War Surf by M. M. Buckner Read Free Book Online Page A

heck? My book!
    “This is what scientists call enlightenment Vicious trash. It’s heinously askew.” She cracked the book’s electronic spine, and its indicator lights went dead. “These authors treat the human body like a machine. They totally miss the animating spirit”
    “That’s an expensive book,” I said, but the cheers and clicking mini-lites from her audience drowned me out.
    Then she dumped my valuable e-book in the waste can, threw her head back and sighed. “It doesn’t matter what they record in their books. Light can never touch darkness. It can only pass through.”
    I decided to retire before I said something rude. After all, no one expects a delicious young girl to be rational.
    Winston’s copious stock of drugs kept the party going well into the third day. When the uppers ran out, my guests either had themselves driven home or collapsed in comatose mounds on my carpet Shee fell asleep in the small bedroom—from exhaustion—she didn’t like drugs. I knew she was sleeping alone because Chad kept the security cameras trained on her bed and streamed the real-time images to my wrist-watch. I stole frequent glimpses of her curled pink body via the tiny screen.
    Grunze sneaked up behind me and goosed me in the ribs, then leaned over my shoulder and grunted at the screen. “What’s with you and that cagey call girl?”
    “Call girl? Sheeba’s a highly skilled physical therapist”
    “She’s a hooker. She’s tricking you, Nass. I see her better than you do.”
    “You’re wrong. Try her therapy sometime if you don’t believe me.”
    Grunze rolled his shoulders and scoffed. He wore a white thong and body oil, and his skin looked like brown film shrink-wrapped over bulging muscles. For him, girls were a sideshow, a brief diversion from the main event. In our long years of friendship, sexual orientation was one of the few areas where we diverged. I didn’t take his words about Sheeba seriously.
    “Have you heard Katherine’s latest nonsense?” I said. “She wants to surf Heaven. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s premenstrual.”
    Grunzie’s good mood returned. “Kat’s a lunatic on the subject. Totally unzipped.” He loved taking potshots at Kat.
    “Verinne wants to go, too,” I said sadly. “We have to talk them out of it.”
    “Why? It might be a sleek surf. I never knew you to duck a little scary fun.”
    I shook my head. “Help me, Grunze. We have to change their minds.”
    He moved closer and bumped me with his hip. “What are you hiding, sweet-piss? You own that sugar factory.”
    Grunze was right. I held a majority interest in Provendia.Com, the owner of the orbiting factory nicknamed Heaven. Not only did I sit on Provendia’s board, but thanks to my whopping investment, they’d elected me chairman emeritus. I knew all about Heaven. If Class One was a lazy stroll, and Class Ten was a death trip through hell, then Heaven was Class Twenty. But the details were too private to explain, even to my bosom pal Grunze.
    I said, “Nondisclosure, Grunzie boy. My lips are zipped. But take my word, Heaven is the last place you want to be.”
    He shrugged his massive shoulders and left to find the sauna.
    Some uncounted hours later, only the Agonists stayed awake talking. Win had saved a private stash of Peps to keep our brains at the appropriate altitude, and we retreated to my observatory on the eightieth floor—the official Agonist clubhouse. The decor suggested a tree dwelling, a construct dimly recalled from my childhood. Lots of bio motifs, leaf patterns, green velvet and polished synthetic wood. Chad had been wanting to update this tree-house theme for years, but I didn’t like to keep changing things—it cost too much.
    My condo tower stood near the northwest arch of Nordvik’s city-spanning dome, and my observatory bubbled outside the dome like a small blister. High-powered telescopic equipment poked out through my window walls. Some peered at the smoggy Norwegian