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.
“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’ grubs 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’.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the three children drag fat mesh sacks of food across the open fields. When they cross into the cover of the trees, their faces are aglow, full of excitement.
With startling force, Trick jerks the mesh sacks from their grasps and then orders them to sit still and keep quiet. The ginger-haired girl, thinking that the worst of their chore is now over and this might be some kind of spirited game, reaches for one of the mesh sacks. Trick backhands her brutally to the ground.
The girl shrieks and the two boys try to cover her with their bodies. Together they watch powerlessly as Trick delves through the sacks. Completing his inventory, he pulls out three bruised apples and holds them up in his hands for the children to see, a sinister gleam shining in his eyes like acid.
“Now then,” he says. “Tell me everythin’ you gooned and don’t leave nothin’ out. You speak truer than true, only then can you eat.”
Thinking that likely everyone is keeping tabs on her under Sébastien and Dr. Corella’s orders, Koko leaves the bench and adopts a blasé façade as she circles and takes in the Commonage’s central administration building.
Her basic scope of the premises reveals that, besides the infirmary and possibly Sébastien’s quarters, the building houses the commissary and central kitchen. Following the heated smells of oil and steam, she locates the kitchen’s rear entrance on the far north side of the building. Baskets of raw vegetables and three compost wagons are parked alongside a ramp, and the ramp leads up to a set of screened and kick-plated doors and a secondary disposal area with two thermite incinerators.
Once inside, Koko glides across the moist tiles of the kitchen with an indifferent air. Big chow assemblies are always in some level of chaos, so she reminds herself to act like she knows what she’s doing. Nearing the far end of the kitchen, she passes a long prep table on her right where four cooks are peeling onions with their heads down. A quick look at the cutting boards, and Koko’s mood improves.
Knives.
Any blade is good in a pinch, so she trips a worker carrying a load of bain-marie pans from the dishwashing pit, and the cymbalic cacophony has the desired effect. When the cooks’ heads turn to see what’s happened, Koko deftly swipes a serrated paring knife from the prep table, tucks the blade under her new shirt, and keeps moving.
She punches through a second set of doors at the end of the kitchen and enters the dining area. There isn’t a meal in progress and the room is empty. Immediately she swings left and heads down a hallway toward a set of stairs.
Sébastien is the vain sort, and the likelihood of him grabbing a top-floor slot makes perfect sense to Koko. She climbs to the top of the stairwell and wonders,
Hmm, just how long should a burial take?
From their discussions she knows Sébastien is the long-winded type, so Koko sets her mental clock to a thief’s window of five minutes in and out.
At the uppermost floor Koko enters a corridor. There’s a blind corner on the opposite end, but the corridor is vacant. A quick jog and she locates a locked door slightly grander than the others, and it looks right. Oddly enough, a small strip of metal is on the door with the initials S and M.
Kinky.