Stupid, stupid, stupid…
Meanwhile, three hundred meters outside the Commonage walls, two de-civs—Trick and Grum—conceal themselves in a thick stand of trees.
With small, obdurate eyes, Trick scrutinizes the Commonage’s whitewashed walls. The smoky stench of campfire is strong on the morning breeze, and Grum drops a hand on Trick’s shoulder.
“Porridge be primin’. Maybe you-me scram-amble back some now, huh?”
Trick turns his head and looks down at Grum’s hand draped on his shoulder. A bearded troll weighing in at one hundred and twenty kilos, Grum quickly removes his hand as if scalded.
“Sorry,” Grum mumbles.
Trick returns his attentions to the compound. “Put that meat hook on me again, I’ll teach you hell from sorry.”
As their nomadic group’s leader, Trick doesn’t entertain suggestions, not even with the friendliest of casual cajoling. No, sir, Trick is the chuffed and grizzled type, a fourth generation de-civ well-seasoned in pounding out a thin existence on society’s disreputable edges. Lupine-featured, pugnacious, and sealskin brown, he’d sooner slice your throat and leave you for dead if you even tried to tell him what to do. Like targets in a carnival shooting range, two figures pace back and forth along the walled compound’s parapets.
“How long we be at this, Grum?”
Grum bats a hand at a fly. “At what? You mean goonin’ this place here?”
“No, dumbass, how long we be southin’?”
Grum runs his tongue over his abysmally brown teeth. His face knots up, and he counts his fingers in an attempt to tally the days.
“Been some time since we crossed the borders, I’ll say that, right-right. Don’t know. Two weeks now southin’ for Sin Frontera, maybe?”
Trick rises from his crouch and leans his back against the papery bark of a spruce tree. Opening a flapped pocket on his waistcoat, he retrieves a jackknife and digs at some built-up grime beneath his fingernails.
“Wrong-o, doofus. Us be southin’ closer to a month, nearly three and a half weeks on foot. Sick and hungry—hell, all of us nearly drowned in that big blow last night. But this place bein’ out here, it gots me thinkin’…”
Grum looks at the compound and then back at Trick.
“Thinkin’ ’bout what?”
Trick points with his jackknife. “Them. All this ’round me-you-me, nobody meant to be in these wasties. But here them be, big fancy castle-like on a hill.”
Grum scratches his scalp and shoos off the fly again. Trick folds, stashes his jackknife, and then kicks him.
“Gots to lay it all out for you plain-like, don’t I? All right, one… them being here, maybe it mean this place not so bad as they’ve be sayin’ all these times. And two—” Trick’s eyes squinch. “You smell that?”
“You mean the camp fire?”
“No, idiot—
dung
! There be dung on the wind. Stink like that means livestock. These wasties, if they be contaminated, how’s that even possible?”
Grum shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe them be here before it be prohib.”
Trick rubs his forehead like he’s trying to smear back the biggest migraine in the world.
“Grum, the U-State collapse and Big China wars be a couple of hundred years oldy, don’t you know nothin’? What, you think they be holed up here all the while livin’ grid-wipe?” Trick shuffles his thumb in the direction of the compound. “You goon any corp-o or natty-like logos?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Uh-uh be right-right. And y’know what else you no goon? No weapons. None. Not a single weapon stickin’ out. Them two up there on them walls, they ain’t even got pulse guns. I’m tellin’ you, this place be reekin’ oppor-tune.”
Grum stares blankly at the compound.
“Oh.”
“Damn, Grum, sometimes I swear you be dumber than them runts back at camp.”
Grum moans. “Awww, don’t be callin’ them that, Trick.”
Trick jeers contemptuously. “Oh, I know you’re sweetmeat on the wee ones, you big clod, but I call them runts whatever I please. Hell, our group be southin’ good clip before we picked up them breeders and they’s whining broods. True than true, they be soft company, but if them want to south with us them best keep them runts squared. Got to say, still some places in the world where people eat babies, right-right.”
“Oh, Trick…”
“‘
Oh, Trick…
’—since when you be so putty-gutty?”
“I ain’t putty-gutty.”
“Oh, but you still be fond of them runts now, ain’t you? Wee ginger one be, like, your big lovestar.”
“Trick, stop…”
“Shut it.”
Together, the two start off back toward the camp, pushing through webbed vegetation.
“And jaw this,” Trick says. “If that compound be a real-deal, they’d got to have the scannin’ tech, so why nobody take us out yet? Scannin’ tech be SOP for a real-deal outpost. To the holys, no corp-o or natty-like logos, all nicely painted…”
“Maybe them be protectin’ somethin’.”
Trick hoots. “Damn, boy, that’s be the first smart thing you’ve said all day. Then again, walls might mean them be scared.”
“Scared? Scared of who?”
“De-civs like us.”
Grum laughs and quickly he cups his hand over his mouth. When Trick whips around and lands a punch in Grum’s solar plexus, Grum drops to his knees hard.
Trick leans over him. “What’d I say about laughin’ like that, huh? What’d I say?”
“Ow! Sorry, Trick. Really, I think it was just kind of funny is all. I mean, why them be scared of people like us?”
Trick picks up a branch and breaks it over his knee.
“Get up, we be wastin’ time. The test at camp will get the smart of it. Got to make us a plan.”
“A plan? But what ’bout southin’? What ’bout Sin Frontera?”
Trick hurls the two pieces of the broken branch off.
“Sin Frontera gots to wait,” Trick says.
Once she clears the windowed doors of Lodge Delta, Koko’s ears immediately pick up a familiar sound—organized, regimented instruction. Moving left and rounding the building, she finds a group of thirty adults inside a pruned circle of ryegrass perhaps fifty meters in diameter. The adults appears to be in the midst of a session of guided exercise, and as they move harmoniously a strikingly tall woman with long black hair speaks in an even-tempered tone just off to the side. Noticing Koko’s presence, the tall woman claps her hands together and crosses over to Koko.
“Why, hello! You must be one of the strangers. The one who calls herself Koko, am I right? I’m Pelham. It’s super-great to meet you.”
Super-great?
“Sébastien and Dr. Corella informed everyone about your situation,” Pelham says. “My goodness, to survive such an ordeal at sea, you must be very brave. Would you care to join us? Our diurnal routines are quite invigorating.”
Koko side-eyes her. “Uh, thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Really? There’s plenty of room. We’re a friendly lot.”
“Maybe some other time.”
“All right then.”
Koko points. “Hey, the infirmary is over there, right?”
Pelham tilts her head and follows Koko’s hand. “The infirmary? Why? Is something wrong?”
“No, I’m fine, it’s just that—”
Pelham leans back and taps her forehead with two fingers. “Oh, I forgot. Dr. Corella is still treating your friend. I’m so sorry to hear that he was badly injured. Flynn, isn’t it?”
“You know his name?”
“Of course,” Pelham replies cheerfully. “It’s better for all within the Commonage if there aren’t any secrets. Sébastien made a brief announcement earlier this morning, and an update was posted on the community message board. Everyone here is supposed to assist you as best we can.” Pelham looks fleetingly back at her waiting group and then returns her attentions to Koko. “The infirmary is in the administration building right across the courtyard. Just take that path back around Lodge Delta and head across. Any door should suffice.”
To Koko, Pelham’s overt sunniness is almost galling. While she still feels it’s important to keep her guard up, she harks back to how, when she was in the field, it often paid off to play the angles as they came at you. Koko figures now might be one of those times so she gestures to the exercise group.
“For what it’s worth, you guys look pretty good.
T’ai chi ch’uan
, right?”
“Oh, do you practice?”
“I’m familiar with a lot of martial arts.”
“I see. Well, being healthy is a priority for everyone here at the Commonage.”
Pelham then claps three times before she turns and addresses the group. “Ready, everybody? Let’s start from the beginning once more. First position.”
Sallying off and circling around Lodge Delta again, Koko makes her way across the courtyard. Taking her time, she absorbs as much detail of the grounds as she can, and keeps an eye peeled for potential ground transport or aircraft. Now in the light of day she estimates there are more than a dozen buildings of varying sizes within the compound. Brick-faced with scooped solar-reflective roofs, nearly all of the buildings are hedged with serried vegetable-producing gardens, fruit trees, and plants of productive vines.
Beyond the central administration building, she spies four massive white tents and makes out the wooden edges of a large fenced-in animal area. She recalls coming through a dark tunnel when the group brought her, Flynn, and the dead girl back during the storm, so she tries to pinpoint the tunnel’s precise location. Two larger support outcroppings on the westward wall frame a dark, arched gap, and it looks right. Koko decides to check out the tunnel later after she looks in on Flynn.
Entering the administration building, Koko sees one of the twins napping at an oval reception desk in the foyer. Now, less doped up, Koko struts forward and gives the desk a sharp kick to rouse him.
“Yo, where’s the infirmary, Tweedledum?”
“Wha—?”
“You’re one of the two guys who took me to my room last night, right?”
The man behind the desk rubs his eyes. “That’s right. I’m Bonn. My brother is Eirik.”
“I’m here to see my friend, Bonn.”
“Of course. Just give me a second and I’ll take you.”
“I can find it myself.”
Bonn holds up a hand and gets up. “Dr. Corella prefers a heads-up before anyone enters the infirmary.” Now standing, Bonn is shorter than Koko remembers, maybe a hand or two shorter than her, and he comports himself solidly. “Follow me.”
Two turns down two separate hallways and less than a minute later, Koko and Bonn arrive at a windowless metal entry. A plaque bolted in the center of the door reads
INFIRMARY
, and the door itself doesn’t look familiar. Koko recalls exiting a different set of doors last night when she was all goofed up, so she assumes the door must be a secondary egress or entry. Bonn casually taps an adjacent keypad on the wall, and the door unlocks with a snap. When Bonn slips inside, Koko tries to follow, but he stops her with a hand.
“I’ll be back in a few ticks. Let me make sure they’re not in the middle of something.”
“Take your hand off me. I want to see my friend.”
Bonn retracts, seals the door quickly, and it locks off. Koko blows a lock of hair from her forehead and rebukes herself for not paying closer attention. She could’ve easily memorized the code when Bonn tapped it into the keypad. Hell, she could have barged past him, and now she has to stew. Five annoying minutes later, Bonn opens the door again and waves her inside. Dr. Corella greets her coolly with a pleat of slight aggravation on his brow.
“Ah, Koko. I wish you’d waited until I sent someone for you, but no matter. You’re here. We’ve removed Flynn from the IC tank. He’s fully regained consciousness.”
Koko sucks in a breath. “He
has
?”
“Yes. His response has been better than even I expected. There were a few moments when you and he first arrived when I had some concerns, but I must say for what he’s been through he’s doing remarkably well.”
“Flynn is tougher than he looks.”
“Apparently,” Dr. Corella says. “But now that you’re here I’d like to ask you something. During Flynn’s tests I found trace deposits of anti-Depressus medications in his blood. Tell me, were you aware of this?”
It doesn’t feel right sharing anything with anyone, especially not a doctor who just recently felt it was no big thing to shoot her full of drugs. If Koko hadn’t met him back on
Alaungpaya
, Flynn would have gone through with an elective mass suicide known as Embrace. Flynn had only registered for the mass termination because he believed he was ridden with Depressus, the severe psychosis acedia afflicting portions of the lower atmospheric orbits. Now that he’s fully off his meds Koko thinks Flynn’s temperament and despondent outlook has improved significantly, but still she’s more than a bit wary of the doctor’s interest. Once again she reminds herself to play the angles.
“He used to live up top,” she says. “Flynn only thought he had Depressus. The whole thing was kind of a mistake. A big mix-up.”
Dr. Corella looks at her and says nothing.
“So, where’s my boy?” she asks.
Dr. Corella reaches out to take her by the elbow, but when Koko jerks her arm away the doctor immediately re-evaluates his gesture. Koko follows him and expects Bonn to tag along, but when she looks over her shoulder, he simply hangs back. Fifty steps later Dr. Corella shepherds Koko through a pale, floor-to-ceiling tracked curtain, and as they enter the space the lighting above Flynn’s bed brightens. The myriad of tubes that were plugged into Flynn earlier are now gone, and a single yellowish catheter worms out from beneath the tight blankets covering him. Flynn’s hair is combed and his repaired leg is elevated on a pillow. When his familiar musk reaches her nose, Koko is almost too overcome to speak, and a hot clot rises in the back of her throat. For some reason she can’t immediately determine, Flynn’s left eye is bandaged with white gauze like a pirate. When Koko looks up to ask Dr. Corella about the eye, the doctor parts the curtains and slips away. Koko moves closer to Flynn.
“Hey, baby… it’s me.”
Flynn’s good eye flutters. “Koko…?”
“Hey, stud muffin, how’s it hanging? You doing okay?”