Free Koko the Mighty by Kieran Shea Page A

a basic ocular implant repair at a tech bodega, so she starts scanning the area for someone to lay the cart’s merchandise off on. Once she gets her ocular back online and accesses her personal accounts, getting the rest of her immediate needs fulfilled should be a snap. Not far ahead, she makes out a clutch of people crowded around a street auctioneer. From the assorted wares being put up for bid, the auctioneer’s circle seems a good place to start.
    Second priority: medical attention. Rat bites equal infection, and who knows how long she had been left to die in that alley, or how long those noxious, greasy rodents had been feasting on her. With the ulcerating lacerations up and down her shins, she envisions viruses and whole seeping cultures of grotesque bacteria. Tasting the gash on her lip where the big one took its last taste before she blinded it, Wire shudders. Definitely a full clinical work up. Complete transfusions, arterial scrub, and super-sized antibiotic-vitamin cocktail to get her back on the mend. After that Wire pictures a long, disinfectant drench in a bath. Food might go a long way toward helping her deplorable state too, and her stomach burbles when she catches a whiff of garlicky bats frying in a nearby stall. Wire can’t remember the last time she ate. Britch refused to feed her on The Sixty, so it’s been more than a couple of days since her last good caloric intake.
    Third and fourth priorities: clean clothes and a place to rest. After all she has been through, splurging on a first-rate hotel is a must. Room service with secure uplink amenities so she can scour her networks and see who the hell swings the big stick in this Surabayan hell hole. A soft bed sounds like a dream. A mini bar, heaven.
    Of course, the rest of her priorities are pretty clear after that.
    Get armed.
    Get mobile.
    Get Martstellar.

THE COMMONAGE II

WAKEY, WAKEY
    When she comes round, the first thing Koko notices is a dim mosaic of lights overhead, row after row of alternating slates arranged like a massive chessboard. Realizing instantly she’s strapped down from head to toe, Koko is definitely in no mood for games.
    As she struggles against her restraints, somewhere off and down past her feet a dog barks three times. Koko figures it must be the blue synthetic that accompanied the group that saved her and Flynn, keeping an eye on her. The lights above grow bright and a door opens. She hears the hushed sound of rubber twisting on a tiled floor, followed by a doglike whine and heavy panting.
    “Gammy, wait outside.”
    Trotting claws and the door closes. A second later there’s the empty slap of an electrified latch.
    “Ah, you’re awake,” a man says. “Good, that’s good. Would you like a drink of water?”
    A mechanism is engaged and whatever Koko is strapped to hums beneath her. Gradually, she’s raised up in suspension, and when she catches her reflection in some tinted glass across the way she sees her clothes are gone and she’s dressed in a cropped paper examination gown, trussed up like Frankenstein’s monster.
    Koko’s bloodshot eyes roam the room. Handled glass-faced cabinets, two glowing projection screens that look to be running her vitals, and an assortment of additional chirring apparatus that all but scream medical facility. She recalls how earlier the group that rescued her and Flynn said they needed to take them to the infirmary, so Koko assumes that’s where she’s being held. A bleachy smell of disinfectant cuts through the crust in her nose.
    Near the door, a man with long, graying hair stands. Early fifties or late forties, he’s super lean and has the reserved, nonchalant look of someone who’s used to being in charge. Dressed in a loose almost tan kurta-like tunic V-ed at the neck, and tough canvas pants stuffed into plain black boots, he wears numerous bracelets around his wrists and appears to be unarmed. The man moves forward and holds out a square, light-blue plastic container, its