Free Allies by S. J. Kincaid Page B

thinking of her later that night when he paid for a double room at the front desk, and he was so wired up with anticipation for the next morning that he didn’t manage to fall asleep until well past midnight.
    And then his father staggered in.
    Neil flipped the light on, blasting the glare through Tom’s eyelids. Springs squeaked as he sagged onto the other bed. “Got our room again, Tommy? I can always count on you. You’re a real good boy. You’re a good kid.”
    Tom opened his eyes a crack and squinted against the flood of light to see Neil clumsily loosening his tie. “Dad, could you turn the lights back off?”
    “Gonna get out of this one day, eh, Tommy?” Neil slurred. “Next big win, s’all done. Finished.”
    Tom clawed out of the covers and then headed across the room to turn off the lights himself.
    “A hundred thou’s all I’m asking,” Neil rambled on. “Won’t squan-squan—lose it all again. Rent an apartment. Bigger than the one that chump Dalton’s got your mom living in. Maybe send you ter a real school someday. In a building, y’know?” He smiled sloppily at Tom. With his undone collar, mussed hair, and slack, unshaven face, he looked demented.
    Tom flicked the light off. Neil was his family. And his dad had his back, he knew. But ever since those social workers confronted them the first time about the not-going-to-school thing, and Tom saw what the lives of other kids were like, he’d started thinking about stuff.
    The truth was, he’d taken it for granted before Rosewood that living like this was normal. He thought that whole idea of houses and schools and dinners at a table were fantasies. Neil always called it “corporate propaganda manufactured to promote lifelong debt servitude.”
    But it wasn’t propaganda. Not really. Sure, a lot of people had it worse. A lot. There were families on the streets, gathered in tent cities, squatting in derelict buildings and abandoned factories. But there were also guys like Serge Leon who’d lived in one place for years on end, and people who knew where they’d be sleeping tomorrow night. Tom couldn’t predict anything. All he knew was, he’d be somewhere with Neil. With this.
    With this .
    A nasty, dark feeling descended on him as his father’s wet snores saturated the hotel room. Even with the AC on high, the sound thundered in his ears. He shifted, turned, pressed his pillow over his head, trying to muffle it, but it was like ignoring a hurricane. The noise just grew louder and louder.
    Finally Tom gave up on sleep and tore off the covers.
    He needed to shoot something.
     
    T HE VR PARLOR was empty at five thirty in the morning, a lonely lounge of couches and dim screens. Tom settled on the center couch, strapped on a visor, and flipped through the game selection to Die, Zombies, Die. Two hours later, he’d blasted and slashed his way to level nine and upgraded to a bazooka. He was busy blowing a nice hole in the Queen Zombie’s torso when the game flickered and went black on him.
    “Hey,” Tom objected and reached up to slide off his visor, but then it fizzled with another image.
    The eyepieces lit with a slash of crimson that expanded into a stark red Martian landscape. Tom gazed around, surprised. It was like he’d unwittingly activated another game within the game.
    He went with it.
    First thing he did was look at his character’s attire and weaponry. He was in a space suit. Obviously his character was humanoid, then. Over the horizon, he caught sight of a tank jerking across the bloodred landscape. An information bubble popped up and informed him that his enemy was in this hydrogen-powered tank and his objective was to kill or be killed.
    The cylindrical canon cranked toward him, and his heart leaped. He whipped around as swiftly as his character could move and dove into a ditch just before a bone-jarring blast hurled dust into the air on all sides of him. He crawled through the haze into the nearest artillery pit. Another