Soda Pop Soldier (22 page)

I remember everything about that day.

I remember later, as a teenager, forcing myself to forget how amazing everything had been to a nine-year-old boy. It was too hard to live with in the town we were from, and to know that all this, the bright fingers that clutched at the sky floating above, was here and that this was every day for some people, while for others it was just a moment. A day at PlanetDisney. A day to be held for just a moment in your hand, and then forever in your mind.

Trying to forget that day was my way of rebelling.

Once I became a teenager, I chose to forget everything about that day as much as possible.

I sip scotch and my mind reels, rejecting everything rising above me now, on this night, twinkling like jewels set in impossible strands of luminescent pearls. I try to look down, over the edge of the concourse, but the city where I live is mostly dark. Only a layer of floating mist and clouds cover my city, down there.

The sights above that surround me, the sloping concourse, the rising levels, the myriad of lights that thrum and pulse behind a thousand windows beckon me with taunts and temptations of a life I've never known but always wanted to. Everything is up, up, and away, and if there is anything worth having, it is indeed up here. Of below, nothing remains worth remembering.

I drain the last of my plastic tumbler, rattling cubes of scotch water.

If I'd wondered where Sancerré went, now being in the greatest city in the world, I knew. Her trail led here. Looking back, thinking about her large brown eyes and bookish beauty and ambition to see the entire world, I'd known it all along. The problem was I'd blinded myself, like that rebellious teenager so long ago who tried to forget the best day ever.

Over thick slices of steaming corned beef piled atop the soft rye bread that I chew, I realize I haven't had a decent meal in . . . ever. My meal at Seinfeld's is turning out to be truly epic. I wash it all down with an “I drink your Milkshake. I drink it down!” milkshake full of dark chocolate and peanut butter ice cream. But the real rock star of the whole meal is a side of rich Maytag Blue Cheese–covered fries. I've managed to eat three pickle trays while waiting for my meal and I know, at some point, I'll regret the whole attack on the Seinfeld's menu. But how many times am I going to eat on the Grand Concourse gratis?

At one point, as I pick up a crispy hot french fry dripping with Maytag Blue Cheese dressing, a highbrow waiter, heretofore unseen, appears bearing a silver plate. On it is a card with a single digit number.

The number 9.

“Would ‘sir,' ”—he says “sir” loosely—“care for anything else?” The emphasis on “else” implies that while my credit is unlimited for tonight, the love certainly isn't.

“Yes.” In fact I would care for something else. “I'll have the Kramer's Mackinaw Peach Cheesecake. Two slices. Oh, and a café latte port to wash it down. Please.” My emphasis is on the “wash it down” as I reference their most expensive after-dinner drink, which consists of a fifty-year port, steamed organic Kobe milk, and what little of the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee that's still manufactured on what's left of above-water Jamaica.

I can be obnoxious also, when pressed.

The waiter executes a perfect about-face.

“Hey, Chauncey.”

“Sir?” Again with the loosely.

“What do I do with this?” I ask, picking up the stiff card with the number 9 printed on it.

A moment's hesitation as Chauncey considers what he'd like to actually tell me to do with it. He doesn't though. I've noticed service on the Grand Concourse is excellent. The people who work here are grateful for the jobs they have. Joblessness is an excellent reminder that colony ships are populated with those who can't pay their taxes and will spend the next two hundred in slow freight sleepers heading for the “promise” of Alpha Centauri.

“Sir should dial the number on the phone behind you, sir.” Again, loosely with the “sir.”

“Thanks.” Then I'm alone with the card. Thick cardstock. Actual paper, not Buckycards like every wannabe mem-broker deals out like cheap Thai candy.

The meal has refreshed my brain, invigorated my constitution, and given me a new unwarranted self-confidence. A confidence that's lately been shattered by all the beatings in Eastern Highlands, massacred by the sickness of the Black, and shot in the skull, right between the eyes I might add, by Sancerré.

I dismiss her and everything else plaguing me.

Sometimes your outlook, what you choose to let get to you, can be simply turned off. Studies have been done by people who do studies indicating that gamers have an incredible ability to turn off outside influences like bad days, debts, and wayward girlfriends and lose themselves in a task; that is, killing ogres, machine-gunning Third Reich zombies, solving puzzles. The problem is, the problems are still there, waiting for you, when the game's done. Then they come back with a vengeance, especially after an extended game binge. When you're tired, at your weakest, after you've taken a solid beating online.

But tonight, with a pile of corned beef in my belly and the sugar from the “I drink your Milkshake. I drink it down!” milkshake dancing across my cerebellum, I make the choice to turn all of it off. Maybe I'm not me anymore. Maybe I'm not some guy who has everything to lose anymore.

Maybe I've got nothing to lose.

I mean, yeah, it can get worse, but thinking about it constantly isn't going to help me. Instead, I need to see where things are going. Step out on a dead of winter night. Go places. Maybe some strange doings might tap a cash river into my parched accounts. Sancerré is gone. I'll just keep telling myself that.

I dial the number. Number 9.

It rings.

“Wu, I presume,” says the voice on the other end of the line.

“You got me.” I look around, trying to see who might be calling me from another booth. Maybe another diner seated in one of the other red leather banquettes.

“No, my friend. You have me. It is I who would like to be in your debt. I've enjoyed your progress thus far and I'm interested in making it a little more interesting for you, and for me.”

“And you are?”

“Ah, Mr. Wu. My name is not important. Just as your real name isn't important. I've paid a great deal of money to ensure that you received my invite to tonight's dinner. Naturally, with anyone engaging in a Black game for profit, anonymity is priceless, or at least high priced. A game rife with torture and graphic content, unashamedly illegal open source software well below the regulation standards of our fine governments, the best I could hope for was to communicate with you under the guise of your character. So, Mr. Wu, it is in all our best interests to keep everything, most things rather, nonspecific.”

“I agree.” I suck the last of my “I drink your Milkshake. I drink it down!” milkshake's thick peanut-buttery milk shake goodness.

“So let us decide.” His voice reminds me of a lawyer or a banker, a successful one. “Right here and right now, to remain merely Mr. Wu and Myself. No names. We won't be conversing further. This is a onetime offer with rewards that you'll just have to imagine. In the event you accomplish a certain task for me over the course of the game, there will be one more call. From here, whenever you wish. I won't respond. I won't even say anything. You'll just dial the number 9 and name your reward.”

“You mean I can always come here and dial 9 and I'll get you?” I ask.

A pause.

“It's better to say that only I possess the number 9. For you it's a onetime call,” says the voice on the other end.

“Why?”

“Like I said, so that you can name your reward. Whatever it is that you want.”

That stops me in my tracks. It's not every day someone offers you whatever you want. In fact, are there ever any days like that?

“Yes, Mr. Wu,” he says softly. “Whatever . . . you . . . want. Are we clear on that matter?”

In so many ways, yes. In one way, no. I can think of a lot that I want. I can't think of why anyone would make that happen for any service I'd consider actually doing.

“So . . . I just come back any time, dial 9, name my wish . . . sort of a genie in a Jewish delicatessen circa 1990.”

“Effectively, yes. But first you will need to do that little favor for me on your way to the top of the tower.” I catch myself checking out the other patrons, a glitzy cross section of mem brokers and ultramodels. Mentioning the Black makes gamers nervous. This guy knows the plot, knows about the tower. He's either another player looking for an alliance or, worse, a pervert looking for a little private entertainment.

“Listen, it's just a game. I'm just a player. That's all. I play it because there's money in it, not because I like this sick fantasy you creeps find so fascinating . . .”

“I find the Black detestable, Mr. Wu.” He pauses. I feel him composing himself on the other end of the line. “But in my state of being, knowledge of it is necessary. I purchased your meal tonight and planted the reward with the purveyors of the game. Besting the Troll and the trapped chest at the Pool of Sorrows was no small feat. Not every player could have accomplished that with such simple finesse. Many, in fact, could not have. I am in need of a thinker, not a ‘run and gunner' as many gamers like to think of themselves. So you are not ‘just a player.' You may in fact be the kind of player that I need. I need a thinker to perform a task for me, in-game. If you perform this task, successfully, then come back here to the restaurant, have another complimentary meal and then dial the number 9. I will not say anything. All you have to do then is name your wish. In the event you don't perform your task, you might not have the credit report to get back into Seinfeld's, so you dialing 9 will be a moot point at that point.”

I sigh.

“What's the job?”

“Kill Morgax.” There's a pause. “In-game, of course.” Then the line goes dead and I'm left holding muffled ether. I have my orders. My two slices of Kramer's Mackinaw Peach Cheesecake arrive.

Chapter 17

I
survive the bouncers.

They don't kill me, beat me, or kick my teeth in. Don't get me wrong, it's still a frightening experience. Human beings just shy of full gorilla strength, hypertrained in the latest hand-to-hand combat techniques with more ways to maim, wound, and kill than the programmers of online worlds can imagine, are frightening. Especially when they're standing right in front of you. But I pass. I'm on the list. I wonder if Sancerré will be here.

I'm sick that way.

There've been a lot of coincidences lately, I wouldn't be surprised.

In the main room I find a low hanging ceiling with polished oak beams, trench tables, and überboobed courtesans in stockings and lace serving the elite. It's someone's vision of a seventeenth-century gentlemen's club, but with models for serving wenches who drew the line at showing too much flesh just so they could step over it. I hear passing bits of dialogue that seem straight out of one of Sancerré's period piece entertainments: dukes and duchesses, that sort of thing, all of it delivered in Olde English and nonsensical cockney by epically hot women. I can't even imagine where to get a drink, but I know I need one. Regardless of the pass, I'm out of my element. A drink will do me wonders, or so I delude myself.

A slender, top-heavy brunette in pale lace approaches me, smiling hungrily through full lips and perfect teeth.

“Wouldst thou care for a foot rub, sire?” she lilts in a purr, emphasis on “rub.”

I say something.

I think I ask her what her name is.

“Tatiana,” she tells me. Tatiana. Is that her real name? . . . and do I care? I command my mind to think of something witty to say, but my brain refuses and screams for chemicals like booze and nicotine to hide behind.

“Perhaps sire feels the need for something . . . other?” she suggests, coquettish emphasis on “need.”

“Scotch,” I whisper though clenched teeth.

“Of course, sire.” She snaps her fingers crisply, and with the voice of a bawd, cries, “Hastings, one scotch for the master.”

Her hands rest atop shapely hips beneath a slender waist. Long legs end in perilous heels and dainty feet. These are the things I focus on to prevent myself from looking at her immense chest, long neck, perfect teeth, beautiful face. Et cetera, et cetera.

If I am uncomfortable, it shows.

She, on the other hand, is used to being admired, on display, desired.

Hastings, a liveried butler type, appears with scotch in a cut-crystal decanter and a matching glass atop a silver platter. Hastings pours and I grab for it as the tray wavers from my clumsy assault.

And the scotch is gone.

I'd planned to sip. Deftly, smoothly. Like some spy in a SoftPlay, but I guzzle like a man found recently crawling across the desert.

I feel a little more solid. Something witty will come. I'm almost sure of it.

I look into her eyes with every intention of playing it cool. Her long lashes flutter almost imperceptibly, and I wonder how they flutter in other moments, passionate ones, and before I know it, I'm gone. But there is Hastings nearby with the decanter. Every ounce of my will is required to tear myself from the temptress and raise one finger, indicating my desire for Hastings to fill my empty glass again.

“Excellent, sire,” murmurs Hastings and turns away once his service is done.

“Come, sire, sit by the fire,” she whimpers. “I'll sing you a song and caress your aching head.” I'm pretty sure, at that point, I die. I know I smoke and drink a little too much, and lately, a lot too much, but I must have passed out, because whatever happened next is fuzzy. Images of her astride me in the public room, rubbing my temples and skull with long delicate fingers, surface through her perfume and other charms. She sings, no . . . she whispers me a song. A song from long ago.