Free Soda Pop Soldier by Nick Cole Page B

naked.
    The only thing I’m hoping for right now is to buy into tonight’s tournament and get on Truth and Light .
    I hate Darkness . Only freaks play Darkness .
    Right now around the world, Darkness fans, many more than those who make a habit of actually playing Darkness, are hurrying home to make sure their subscriber accounts have hand-shaked with the Black so they can watch the sick fantasies of others come to life.
    I meet Iain near a stall where two old hippies are listening to Pearl Jam Redux as they try to sell SoftMat knockoffs that probably won’t last out the year. They’re stoned, so who cares if Iain lays a disk on me that carries a minimum two-year Education sentence, federal I might add, along with the obligatory sex offender rap for a take-home bonus. That’s hard time if your log jibes with what the feds will be watching for tonight.
    â€œWhat’d I get?” I ask him while thinking, Please be Light. Please be Light. I repeat it over and over to myself.
    â€œYou never know, bucko,” says Iain. “You . . . never . . . know, so buy the ticket and take the ride.”
    I stare at Iain. He sports two SoftEyes, both anthracite gray. I wonder what’s going on behind those lenses. Does he care? Is he worried or scared, like I am? If some sicko used the disk he’s just handed me in the last match, I’m now liable for any crimes he committed while logged in using the program contained on that disk. A routine stop, a minor altercation, and the cops run a cursory data surf on anything I’m carrying and I’m busted for sure. If so, who knows? With a good lawyer I could fight it, but good lawyers cost good money, and the only money I’m holding is a small supply of increasingly rare cash, the only form of currency the Black deals in. Iain does not accept MasterVisa.
    â€œAre you in or out? It makes no difference to me?” says Iain, as if he’s trying to push me.
    Iain has always been one cold cat.
    â€œI’m in.” Even though I shouldn’t be. Please be Light.
    Please be Light.
    â€œThen that’s one large, my brother,” he whispers. I hand Iain a grand. My last grand. The grand earmarked for half the rent.
    Please be Light.
    I’m home by five just as the storm hits the streets hard. I crank up the heat and find a note Sancerré has left for me.
    Back tonight. I promise. I’ll explain. Sorry.
    Love,
    Goon
    It’s Monday. She doesn’t have any kind of shoot I remember her talking about. I’ve got four hours until I can crack the disk, so I pour a small scotch and fire up a little reggae. Soon I’m asleep and Kiwi and I are once again fighting our way across that nightmarish landscape, a battlefield of candles and sawgrass. Night winds drive unseen wooden wind chimes against each other. We kill a hundred medieval knights conjured up from an Eiger nightmare. Kiwi works the twin Hauser, screaming, as the sound of our guns turn orchestral at some point. Gregorian darkness. The knights are lurching, off perspective, bullet-riddled charcoal sketches that remind me of Picasso’s Don Quixote . They’re too much for us and they refuse to die, swinging wide-bladed two-handed swords as we are overrun. The moon fades, the barrels melt down, and only the medieval chanting remains in the dark and the shadows that survive.
    â€œIt’s beautiful, man . . . ,” whispers the voice of an unseen Kiwi.
    I wake, wonder where I am, remember, then mutter, “Please be Light .”

Chapter 8
    A t nine thirty I’m mostly sober, though I’ve filled a nice big tumbler of scotch and pulled out half a pack of smokes I’ve been meaning to throw away.
    The stuff you’re liable to see on the Black is often just too much for a sober mind.
    I lock my disk in, run my cracking daemon on it, then my computer screen turns black.
    Maybe my computer couldn’t handle it.
    Abandon All Hope