Koko Takes a Holiday (9 page)

She stares at her sweaty reflection in the mirror and smears the dripping bile from her lips. Her eyes are green, hard flames.

Goddamn you, Delacompte.

Cranking the flash shower settings to just above freezing, Koko tugs off her dingy panties, steps into the stall, and lets the surrounding jets of misted, cold water lash away the pungent film seeping from her flesh. She rinses the last of the vomit from her gums with repeated jabs of her index finger and lathers herself all over with a heavy squeeze of cinnamon-scented disinfectant. Soon her aches are numb and her head clears. After stepping out of the shower, Koko buffs the remaining cold moisture from her nakedness with a second thin towel hanging by the sink. She feels cleaner than she’s felt for days.

If he’s still on
Alaungpaya
, it’s high time to track down her old contact, Juke Ramirez. Get strapped and work on getting good and gone. Ditch her look. Definitely a new hairstyle for cover too. Something different, but cut short for if and when things get ugly again.

Koko picks up and jams her clothes into the room’s courtesy cleaner mounted on the wall and sets the device for quick clean. As the clothes run through the ionizing cycles, she crosses the room to the window and looks down on the red pulsating lights in
Alaungpaya
’s central casino. Thirty seconds later, a soft ping tells her the clothes are sterilized and dry.

Pocketing her piercing jewelry and her rolled crinkle-flake smokes for later, Koko dresses quickly and heads out.

“What is this stuff?” Koko asks.

At nearly twenty-two stone in his ratty red bathrobe and yellow dhoti, Juke Ramirez sways in his paraplegic swing like a shaved ape.

“Mock tequila,” Juke answers with a slight chuckle that is as fleshy as it is deep. “Do you like it, my dear? Made this zippy little batch myself.”

Koko frowns at the greenish liquor in her glass. “When you offered me a drink before, I thought I specifically asked for some beauty.”

Juke smiles. “Ah, beauty. Your drink of choice. Beauty is always good, but this will get you there, only faster. I made it as an indulgent nod to my late ancestors, the long-ago great kings of the vast American narco-haciendas. You wouldn’t think it from the look of me, but I come from a long bloodline of drug-cartel royalty. Back when there still was a semblance of the drug-cartel royalty or an America.”

Koko finishes the venom with a shiver and drops the glass on the table between them. She glances back behind her and sees the blackened windows and locked doorway to Juke’s small storefront as she runs her tongue over her upper front teeth. Juke’s shop is located in
Alaungpaya
’s commercial sector, Deck 7.

“Tastes like moss clippings,” Koko says, turning back around.

Juke’s bushy eyebrows pump. “Familiar with that, are we?”

“Yeah,” Koko shoots back. “Maybe my unknown ancient ancestors were part Malinois attack dog.”

“Mmm. Bellyaches. Could be from all your fun-in-the-sun, crotch-lapping introspection, no?”

“Are you always this agitating with your customers?”

“Only the ones I’m fond of, dearest.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Forgive me,” Juke adds languidly, “but what’s with the chaste getup? The last time I saw you I believe you were sashaying around in a string bikini. I like the blue hair, though. A nice touch. Quite sassy.”

Koko surveys her new threads and runs her fingers through the spiky fronds of her new hairstyle. It’s true, back on The Sixty she did favor clothes that showed a little more skin. The manufactured islands are a jungle after all, but the ultraviolet exposure and high-altitude nippiness of the Second Free Zone demands a full-coverage, sartorial upgrade. Now none of Koko’s skin is bare other than her head, the rest cloaked in an acrylic black bodysuit complete with gloves. Over the bodysuit she wears a faux leather jacket with plenty of pockets. The jacket hangs beyond her hips and is also black.

God, it practically killed her to cut off and color her hair, but it was necessary. At the salon during the coloring process the attendant suggested a nail treatment, and Koko played along. She then asked the attendant if they did fingernail strengthening and sharpening. The salon attendant gave Koko a measured look and said yes, in fact, they did. Now Koko’s fingernails are scalpel-sharp and ready for combat, the pale tips peeking through slits slashed into the bodysuit’s gloves.

In any other circumstance, having to see a craven bowel-scrounge like Juke Ramirez would be about as high on Koko’s to-do list as jamming a rusty tack in her own eye. A slobbering troll with a perilous lack of loyalty, Juke is a former full-time arms dealer who used to indiscriminately sell weaponry to all sides during minor commercial conflicts. A real go-to guy if your syndicate handlers pinched the budget, an enabler with no moral stakes whatsoever. For a long time Juke was quite successful at plying his dark wares from the fringes, but then came his paralysis (the result of a truly unsatisfied customer feeling gypped on an ordnance transaction), and Juke decided he’d tried his dissolute fortunes for far too long. Now, sporting a quiet air of respectability as a game-maintenance vendor on
Alaungpaya
, Juke still manages to peddle a deadly sideline. When Koko learned he was still aboard, she knew he’d have the hardware she needs.

Beneath his bathrobe Juke scratches a hairy pectoral and powers forward on his sling. “This lovely piece right here has all the capabilities I think you’re looking for,” he says. “Four settings, radial stun coverage, collapsible housing, and the improved seventy-two-hour power grid for pulse optimization. What do you think? Shall I wrap it up for you or do you have fresh errands you need to run on
Alaungpaya
today?”

Koko takes the gun from Juke’s outstretched hand and drops into a few firing stances. She swings the weapon around for weight and switches grips. She has to hand it to the doughy blackguard, the big pervert knows her tastes. Inserting the power chip into the gun, she inspects the digitized readout on the weapon’s housing. The number indicates three thousand rounds.

Wow… Koko
likey
.

Sig Sauer
.

Five hundred years of worldwide collapse and chaos—bet those lederhosen-sporting artifacts had no idea their little wagon factory would still be around, kicking so much ass. Chocolate and guns, those Swiss sons of bitches truly knew their way to a girl’s heart.

“How long before—”

“Before the Sig is too hot to handle?” Juke ponders this question. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe the Sig 1-9Z can nudge up against the pulse round limits and barely feel warmer than a kitten soaking up some sun.”

“Cool.”

“Improved aeration technology,” Juke adds and then switches the subject. “I assume, given your being here and inquiring about a gun, that you’re in a wee spot of trouble.”

Koko fills Juke in on her woeful tale so far, leaving out her suspicions about Delacompte and their experience back in Finland.

“My word, that is peculiar,” he replies. “But Portia Delacompte? Why would Delacompte want to get rid of you? I thought you two were old war chums. I mean, wasn’t she the one who set you up with your operation down on The Sixty in the first place?”

“She did.”

“And now she wants you dead? It’s just so odd. So, is Delacompte up here on
Alaungpaya
as well?”

“No. Little Miss Gutless Corporate Hotshot sent a freelancer. Some big-boned redhead. Had those freaky neck-extension chokers—you know, the ones those jintoes from New South Africa favor? Came over with me on a shuttle from
Hesperus 6
. Once aboard, she followed me down an access tunnel. Guess she thought she had the drop on me. Reflexes kicked in.”

Juke rubs his chin. “Ah, but a bounty hunter in the Second Free Zone? If I’m not mistaken, isn’t that illegal? Then again, Portia Delacompte never struck me as one who played by the rules.”

“Rules are out the window.”

“So, tell me, Koko. Do you know this redhead?”

Koko shakes her head. “Been out of the game for a while now, Juke,” she says. “No, I’ve never seen her before.”

“Any good?”

“Let’s just say I was faster.”

Juke bobs his head knowingly. “Ah… taking care of business. Just like the good old days, eh, my dear?”

Koko works her jaw. “Yeah, the good old days that I thought were well behind me. Back in the good old days I would have killed her and taken her eye. But like I said, there was this goofy-looking kid staring right at me.” Koko pauses. “By the way, Juke, just so you know and all? Archimedes? He died in the firefight down on The Sixty.”

Juke’s mouth forms a perfect stunned zero for a few seconds before he shakes his head sadly. “Oh, no. Not Archimedes. Oh, that is a tough break, my dear. I’m so sorry. I know how fond you were of that young man.”

“Yeah, well. A lot of people were fond of him.”

“Of course he did have one of the most perfect asses I’ve ever caressed.”

“Watch it, Juke.”

Juke brushes some dandruff from his shoulders. “So, are there any operatives other than this incapacitated redhead looking for you?”

“I don’t know yet,” Koko says. “Let’s just say that your mentioning it reminds me to ask if you have any blades for sale. Based on my recent tangle, I’m probably headed for more one-on-one intensity. Serrated lift point would be great. Something with a clean edge on the opposite side too. Galvanized ceramic is okay, but I definitely want something that’s not going to fail on me when I decide to break bones.”

“How about something with a little more oomph? I have a batch of the Krier-Tech detonator series. Excellent pitch knives and all the bang you need for when you want to level the playing field. Not even on the market until next quarter.”

“A regular knife will be fine.”

“Right, then. I believe I have just the item you’re looking for. Iberian curved stiletto. Don’t even make them anymore. Conceals perfectly and light as a dream. So, will there be anything else beside the knife and gun, then?”

“Nope. That’ll do.”

Juke powers away on his sling and returns a half-minute later with the blade. As described, the knife is incredibly slim and has a stiletto mechanism with the curved blade secreted away in a textured hilt of webbed rubber. Koko checks the lightweight action on the stiletto and then slides the knife into a pocket on the lower back of her new jacket.

“You know,” Juke says, “if I was a man of, say, lesser scruples? I bet I could fire up a quick patch to Delacompte myself in exchange for a nice vacation down there on The Sixty. I’m sure she would be oh so grateful for the assistance, and I must confess, I so do like to swim in the filtered sea.”

Koko laughs to herself. Displace the filtered sea is more like it.

“Yeah,” Koko says, “but I know you, Juke. You won’t rat me out to Delacompte. It’s bad for business. Besides, you and me? We have a history. And you damn well know if I survive I’ll have to come all the way back here and rip out your throat. Hey, about this Sig. Where’s the what-do-you-call-it?”

Juke tugs on an earlobe. He crooks a stubby finger into a packet of chocolate-coated biscuits, hauls out a wafer, and munches. “Can you be a tad more specific?” he asks.

“Does the Sig have a holster?”

“Oh. I’m afraid a holster is not part of the price.”

Koko waves the gun at Juke. “Really? Here I stand with a loaded weapon and new attack blade in my back jacket pocket, and now you decide it’s time to haggle?”

Juke’s chuckles—the sound of bubbles popping in molten cheese.

“Loaded?” Juke caws. “Ha! The Sig 1-9Z doesn’t fully arm itself until you leave my quarters. Jamming the hardware in stock and trade is only prudent given my corporal limitations. Even if you tried something physical with me,” he gestures to the programmed augmented intelligence weapons on the walls to the right and left behind Koko and grins, “you’d be roasted before you hit the ground.”

Koko looks up and sees the vacant barrels of the AI weapons squared lazily on her.

Man, she really needs to ramp up her game. How the hell did she miss those suckers? Koko settles her eyes back on Juke and lets her shoulders sag.

“Damn it. Okay, how about twelve hundred?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen hundred for a knife, a gun, and a holster? What am I? An idiot?”

“No, sweetie, you’re a former corporate soldier-cum-madam with a bounty on your head.”

“Jeez, for fifteen hundred credits throw in a pulse suppressor or at least a list of all the ships up here who are lax on customs and won’t repossess my weapons like those nitpicking shits over on
Hesperus 6
.”

“My, my, you do want fresh egg in your beer.”

“C’mon, Juke. All those boywhores I comped you back down on The Sixty when you came to visit? I think you can cut me some slack here.”

“Those revelries I believe were payback for favors already rendered. Sorry, but I do need to make a living up here too, you know. I’ll throw in the suppressor but the price today stands.”

“Miserable prick.” Koko plants her hands on her hips. “Okay, how about thirteen-five?”

“Fourteen.”

“Thirteen-seventy-five.”

“Fourteen. Go ahead. You’re welcome to take your chances unarmed. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Koko grinds her teeth and groans. Juke gloats happily.

“Excellent. Fourteen hundred credits it is. For the knife, the Sig, a suppressor, one holster, and a list of approved personal armament vessels in the Second Free Zone. Oh come, come, Koko. Don’t be so cheerless. You’re getting quite the special today. Look, I tell you what. How about I give you my word that if I see anybody slinking around
Alaungpaya
looking for you, especially some redhead, I’ll give you a heads-up? Does that make you feel any better?”

“You’re a real peach, Juke.”

Juke tucks his head and munches another biscuit. “All this being bitter over a minor financial transaction could mean your life isn’t very becoming.”

Koko hands over nearly the last of her wad of credits. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Hey, that reminds me. How’s the casino on this tub? They play it on the square here?”