relaxing notes of gently stroked cellos fill the room.

Delacompte raises the gun in her hand and tracks a bead on an unsuspecting SI employee hastily making his way across an exposed walkway stretched between two nearby campus buildings. Taking a careful lead with her aim, Delacompte pretends to let off a round as the warm endorphin rush of her fresh dose of Q takes hold.

Meanwhile, up above at
Alaungpaya
Security Services’ operational command, Jedidiah Flynn positions himself at one of the T-shaped duty pillars, jacks in, and starts to download his shift chronicle into the central security mainframe.

To Flynn’s right and left other security deputies like him are also downloading their chronicles at similar T-shaped pillars bolted to the deck. Plenty of griping and grousing on both sides. On his immediate left, a female deputy with a chiseled scar on her cheek repeatedly slams the heel of her hand into the side of the pillar in an effort to mitigate her frustration.

A bit drifty with his Depressus medications, Flynn checks the time stamp on the prompts. It’s only a few more hours until the Embrace ceremony, and he’s thinking about what he is going to do once he returns to his quarters on this, his last night alive. Finish packing up his meager possessions for charitable donations for sure, but then what? Maybe numb himself with the last of that aged beauty he’s been saving? Have a final fling down at
Alaungpaya
’s central casino? Yeah, that sounds like a plan. Get liquored up and bet recklessly. If he wins, maybe he’ll give away the last of his credits to some poor rube down on his luck and go out of this world as someone’s soused and generous angel. Flynn can almost taste the smooth aged beauty coursing down his throat, and he pictures the happy faces of the people taking the last of his credits off him.