Free Socket 2 - The Training of Socket Greeny by Tony Bertauski Page B

right. The house just felt…
dark.
    I hopped the privacy fence and crept up to
the first window. The shade was drawn on Streeter’s room. I cupped
my hands against the window and peered through a gap below the
shade. The desk and dresser were covered with clothes and the floor
wasn’t visible under books, papers and Internet gear. Nothing had
changed.
    The bed was in the corner with a mess of
covers. I thought about going around back and looking through the
kitchen window when the bed twitched. A hand was sticking out,
fingers twiddling on the mattress. A cable stuck out from under the
pillow.
    Virtualmoding.
    He was on the Internet, virtualmoding in his
giant sim. He knew I was at the front door, that surveillance eye
would’ve reported the view to him. In fact, there was another eye
somewhere outside his window, watching me watching him.
    “Streeter!” I tapped the window. “I need to
talk to you, get up!”
    His fingers stopped twitching.
    “I see you, I know you’re in there.”
    It wasn’t enough.
    “I’ll get the key,” I said. “I’ll let myself
in and drag your ass out of bed.”
    He still wasn’t moving. Maybe the key wasn’t
there anymore. Slowly, the mound came to life. Streeter sat up.
    No way.
    He was still short but thirty pounds lighter.
His face was dark. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, pulled the
over-sized transporters from behind his ears. He sat on the bed,
slumped over. Thinking. Maybe I was going to have to get the key
after all. But then he stood. He used to be built like a hot air
balloon. He sprung a leak.
    The door was open when I got to the front
porch. Streeter was walking away.
    “You all right?” I followed him to his
bedroom.
    “I’m not feeling well.”
    I touched the lamp on his desk, lighting his
room. Dark energy pulsed around him. His breath was shallow, as if
it didn’t matter whether he stopped breathing all together.
    “What’s wrong with you?”
    “I got the flu or something?”
    “Flu? Dude, you’re half gone!”
    “Yeah,” was all he said. He wouldn’t look at
me. “I’ve been puking a lot.”
    “Have you been to the doctor?”
    “It’ll pass.”
    “But you’ve lost all that weight. Something’s
not right, you got to get it checked out.”
    “Maybe I’m on a diet.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” I
said. “I haven’t seen you in three months—”
    “Look, I’m sick!” He bristled with hot energy
now. “What’d you want me to say?”
    I pulled the shade and flooded the room with
light. His color was all wrong. He blinked at the bright light, sat
back down on the bed. I grabbed his face with both hands, forced
him to look directly at me. His pupils were dilated; the rims of
the irises were blurry.
    “How long have you been virtualmoding?”
    “I’m not gear-addicted.” He knocked my hands
away.
    “You didn’t answer the question.”
    “I know what I look like, I’m not
addicted!”
    “Look at the signs, man! Your eyes are the
first to go! You look like a freaking withered up gearhead.”
    “Yeah, and what do you know?”
    “Face facts! Do you want to feel better or
what?”
    “Don’t pull that Paladin shit on me! I know
more about virtualmoding than you’ll ever know!”
    “What?”
    He struggled to stay still. He pulled the
shade down, sat at his desk shaking his leg. He wanted me out of
there in the worst way, but knew asking wasn’t going to do it. It
wouldn’t be hard to pick a few thoughts from his mind, they were
scattered like fallen leaves. It would be as easy as dragging a net
through a school of minnows. My mind reached around him, gently
applying pressure. I didn’t want to get inside him, just see a
loose thought or two.
    “Don’t pull that bullshit on me!” he
said.
    “What’re you hiding?”
    “I got a life so just stay out! You wouldn’t
know about it. You and Chute.”
    “What’re you talking about?”
    He sat there drumming his fingers on the
desk, grinding his teeth, finally